Drugged Huxley
It’s coffee in the morning
or it’s liquor by night
Blessed on the weekends
by dark horse heathens
— Try as they might
It’s ghost faced children
with their goat-headed dads
Fighting with mom’s spirit
but the children won’t hear it
— I think the sugars gone bad
It’s yards all filled with crap
You bought from the dollar store’s scrap
To convince the neighbors
That you’re red white and bluetooth
Even on the inside, dying on the outside
It’s the season of growing up,
I’ve had it up to here with
Should-a,
Would-a,
Could-a,
Keeping my calm on the crust,
I’m deep dish though darlin’
and I’m rising up
It’s always half-past puking
When that good poison sets in
Or is it half-past trashed
When I’m on the eleventh glass
— I see no difference in the two
It’s always case-and-point with you,
That “hand-meets-leather way-of-lash”
to keep me tranquilized
so the end justifies the means
It’s the face of god
In your “good morning sunshine,
happy to see you” cereal bowl
as you wrestle with the word special
It’s something we shouldn’t say
that gives political correctness
It’s powerful point of view
Because society cares more about feelings
And not about simple truths,
It’s the last drop of Maxwell,
The last gasp of gasoline
Before the sputtering starts
and the stutter steps of placing
my hand over my heart,
Though I’m not swayed
by the world slowly ending,
Now let me destroy this forty, cos baby
I’m full sending.
