Wax eloquent on preteen sycophants;
Pseudo-psychotic, semi-neurotic faux infants with
Perpetually lower sagging pants yelling
Substantially unintelligible rants full of “I can’ts”
With no explanation other than a shrug of skinny shoulders.
Leader of the pack with an
Idiosyncratic monkey on his back,
Toadies executing diversionary attacks
So he can rough up the pariah. No real sack,
Though; cries at night wondering who will be his messiah.
Parents on crack so he has to raise himself up by his own bootstraps,
Straps on boots with worn soles, too soon an old soul.
No soul? No, no sol –
No sun, no light, no fun, just fight, see gun, feels right, just one…last…breath.
Knows too much too soon.
Unwilling Lolita, got to please him, keep him happy.
Pay bills with her body, somebody, anybody,
Embody sex, disembody mind to forget,
Swallow that cum and regret in tandem,
Quickly quenching, sickly wenching,
Thickly stenching breath,
Fucked to a living death.
Echoes of moans sounding, fists and hearts pounding,
Voices raising, pipes blazing,
Cloudy-eyed glazing gazing towards future.
What future? Snitches get stitches but no stitches
To suture open wounds, use her, abuse her, bind her, remind her.
Wound up, bound up by a youth too soon taken.
Echoes of forgotten youth bouncing on hollow walls;
Heart beats, bass beats, running feet, silent streets;
Misery and hope meet, mistreat, overcoming an unlikely feat
For that woman of the street because of blind conceit.
Brush the dirt into the back seat…
Are you fucking kidding me?