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.