she lives where the cell phones die without remembering
the tone assigned to a cryptic stream of social Lilliputians
on a list of offenders, and befrienders; all caroling at random
for a stitch of thyme or to barter with banter and allusions.
she sleeps where her bed has fallen in love
with southern exposure; but openly flirts with an eastern sky
boiling over with morningstar and brindle night .
her thread count...
an imaginary number
between sleep and a full moon…
and her pillows have embroidered her silhouette
as she takes slumber to meet the parents of her proclivities
that have ever held sway over all of her charms.
how her forks and knives pay conjugal visits to spoons
To the clank elegance of her signature
explaining the vacancy she hordes without joy.
armed with only a loaded pun
in the barrel of her ***…. and a thousand safaris
beyond game. where a woman can breathe without pretending
the pink flamingos are Rodin on Ritalin
she can howl in her own language without poppies.
she lives in that house on the hill
that wasn’t there yesterday.
and the paper boys  
all want to
be men.

so oleander.

I burnt out my head
on the asphalt jungle,
doctor recommended
rest and relaxation
and these little blue pills,
now I'm living in the burbs,
on a cul-de-sac of ritalin rainbows
& my neighbors are druggie unicorns

21st Century contraption of a mind , snatched from birth , taught how to "Walk the Line , " Hammered into conformity , Play Doh brains pressed in a mold , dressed , plopped on a conveyor , not one piece out of place ..
Our State cores a whole , pours a mandatory twelve years of robot ideology between our ears , who we should emulate , who we should fear
..  Fed factory Farm swill , sequester our imaginations , zero tolerance , shot full of Ritalin ...

Is love like riding a horse?

Is it like straddling big
powerful steeds, jumping
over rails, and lazy
brown foxes?

Sometimes we need a crop
to whip our pony to that final
spurt, stretching a Black Stallion nose
across spent finish,
glistening with sweat at besting
the crowded rest.

And if we fall
we're suppose to just get
right back tall
into that saddle set
Superwoman like

rather than some crippled
ghost rider, a Ritalin
paraplegic Reeve coming out
only to fake her maudlin bout
around another racetrack night.


Maybe love is like jumping
out of a perfectly good aeroplane
without a parachute
hoping
falling
watching
to see if a ridiculous Bond
James will HALO
drop
us desperately out of danger, a ripping clutch
released
at ten thousand feet.

Love sure is like an action-adventure movie!

Our love in mundane lives
spills laughter till our sides
burst,
till our hearts explode
sending
pieces too far off
cities
shell-shock
amnesic
and hungry for new horse races
with a spotted Mustang.

where did my phone go

the bonobo doesn't know the only goal is soul.

Tread lightly on the unknown, the queen bee is dumb as hate

I ate what i ate then the figure eight has been skated a great intimate

lethal pajamas are all plaid laid pink and black alternating

whose laying down and feuding hysterical manic destitute

a lewd groomed spitoonn running out of gas like a dragster of the unconscious mind

The double dark chocolate appears vanilla at the witching hour eleven minutes before

the score shows the trolls no longer know where home or a bridge to go

sticking needles in haystacks, a lit cigarette laid back smoking next to a burnt out filament

A lightbulb incandescence is a recipe heaven sent from ****** addiction

just like ritalin is diagnosed for children prescribe amephatimes for the future

to cling nooseless to sleeping pills for tomorrow comes this morning

If you stare out of a window
Across a bleak garden some September morning
If the neem tree in the garden reminds you of home
Vast, old, timeless
If you remember playing under a neem tree in Allahabad
And you can almost hear the laughter of children as they play
In the heat of a sultry afternoon in June
And because the window is small and barred and cannot open
Because you want to breathe freedom
Because you want to shower without them watching
Because you silently swallow your screams
Because your mind is starting to get fuzzy
Because your tongue is starting to slur
Because you have started drooling
Because your fingers shake when you write
Because the words Ritalin Prozac Depakote Lithium
Have started sounding like poetry
Because you feel your resistance slowly dying
Because you start to say the words they want to hear
Because you know the glazed look in the eyes of others
Is in your eyes too
Because this confluence of muscle and bone is wasting
Because you sleep for hours
Because you now smile at your doctors
Because you scream when the ECT paraphernalia is wheeled in
Because no one cares
Because once you’re labeled, you will be forever
Because asylums were once freak shows
Because asylum is not what it means
You go back to staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
­ Staring
Staring

It's a wonderful day.
So I drink.
Skies are grey when the son is
away.

