Something to talk about?
I’ve gotten the runaround
the precursor to passionate consummation
when I see it.
There was always a certain logic
to the way we stood there hypnagogic
thinking about the million things we could discuss:
philosophy and art,
pop culture and the way we always barked up the
wrong fucking tree.
Three drinks deep, and
I’m smoking alone,
writing these poems
while oscillating satellites of sincerity and irony
within stylized verses
written at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.
dancing like occultic acolytes
decorously lavish sentences drafted exclusively
bending over backwards
to satiate postmodern gods.
One wrong turn and its all pseudo-Freudian
teeming with prototypical
In the worst possible version, we
sink into the curvature like
nerve-receptors composed of ink and paper, and
I watch as the hyper-stylized
devolves into acquiescent dispositions
to be dealt with
Songs of entropy
sung in baritone, but
of the metronome is asymmetrically categorized
If I could parse the distance
I would already be dancing on the parchment-colored meridian; asking
all-knowing deities about the difference
amphibious states of mind
and ridiculous performances of well-timed psychological anteriors.
We’ve traveled farther than anyone before, but
we’re no clearer
on the meaning
eight-ball and cue-tip.
every single one of us,
became obsessed with all-encompassing silver bullets;
hold onto the pin between teeth, and brace yourself
you pull it,
I’d hate to be the guy
who fucked you and left; but
even after all the self-aware
I’m just another collaboration of atoms and internet-obsessed cigarette smokers.
I’d be hopeful for something better, but
I don’t believe my own