F I N G E R S C R O S S E D
they don’t know we’ve got the power,
which begs the question:
who’s the one getting fucked here?
decibel bleed-outs, momentary thrills, duopoly shit-talking
it’s a real hoot
in the basement, everyone aligned two by two,
like creatures in the ark, smoking the fast-tempo instinctively
someone’s ass is starting to look like
a real sweet option to me
soon after, laying in a car,
mouth washed by another tongue
a unique way of spiraling
we’ll live for all eternity
S T O M P I N G G R O U N D S
orange hand grenade, fire power
& smoked cigar
the damn thing is a white obscene,
peeks through like a horror movie,
& belches teeth
bathing trunks on the fence
garbage in the trees
all the red steam of my cities
all the noise of my cities
I am glad
I am glad
I am glad
S L O W – D R I P
The Lion King on Sega Genesis
& blue diesel gauzing the air —
transience in nowhere —
hyperdrive nocturne banterous talking
I have grown into a figure
of callusing lessons back-lashed
by fun extolled
by memos erased
indefinitely,
like unswept shards
of time
S A F E G U A R D
may those who float on waves of pleasure
look backwards without regret:
the best policy chilling blasts ‘round the heart,
with youth affording us consolation
keep painting the mind,
so our cup stays ever-filling
our handwriting knows of sorrow,
of the evening shine
may we never drift from us
T A N K E D
you think you have mastered it — a somersault
into showing all what you are until it comes
back in spite of you, to knock you down,
then post you up like wallpaper, along with all
the yellow things — dry & tanked like
crusted cat piss & beer
in the crevice
of a standing shower
we’ve been one in the same,
in that way —
but I can’t be in your crew,
unless my artistic sins are welcomed, too