I'm on the brink of tears.
'cause my pen's out of ink.
I need ritalin with a beer. 


You'll say  I've  wasted my years.

But who cares if my brain's purée?
This is my life and I don't need it anyway.

January first, I'm out with the boys.
Oh the Joys of avoirdupois.
Bowing to the sink.
The Popped collars on our polos, salmon pink.
We drink until we can't think.

She'll  take my kid away.
I can't live a single man life.
I still need to pay.
No man's lonely without a wife.
I'll visit next birthday.

An unskilled worker's pride,
Always fills the void inside.

Dole squad can catch me.
I won't have pay no fee.




New year, same me.
Happy 2019.

I wrote a poem about Ritalin
Though I've never tried it

I wrote a poem about my bed
Turning into an island
About my floor melting into sea water
And my ceiling light
Turning into the sun

I wrote a poem about a cigarette
All the best poets smoke
Death in itself is poetic

I wrote a poem about *****
It has been two years since I've felt
The familiar feel
Of bile climb up my throat
And meet my toilet bowl

I wrote a poem about voodoo dolls
And how the pins
Push through fabric
And how I wish it was flesh

I wrote a poem about cramps
I can physically feel my ****** tearing
Its way out of my body
With each contraction
I mark another tally on the chalkboard

I wrote a poem about bullets
Opening skin
Unzipping foreheads

I wrote a poem about teeth
Teeth falling out
Teeth growing in
Teeth twisting in gums

I wrote a poem about pain
And how my tolerance is so high
I've died seven times
And hardly noticed

I wrote a poem about blood
They say blood holds bad spirits
And I want to let them free
Please let them free

I wrote a poem about death
As cliche as it sounds
Everyone tells me to stop
Stop talking
Stop writing
My fascination with the end
Isn't healthy

I wrote a poem hospitals
Filled with diseases
Worse than my own
I feel the guilt clawing at my stomach
I feel the spirits thrash

I wrote a poem about nothing
Because thats all I am

attention problems you say?
well it's no wonder
our lives are dominated by screens
that keep appearing like pop-ups
and have you ever lived in a city?
it's hard not to be distracted
by thick framed pointless glasses
and whatever might be bobbing beneath those skirts
and we are the iced coffee frappamochalattechino generation
so it makes sense that we can't sit still
and when all of the information
in the known universe is just a google away
then why would we pay attention in school?
adderall
focalin
ritalin
*******
****
****
speed
what's the difference
it's all about medicating regulation to stop the second guessing
even when it rains we see the pitter patter
of each individual droplet
splashing
on each individual street
from west coast
to the orients
and when people can quote more commercials
than books
then where is the surprise?
let the adhd be
stop telling kids to stop day dreaming
it's the only thing that might save them
from later life mid-life crisis screaming

Imagine falling out of a window or getting in a car crash, break some bones, get a few stitches, scrape some skin
You'll get a cast, few bandages and anesthetic
Now Imagine cancer, a tumorous mass maybe somewhere in your brain or lungs.. not even noticeable to you let alone those around you then some day there's a huge 8 pound mass right in your cerebellum...
Fact of the matter is your body has produced this and it is actually trying too **** you
That is what depression is like
Depression isn't a sudden disaster
You go through your whole life thinking your okay maybe this feeling is just apart of getting  older till one day you wake up and you wish you hadn't.
All you've got is the Oxytocin blues and an appetite for Ritalin
****** to be able to face people and Prozac to make it through the day.
Now can you imagine finding a cure too all the ailments of life, all the hypothetical and real problems.. something even Xanex, opiates or hallucinogens will never allow you really feel.
The essence of another dancing throughout your mind, seeing significance in life even if not yours but that of another.
when you find someone who makes you understand the definition of these words, when you find the one person you can't get out of your mind after taking pill after pill desperately trying to forget them, when you look at someone and can't see a flaw, when your with someone that makes you feel so much all at once that you have to stop and try to remember the last time you've actually been that happy or laughed that hard and can't think of another single moment like the one your in..
You've found your cure.
Some of us don't

Born into a generation of degenerate's
Who get raised with ****** attitudes
Laziness is the only attribute
When the goal's to see how much drugs to use

It's become a pandemic
Now that it's begun, to show up in our medicine cabinets
We know there's a problem
Societies accepted feeding Ritalin to our children

In a world of addicts, nothing holds its value
Material matter's worth more in drug form
Hold close what's important
Cause no one can be trusted

Hard to work if your broken
Without a fix were all useless
How can we clear up this issue
When the only cure is the sickness

A walk down the hall, all I feel is change.
Out of all the years, this one won't be the same.
New principal, more freshmen, a new set of rules.
My teachers wonder why it's like I'm never in school.

