No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted. It is good for the foolish that he bear the yoke in his early days; Grief-giver ho, bitter-agent ho, now agitated-naked-in-decay tho. (Nine-One-Four-Five ho, versa power top and tap!)
I try to contribute my many a bones to lesser known museums
Of seaweeds, of poisona skin, of reprimands and recommendations, of ballots of shallots,
And many more gore legendariums tussled, and gigantic screens awfully repainting civics
And never disparaging like my castle of naugahyde, shifty but fearless like the shade of a lamp.
And, lamb, there is forlorn in my youth.
I have yet to forget how it feels to be young.
I recall, through most days, that people often leave and evolve, and often you let them leave so,
And that T.V. is the best, and there’s always a new peso-grabber coming slow to draw a soul.
Either commit fully to escapism or commit half-and-half to a pruned-up party;
Both unhealthy as solutions, both prepped to make you bawl.
And there is something to be ashamed of and for, in the lighter corners of the voids.
Shamelessly, have voiced concerns, I to the trivial, and they still scare me like I’m four. My scorn
And the socks on the drawers are wet, and the plastics on the score under siege as a set.
With fracks and tracks and a lack of schnapps, in fractals, I look at yellowed calendars for reinvigoration.
There come forgiveness to my liquid youth.
I have yet to forget how it is to be still as a fool.
It’s not as if I don’t see them flaunting dutifully their uninspired tattoos.
They are okay with them, so the world must be okay with them, too.
The older I get, the stronger the opinions about hierarchies and sound become baseless, tasteless to I.
There is a lawlessness in the appetite of the young. I long again to be that scary.
(The highly transformative years are closing.
I pray to no Maria to have mercy on me.)