Fuck sleep schedules.
The motor that moves your eyes
has gone into panic mode,
leaving you transfixed on the freaked light
leaking through the cracks in the wall.
It’s crimson calling card will do a number on you.
Time for some routine maintenance.
Two spliffs and a can of battery acid later
and your head still hasn’t grown heavier,
just quietly fogged over with nostalgia
and fragmentary phrases. Your days
as an agitpropper are through.
Everyone has a price
and they hurt to look at.
Something implies that you’ve
been living off of rat salad too long,
and it’s the something you’re growing into.
Life isn’t always a parade, you know.
What doesn’t kill you
will make you wish it would have.