The cherried embers of cigs and jays burnt holes in the upholstery,
jagged circles of cauterized fabric, reminders of moments maybe
long, long past. Coffee-stained car seats make you look incontinent
and the cans of pop, strewn about the floor of the passenger seat, act
as a layer of recyclable snow, hiding the floor mats until spring cleaning.
Every moment pent up in this metal box with rubber wheels feels
the way children must as they cleave the blooms off of blossoms.
Each petal pulled and plucked a representation of pantomimed control
that they assume all grownups must have, but what an untruth that is.
Later adolescence just proves a series of mistakes and missteps
with numerous stubbed toes as proof and all the scattered, misplaced
attempts to find someone to share in these misadventures ends
murderous. Spin the bottle, Russian roulette one in the same
with the whole kiss, kiss, bang, bang balance of randomness and clarity.
Pity in the charity of those that may or might stick around, giving a fuck
in either sense of the phrase.
We, the you's and me's of the world, defy strict identification as vacating
the promises forgotten left our mouths dry and the rest of our bodies
waterlogged. Bloated refuse collecting under the aqueducts of time, friends,
we are the sewage- putrid leavings of a God, gods, goddesses, despots, dictators,
dignitaries and designees in ruin without end, without an edge, wither out.
Color Bars Are The New Dry Bars
1 year ago