so sayeth the gospel of what’s good for me:
it’s not too late, although
you should have been sniffing
glue, goading angries for a punch
and six kicks to the skull, shooting
for the sake of confusion, skating
on the rails high above the grounds of gravity, driving
recklessly to Marwencol with Darger riding
shotgun, mixing meds, falling
out of beds. you should have cracked
this egg before the yoke solidified.
what would be the harm in freeing the beasties?
but freedom always builds a prison
to keep itself from exploring
all the goddamn possibilites:
all the fucks i could fuck
that i wouldn’t want to fuck.
all the toys i could buy
that require all the endless add-ons
to build the megazord that sits
on my shelf collecting worthless
all the places i could go
so i can feel desperately alone
on the other side of the world.
all the people i could know
that will put me on their dusty
shelves, next to their collection
of megazords. (sorry about the power rangers
references, but as
a metaphor, it’s a formulaic fit.)
i could cut myself loose
from all the grasping, get my hands back
from the devils playground.
all it would take is one dented
head to leak my stagnant brain
cells, but i’m too much of a passive
pussy to break myself, to much
of a habitual creature to wander
into the shady part of town, so
will a friend please play natural selection
and beat the idiot into me?