In 9th grade we had freedom, freedom of speech.
I said what I meant; I always mean what I speak.
If I felt like "forget the world," that came out of my mouth.
In 12th grade, they took all of that freedom out.

If you dropped the "F-bomb", ISS.
They put you in a white room where you can't pass a test.
Then they wonder why grades are so low.
There's no hope in the future, students seem slow.

Don't question authority, that's disrespect.
Here's a little Ritalin to keep your kids in check.
I can't let my teachers know they don't teach me a thing.
They think we'll all be flipping burgers and frying onion rings.

"Why put in any effort if they don't listen?
They have iPods and cell phones, they don’t pay attention!"
Excuse me Ms., some of us do truly want to be taught.
Why are you dismissing all the rights that, with lives, we fought?

See, you're sealing all our fates with your apathy.
Then you look at us and in the distance you see anarchy.
Oh well, another day filled with ringing bells.
Learning more stuff I can't say to my teachers.
This is Hell.

the older generation
thinks we're all ****-heads,
ritalin-riddled serial killers,
serious ingesters
of buckets-of-blood thrillers,
they look at me funny
when I sag my pants
look at me funny
when I've got my girl in my arms
and her hands on my zipper
moving slowly
to the biggest dipper, too loud,
they say,
too loud,
too much cursing,
too much blood and gore,
too many games about getting money
and running over grannies to get more;
Ren and Stimpy,
and
Bert and Ernie,
two homos
that need to burn
for their sin,
the world is going
to hell in a handbasket.

We were born into a world of shallow minds and deep disturbances of young millennials mimicking mindless mimes because we were told to stay in line but be yourself but follow me but think "originality."

A generation full of copycatting individuals with monotone mindsets mulling over social ladders and trends dictated by invisible monarchs of industry inviting and spoon feeding insecurities masked as improvements.

A generation spending more time pretending not to care than on passions stifled by our peer pressuring playmates who are all prescribed Vyvanse, Adderall, Ritalin for their incurable imaginations deemed "learning disabilities."

A generation of temporary friendships because no one can connect with each other but we can connect to the internet and chat with strangers and share thoughts, photos, and secrets to a virtual audience that loses interest in an entanglement of wires forming a noose around our sincerity.

stick a nickel in your mouth because you like money
melt it down and let it coat your tongue like honey
and you still can't taste food two days later
because you've got a solid metal tongue that can't taste flavor
coin tongue click your teeth for Charon to deliver
and cut your tongue out to pay him to cross the river
when you burned your last nickel in the furnace
it dissolved like the sun as it churned and spit
solar flares lick your eyes because they love you
fire only wants to kiss you like doves do
doves do burn too, feathers like ashes like carbon monoxide
they were plastic so you passed out when they fried
a little molten rubber with a little bubble
and a prize inside, pop it because it's trouble
and supple, with evaporated eyes
no doves just trinkets and magpies
a little bit of gold is the same as mass hypnosis
dove or chicken nuggets or gold nuggets for strong doses
of oxytocin and candy corn, serve them together on halloween to children
because they need thick skin and ritalin
in them to keep them quiet, and so everyone's got a little disquiet
in their stomachs, because we're all high
on coins coins and brightly lit rooms
and when we have to turn the lights off at least turn on the nickel moon

in the booth of a slightly upscale burger place
my mother brother & i discussed how the idea of religion makes us feel
claustrophobic
how we would much rather be talked with
than talked at
how A.D.D. only exists so that people can pin a problem to their shirt
and how kids are given tootsie pops to pledge to be 'drug free!'
as their parents fill them up with Ritalin
so they can get A's like the other kids.

i glanced to my left and saw a mother, a father & a son
her nails were very painted
and his face was glazed over with judgement

they had nothing to say to each other.

and when they smiled at the waiter it was not with their eyes.

It happens all of the sudden.  One day it’s just one time and then it’s need.  That’s when you run into trouble.  After that, it’s a whole other ballgame.  It isn’t addiction until you need.  

