dedicated to the X generation

Can your phone number really resuscitate

His junkyard of childhood squalor?

Clamped to excess his hand pleads for more,

Probes darkness like a Buddha incarnate,

Clutches for survival, squeezes his mate!

And still the sponge holds water, ever more!

As his orange does citrus, opens the sore!

Loss of past flesh are just his future’s bait!

And you’ll wake to bricks in your pillow case!

And though you’ll feel his pain from head to toe,

In his list of betrayals you’ll have your place—

For what love seed can his misery grow?

So come run with me and cross the meadow we’ll race

And freebase in the beam of his shadow!

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