West Coast Glow

Nights sucking down Marlboros in the glow, hopping out
quick drags amongst restless chemically-altered
junkies in the darkness. The sun crouches behind
the West Coast, still lingering, as secrets spill
from blown-out speakers, resembling the sound of the madness
madness madness all around. There’s a dead mouse in the stereo,
battery synthesizers stacked on the ground, and we fire up
drugs, looking for the unfound.

Nights spent in drunkenness and Thoreau,
the transcendental authenticity of escapism & overindulgence.
This is the hack-and-slash of the liver, the smoke-and-click
of the lungs, this is the life of waking
sleeplessness, self-destructing arteries, and
the perpetual hurtle towards the ink sky.
This is the midnight revelation: we are all black birds in the coffin when we die.

Night after night after night,
taking things apart: a whole graveyard of thought.
Silent strangers capable of lies, lie with their eyes
shut, dreading the morning light, and I amongst them,
a child of me and the mine generation, the echo-boomer scene-ster
welcoming exploitation and third world oppression from multinational corporations.

Nights never satisfied, but distracted
by bright lights, the climbing adrenaline, the beats
that pound into you & pour, the drizzling song raining
upon you and your generation glowing in its own darkness.
Chasing neon pills beneath the black light, we strobe:

Happiness is only something we think we know.