dayglo

up with the bronx sun
because my stomach hurts in the
gloomy chill of hours recycled
into late single digits
and blowing smoke before alarm
clocks take off and
drag us into afternoon dances singing

Lonely would be the best way to describe us,
closely followed by Proud,
resembling bits of bygone idiots
who indulged themselves in
something to say
in self-contradiction
or petty rebellion
ejecting noise from every orifice
under
godlike quantities of metal
and steaming unglued paraphrases
in meaningless artificial wind resistant protest

i never thought of
life as just a fantasy until i
met the no one inside me
and felt her so empty:
stupid shaped sunglasses
all going on road trips
come visors down sun low while
wishing tall cups would swish melt ice
with a touch of coke syrup

divorced by definition
entails complete seperation of
ideation and intent;
willful notions of the perfect
world wherein the
sorrow is meted out
according to sin
are done away without a prayer
lost in stones carved down to resemble
faces of long gone artists identified
in the souls of higher powers