I remember the first time.  You always remember your first time.  It’s like opening the biggest present at Christmas, it’s like sledding on that extra icy hill you knew was just a little too slippery, it’s like skydiving shooting stars high flying crazy.  

Instant exhilaration.  

It’s like that millisecond licking your lips before you go in for the kiss, that steamy shower on your cool skin.  

Absolute seduction.  

You just smile, lean back and say

****.

My first time I said no.
No way.
No how.
I don’t do that.

It was a door in the back of my mind I had branded with a Do Not Enter sign.  I argued morals, I argued boundaries.  A secret promise to myself I kept safe behind lines I swore I wouldn’t cross.  But what really stopped me dead in my tracks, what kept me away from the forbidden fruit was fear.  

Maybe even some paranoia, or a little indignation at the idea of putting things up my delicate little pixie nose, scratching the thin tissue of my sinuses.  

But suddenly your friends are doing it, and they look just fine.  That security blanket of fear dissolves, a scary story to tuck away under your pillow like the boogieman.  They call it peer pressure, I think of it more like peer assurance.  Or maybe an experiment.  And that’s all we’re doing right?  The first time I said no.  The second time suddenly those lines were disappearing up my nose.

And then just, ah hah! This is what it’s like, this is the hype.  Like the first time you sit in the front seat of a car.  And think to yourself, well

That was pretty fun.

But nothing serious, just a fling.  One **** one night stand, no biggie.

But it’s nothing like that.  It’s like someone running up to you and whispering in your ear the biggest, darkest secret of life.  And that’s the funny thing, because that’s just it.

It starts with want.

And you have fun.  You get lost in your own lust and you take all you can get.   And you crave those little white pills because you just feel sosososo good.

And then one day you’re tired before school and you don’t know how to pep yourself up.  And you get this idea.  This crazy idea.  And you rail a little white pill.  And as you walk out the door, you feel like a million dollars.  You feel like you slept for 10 hours, like you just got every question on a test right including the extra credit.  And you breeze right through your day, high flying on autopilot.

That’s the ***** secret with the whole thing.  It makes everything so **** easy.  

Tired? Have a line.
Hungry? Have a line.
Sad? Have a line.
Bored? Have a line.

It becomes a ritual, it becomes a secret club no one else can know about.  It’s that lover you sneak off to in the middle of those lonely nights, when your thoughts endlessly thrash against your skull, doubts echoing into the dark room surrounding you.  

But it’s not your life.  More like a habit, like a friend from the wrong side of the tracks.  

What happens from then on is hard to say.  For me, it was when my world shut down around me, when I felt like I was absolutely alone.  When I felt like I was free falling and I had nowhere to land.  Like I had just been beaten in an alleyway left for dead.  I needed someone to hold me.  And all I saw was the Ritalin.  

For me, it was falling in love.  It was giving my soul to you and having you rip it apart.  It was the way you looked into my eyes and stroked my hair.  It was the echo of you closing the door.  You left me behind.  You made me love you and then you just kept walking past.  It was getting my heart broken for the last time, it was a moment of weakness.  As my world crumbled, I took a whiff on courage.  

And suddenly it’s need.  

It tricks you, it makes you forget that once upon a time you were fine alone.  It manipulates you and makes you think you can’t live without it.  Suddenly, there is no life without drugs.  

You’re avoiding people, you’re skipping lunch to powder your nose, your eyes are bugged open and you’re chomping gum 24/7.  People insist you look fabulous from the lost weight and you feel ******* fabulous from your lost hate, buried under the influence.  You are up for 3 days and asleep for 20 hours.  And the crash.  Your head pounds and your hands shake.  You yell at all your friends and you’re late to work 4 days in a row.  And you just needneedneed to go up again because you just can’t take it anymore.

You scamper up as high as you can reach and you’re afraid to come down.  But your body can only last so long.

The big OD is not something taken lightly, a grey no-man's land where brittle lifelines tend to snap.  I was lucky.  I didn’t break, didn't get the 911 nightmare, just took too much too fast, and I felt SO good.  But then, I didn’t feel so good.  Suddenly, I felt pretty **** awful.  I didn’t go into cardiac arrest or anything, but it scared me shitless.  Scared me right off the ****, minus a binge or two.

At least, it did.  For a little while.

Now that voice I know too well is whispering again, and I don’t always feel like saying no.  

