From EYE STREET available via https://incunabulamedia.com/poethicks
The terminal has blurred the eyes of the deep.
It prompted clown faces in the bloodstream, it made a circus of our minds.
We heard the roar of the crowd and assumed it was for us.
We were lazy lovers to liberty.
Cancers grow in the fit and the lame. Viruses attack the strong, the connected,
And the weak and clueless with equal aplomb.
We squirm in self-loathing, in the diseases of guilt.
We remain vigilant yet half assed social media shock troops,
Brandishing memes like dull blades weak handled heft.
We relish the meager victory. The cultural reparteeâ of moments won by wit and angst.
Beauty angry at the viewer for loving and assuming the glare can be owned.
Knowledge lost in a wilderness of paying too much to voice in the maelstrom.
âEverybodyâs talking at ME, I donât hear a word theyâre saying, only in the echoes of my mindâ
On a loop in the heads of every major dude, and gold dust woman.
The color of money kneels at the altar of dreck, while the real game is outside the stadium church, in the streets covered with dark skinned powder burn holes, where the wind whistles dixie through the past pain alive to the pucker.
You had your chance and you blew it. You sucked up to the chaos but could not swallow its load. You bent over for the slap and tickle but got a sewer sludge enema and tried to act like thatâs what you wanted the whole time, because who wants to deny attention when you get it after years of being coy.
Here lies the bloody mattress of our union.
A culturally popped carbuncle hidden under pancake makeup.
The drone circles our house taking pictures to make into bombs.
Here lies the sexualized war machine of youth
Aching under the weight of a bad dye job and a new wave haircut.
Here stands the nothing of a house.
The nothing of yard and a mile long stare into the void.
The smell and sound of popcorn popping,
âOoh this is gonna get good.â Voyeurs lounge in easy electric chairs.
While we die the slow death of irreconcilable bliss followed
Into a one-way dead-end street, and weâve run out of parking.
Itâs time to leave the playground.
Give the toys and the tools to the others, to the ones who are learning the hard
Lessons. We are soft at the end,
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