For fighting against the hero worship, the capitalist successes, you flood into straight jackets so fluid, breaking out in fits knowing little. It is not even money that drives you, not crazy, not insane, not wanting a gun to protect yourself, its is the knowing that there may be something else to know.
You can sit quite peacefully, puffing along, stroking one down for sleep, though keep the strain of red eyes, far into the days heats. The Suns of Alpha Centauri may live a planet like this, though how can you decide how to live, if thrown there by chance and guilt.
So put down your pipe addict, think your clattering trash is afoot, a mouth that hails more than a rap, a broom to sweep the rubbish, not hatred for success. Success is more than a pocket for crack, the ceiling will crack one day, the mirror too and then you’ll become me.
Coffee and crows and parrots and Porsches, reading from hook and book, like eyes that fall heavy, still red, a dick that wont speak. The decision for granted, taken, like a lover bored, makes sense in a quiet moment, that fans need to respond. The hours will go and die, like any flesh, my hand just does the thing it knows, my mouth and mind behind it, pushing on through this hurt.