Sometimes, I listen
more intently than intended.
The body politic’s a bit distended
in the belly and whispers in my ear
a few rancid words
This ain’t my first rodeo, fuckface,
if a rodeo is what we’re dealing with.
All the lights go out when prompted,
to fidget in cold back alleys
waiting for a fix.
You get your licks in sluggishly,
your kicks in the form of a question.
Not to spoil the mood,
but the answer always withholds its insight
until it’s too late. At last,
we are abated, frenzied lurkers,
our dancing star stillborn within our chaos.