The Metronome's Drunk Again

Was it you
that I saw
swinging high
outside my window?
A sick carousal,
a drunk metronome,
we ride together
the ferris wheel
of the psychic psychotic 
and the damned,
and I felt myself
slipping back into
the undercurrent
as the soft tongued humans
hushed my words
with silver linings
and half truths
that ended up
being whole lies
which was no surprise to me,
cynical fuck that I am,
ha ha.

Drama drama drama,
getting rich,
getting pretty,
getting popular,
where were
the wild ones
getting free?
I felt like I had
lost them in the hurricane
that swept over my house
with a scream.

And in between the
grocery lists and apathy,
I picked out mangos
and thought of Lacan’s idea
of the Big Other,
the Big Brother,
a cultural system of rules
that chains us to
its fucked up version of morality:
but I shrugged off the thought,
self censorship
at its best,
feeling too deep,
too dark,
and way to “out there”
as you would say,
so I went back
to counting facebook likes,
rolling my eyes,
clenching my teeth,
buying too much Nyquil,
and listening to my roommate
throwing his mind up
after drinking himself stupid.

But maybe
things weren’t all bad,
there are still
hats with fancy feathers
sticking out of them,
having mashed potatoes
for dinner because you feel like it,
finding an easy parking spot
when your 10 minutes late,
watching re-runs of Murder She Wrote
when insomnia hits again,
poems by old souls,
remembering you’ve got
ice cream in the freezer,
Bob Dylan and Tom Waits on vinyl,
shirts that make your boobs look sensational,
a kind message from an old friend
almost forgotten,
a sexy whisper and a kiss,
a secret shared,
a fire lighting
up life again

with a glow.

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