I remember when I used to flaunt my new hobby to my friends.  I felt like some sort of glamorous superstar that knew exactly how to have a good time.  Like it was some sort of VIP club that they just had to get into.  And then I didn’t wanna talk about it, they just don’t get it.  They don’t get it.  I need it.  But only sometimes.

Yeah yeah, stupid.  I get it.  You think I’m asking for it.  I lost control and I’m gonna lose it again.  But I made myself stop before, of course I can do it again.  I am cool, calm, collected and totally in control.

Right?

 I felt so cold when you left me here.  I never want to feel again.

I've discovered a new wonder,
one that from now on should become
part of a daily routine that's yet to be
prepared and laid out.
I've discovered the music the keyboard
plays while my Ritalin brain (all are one)
bullets through space and the
imaginary library up there with the floor
shelves. That's where I'll take the ambien
and loose control of what is happening
and slow slow slow
into the stopping stop stop
the train stops.
A whole scene to add every morning
These things are magnificent
and who cares losing a friend or two
over random fits of rage when
when you get to add this
to the morning afternoon night routine.
I Am A God. The only lesson this has taught me
and 3666 words an hour is too good a devilish thing
to pass by. I will continue and spiral.
Then the sleepy haze and the tripping morning
salutes.

I remember when all of my answers fit inside a pill
Extended release, 30mg, tiny little white beads shake around loudly
like the panicked thoughts in my head
The amphetamines would run through my blood stream hungrily
looking for neuron receptors to prey upon,
sitting like crisp, new, heaven-scented virgins, fresh meat for the taking.
They'd disguise themselves as endogenous,
as if the body and the brain naturally made this happen,
wanted a gushing current of dopamine to start pouring out
of every synapse, wave after wave of artificial pleasure,
euphoria, focus, mania, sweeping me off of my feet
into a world run by pharmaceuticals. In my mind,
problems literally could not exist - the chemicals taking over
my midbrain would not allow it. Palms sweaty, heart pounding,
pupils dilated, I would be taken over by chemically-induced content-ness, a happiness high. And that was all I wanted.
Wrestling with addiction isn't fighting if you want it.
I was never fighting with Adderall, Ritalin, Vyvanse, or Focalin,
I was avoiding them: you cannot truly fight the ones you love.

And then I stopped wanting them.
They sat in my drawer untouched for days, weeks, months.
I found better pleasure centers that went beyond
the ventral tegmental area, the dopamine super highway present
in every human brain.  I found meditation, I found dancing,
I found friends, I found yoga, music, incense, singing
bubble baths with scuba masks, picking apples in the rain,
smelling the sweet thick scent of flowers in the spring time
the taste of fresh pineapple on a summer day,
the crackling sound of golden leaves crunching beneath my feet.
These were answers to questions in the deepest parts of my soul
that went untouched by man-made substances inside a prescription bottle.
I felt like I had finally awaken in my life, I had finally arrived
in this moment: fully, freely, confidently and full of love.

People told me I'd be an addict forever, I thought I would always
be haunted by the demon voices that lived under my bed
when I was alone and unguarded. But here I am, the real me,
the dark, thick, medicated sludge covering my true self
has been wiped away completely, like snow melting off of flowers.
The only part of me that is upset is the part that knows that
the four final papers I have will not write themselves. But none of
that seems important anymore. Mostly, I am relieved. I am free.
I feel like I conquered a terminal illness, a fully recovered brain
cancer patient that never touched chemo and kept all their hair.
Who knew all the answers I thought were in a pill
were always right in front of me, in the now,
in the constant, colorful kaleidoscope of present moments
happening to me that I was ignoring.
The answers were inside my Self all along, all I had to do
was stop thinking, look closely, listen carefully, and trust deeply.

At a loss for what it costs for these dreams,
my boss is a bot I mean a mean machine,
I mean that it seems,
they talk but I do not know what they mean,

I mean I got a feeling,
that sometimes things are not what they seem,
but I mean,
how can things not not be what they seem,

& it seems that we’re sleep walking in a day dream,
or more of a nightmare where they don’t fight fair when they feign,
& we scream but can’t wake up our minds or make up the time as it speeds,
on an assembly line butchering swine while dining on ham & cheese,

