The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations;
heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second,
filed and cast aside,
except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒
for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste,
for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears,
for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui,
all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes;
The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards,
exhausted, habituated, unquestioning
of the heaviness of such emptiness
within
their starving hearts
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations;
heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second,
filed and cast aside,
except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒
for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste,
for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears,
for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui,
all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes;
The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards,
exhausted, habituated, unquestioning
of the heaviness of such emptiness
within
their starving hearts
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