White knuckled rides sliding vinyl sweated seat. This, is chaos. I'm inept & grip with a ferocity an accelerator that twitches insect-like hurling me further forward into terror when I wish to desist. Meet me at the Matahari - all fine words for thee but first I must face & survive this battle - swarms from every direction - the air is a swirling effervescence of dirt & dust & bug.

Beastial forms perhaps once pet now perversion morphicus of shape & flesh contorted by aeons of gutter heritage & doom, birth & rebirth into filthy abandonment, raped & ridden till insides come out in a ragged sagging semi-permanent half-birth. These are the Kuta street dogs. Torn teats sag dragging in the dirt as these things lurch & wheeze long forgetting their need to cross this narrow stretch of city street risking their piteous half-life in dodge of blind truck & taxi, already oblivious hoards of skitterish scooter soldiers. Maybe each time tried & accomplished is a failed suicide.

At last into the hive, toward the epicenter of the humming labyrinth I am plunged. The scooter steed slows but a mind still revving in the high thousands with fatigued delirium from the relentless, nerve embrittling journey into this city.. In the following moments arriving at the destination, I dribble feebly toward the curb to park & remove this, thing & all its searing tomented entrails from beneath me. At the last inch, another involuntary twitch jags at the throttle to hurtle me to a slam-still half in & off the road & receiving the alarmed attention of the serious & seriously mustachioed parking attendant.
His eyes tell all that any vocalisations could ever hope to & much, so much more;
'Alight the bike Sir, & step away, slowly.' I smile, teeter & press palms. For now, I'm safe.

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