& I want to defy all of these lies,
but I don't have the time nor the energy,
so I write the signs of our times line after line,
instead of going head to head or eye to eye with the enemy,

trying to write it all out even though still I don't know what's gotten into me,

& still it’s obnoxious to to think,
that they’ve lost their conscience to memes & their consciousness to drinks,
unconscious to all things exotic while being white washed up in mainstreams,
lost in constant nonsense on narcotics it’s all gone in a smoky noxious steam,

while toxically ****** overgrown weeds sown from GMO seeds,
create these monsters that feign for meaningless things,
like rings that bling & the profits that conquest brings,
& they won’t stop this nonsense until they pop like a viral venereal disease,

I mean I’m honest I mean I mean what I say & I say what I mean,
& honestly I say they’ll **** the whole cow just for the cream,
I say they're an obese disease concealed between two legs in designer jeans,
as they march in unison an army of ants that only answer to the Queen Bee,

Martyrs for Dollars with corporate sponsors,
broadcast worldwide on cable TV,
I mean why do you think the youngest billionaire in history,
is a degenerate Jenner by the name of Kylie,
it's not a coincidence that she profits from cosmetics,
I mean cosmetics cause cancer which benefits the pharmaceutical industry,
& I don't mean that personally I mean I'm not sure what's gotten into me,
or why I'm speaking so recklessly without offering any apologies,
like a Kamikaze **** drunk on whisky,
standing in the street like “c’mon cop man frisk me!”,
or a Stalin on Ritalin or better yet a Britney with bad kidneys,
still collecting those royalty checks from Daddy Walt Disney,
& it’s all moving so fast I can’t get a grip or a grasp,
& not only am I disoriented but I’m also starting to get dizzy,

I mean,
it seems things can not not be all that they seem,

I mean,
it seems these words can not read all that they mean,

I mean,
it seems we sold out our dreams when we bought into these screens,

I mean,
it seems I don’t know if I really know if I know what I say or say what I mean,

I mean,
it's confusing to try & make sense of this nonsense & I'm sick of explaining,
I mean it’s absolutely obscene what these monsters will do for the cream,
sacrifice the whole Holy Cow all in the name of the American Dream,

& I'm at a loss for what it costs for these dreams,
my boss is a bot I mean a mean machine,
I mean that it seems,
they talk but I do not know what they mean,

I mean I got a feeling,
that sometimes things are not what they seem,
but I mean,
how can things not not be what they seem...

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

from The Holy Trilogy Vol.2: Mandalas
available worldwide 8/8/18

I can’t seem to catch hold of what’s next
I’m digging in year old treasure chests
to try and help me find a map
to adapt along society’s throng
the one I was born into and will die out of
All of the questions being asked in my college classes
pertain to inner opinions and oppositions
I guess I struggle with this because in philosophy
I learned self-love is the only superpower I have
and I don’t want to talk about finding the balance
between good and bad anymore
my apologies Socrates, you’re the opposite of a bore
but I’ve had enough of this question everything crap
that I cannot even appreciate how simple this class is
In English, I know writing will always be my salvation
but motivation, I lack in motivation
maybe I need my ritalin back
but that’s a question for December
that’s a question in whether I’m human enough
to get up off my ***
and ******* do something
but every time I try to “do” something
I feel like it’s *******.
Oh Haley, that’s just your depression talking!
and my self doubt and hypochondria and my eating disorder
that I’ve been teasing with for months
Recovery is a beautiful fallacy
and honesty is for pages and strangers
My apathy disgusts me and I’m stuck
between an insatiable thirst for the past
and appreciation for the luck I have

for all the turbulence i sought
and sought
i was pretty good
i was so good

i battled through all the chaos
my kite was finally flying

but i snorted so much ritalin
my pupils are tar pits
and she calls me a hedonist but
i don't know what that means

i do know that
i fear neither death
nor consequence
you can treat me like your last meal
always at my most decadent

i remember i need to eat
then delete the thought
the only thing that sustains me is the rushing

by now
you should know that

it's all about me
we did the maths remember?

Silver screen athletes
quitting soccer teams
to join homophobic friends
(redneck quasi outdoors-men)
who just want to **** animals

angst must be vented
lest it boil inside
and form a much darker concoction.

I beat the horse
'till I couldn't get it wrong
even then
the faceless desks of power
endorse eugenics,
pharmaceuticals,
and high profile lawyers  
sentencing me to a life's term
teaching Sophocles
to an uninterested fifteen year old
too busy stroking a Ritalin limp ****
to star censored ladies on Vegas stripper cards.

And he said "Watch your language"
when I said "What the ****?"