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.