More like pus than a river, at a steady bearing
beating two knots, bopping paddle bills on beat
with drunk chicks by the LCD, gridding ducklings,
cracking comrades on the back or, over the head
with a balloon bat, tickle tack, cuddles all round
filled with bile, for friends are all false
around a sun circuit, in the dark time, on the cold side.
The sky is knives out of nowhere, I’m told is falling
but who knows? Rudimence is not a word,
I get it but I’m bloodying the ground with my fists
because I’m not with your music, the attune anymore,
to the kids, but gridding isn’t a word, either, asshole.
See the how you get? Filling space like gas
masks, blustering bullshit, flying and sticking
like wet leaves, so my friend is dead, clearly.
Fuck you, skip class and die in a ditch, prick.
Thus is just the way, youth reacts to change
with falling, shards of the past, shearing folks halfway
down the middle, cleaving past from future,
and eyes are all dry, because this is just the way.