The Crust and the Glitch

This is the beginning of the never ever, the once and…, the once over.  The jumping off point, from here to where?  When?  Now!  Go!

The crossover between being thankful you’re not at the wheel and realizing you’re tied up and you’re in the trunk.

This is the start of a poem I finished when I was 16.  It attempts to explain:

This is the crust of acid sexuality, this is my death.

The ultraviolence, the end of science, blinding with fundamental flaws. Assumptions.

The ever-lasting vices, lies and lysergic, luminous, laughing and cracked.

Let me tell you about my mother and father. The prince and the pauper. The chosen blood, hardened, raping, mixing with her unclean.

      I am produced. 

You’ll know why you don’t have to tell me this is a class war. You’ll never need to convince me this is about toxic male white supremacy.

My fingers move and tap when I think in time.

I may even up the ante with my ‘capitalism is a botched attempt to domesticate the human animal’ shtick. 

The excess of me, us, we, stains on car cushions, splattered across hotel room walls, smashed up against bathhouse mirrored glass.

The pudding’s proof, left out, sour, molding, bitter and I bit back. Sacrilege, aghora, anathema, counter attack.

It’s on repeat in the other room if you want to go watch. I think I’m still tied to the bed, it’s a real horror show, it’s a mess.