You might be on ****
if you run over your own transmission
pushing your car as hard as possible
because Tik Tok by Kesha is playing.

You're definitely on ****
it afterwards you pull into a nearby parking lot
and decide to just shoot **** there
for the next few days.

You're not on **** anymore
when the business owner is fed up with you
and you're falling asleep talking to the police
who only find empty bags and tell you to leave.

The lines become blurred
when you're six months sober
and a psychosis has developed
to the point where you're hiding
behind your couch from the shadow
people with ****** rifles outside.

Desperate and lonely
you need someone for holding
but that's not how you know me
so you just call me homie
when looking for comforting company
to give aid to your conforming country
then you just start hatefully hunting
to prove you are... something.

You say get in the whip
like you're cool and you're hip
you sound like a **** that is dip
but I need your script in my wrist
so I hop in your motor vehicle
hoping for a hopeless miracle
that you'll stop acting satirical
and break out that bag that is spherical.

That shot must've not sat right
you've been looking for a fight
all narcotic night
your sardonic sight
has been on pointed humor to get me annoyed
but I don't feel like Robert Downey Jr. or Pink Floyd
when you interrupt my ****** stupor to argue like boys
I just want to be a user drama devoid.

You spit and stunt
telling me if I don't roll the blunt
I can get the **** out of your car
I ask why you're acting hard
is it emotional scars?
Or Xanax bars?
This planet's marred
with cancer hearts
you play your part
by trying to act cool
thus making the world colder
you look like a piece of stool
but think you're a soldier.

My shoulders shrug high
saying I don't want to be Drug Guy
so there's no need to be unkind
we can talk about this sometime
once you're unblind
but until then
see not me
with your peacocking
you seem cocky
but scream softly.

You call me a *****
I say try me and you'll see
it'll only be fueling
an endless cycle of dueling
but you want to be the crazy one
so your choices are hazy ones
and your ideas lazy ones
like playing nun
for gaming funds
then regarding yourself as a mature man
everyone can smell your manure ****.

I’m roadkill with a glint still in my eye
on the blacktop I lie
before the arrival of flies
who finalize a demise
that seems more like a prize.

A colony of Atlas Stones
defends itself with heavy handedness
intercession relies on physicality
only power warrants movement
and only movement measures success
pushing what's in your way becomes a master key
to move through a locked down nation
a girdle is worn on America's underbelly
bloated by an autoimmune disease.

The Atlas Stones reproduce
tiny innocuous pellets that take an edgier form
filling up the feed trough until they're mature
enough to buzz like flies over the deceased
burrowing inside anything not made of concrete
turning their reluctant host into stone
a facsimile of a fairer, freer fossil
these stones infect everything with their heaviness
so we must remove the concrete and steel inside.

A con tricking one into focusing on the temporary.

I want an exclusive relationship
but I don’t know why
I try to tell myself I don’t want a disease
or that cheating would prove you don’t love me
but if I’m being honest with myself
I’m afraid you’ll find somebody better
either better at ***
or better at caring
or better financially
whatever it takes to be better enough
to make me an unacceptable option
and our relationship an exclusionary one.

A strand of your hair borders
my ocean of tears.
Grains of sand mold together
forming mud.
You stand nonchalantly on the berm
staring over the vast nothingness
of the waterway nether.
Ocean floor follicles utilize
microscopic cilia.
Tiny motile tendrils propel me
along rock bottom.
Octopi submerged in sand banks
wait, coiled callously.
Ambush tentacles envelope me while
pulling me into the bell.
My depths always seem
darker than yours.
Claustrophobic.
Suffocating.
Narrow.
Caverns and coves collapse, caving
in before I ever find them.
I'm tied to tumultuous tentacles tangling,
blocking my butterfly stroke to the beach
where your hair washes upon the shore
like seastruck flotsam building barricades.