Pray
his hands are clipped and lay broken
and
he’ll stay in the dark and remain still unspoken
and
not kiss her cool out in the car
and
light up the air both near and far,
like
that blue glow set loose in the summer night
amidst
the music of the leaves—
but
still he ejaculates on the evening’s breeze
to
the snap of that lit blue zapper.
But
now the warm wind begins to blow
so
the stirred leaves this new gust does throw
outside
the fan in his bedroom’s heat—
So
now he’s panting at his computer’s seat
before
that screen’s blue glow flows his sweat
and
settles on this druggie’s breaths
in
deeds for escapism is the lust of this teen,
with
his artificial light trusting like day.
And
he’s been dreaming of his martyrdom
while
the moths outside so young and dumb
run
blind into their own blue light
just
to die on a lust’s final flight—
their
thighs dipped in an untrustworthy treasure,
that
ultimate druggie pleasure,
still
living the nights so sexed and fed
and
doubtful the teen is the living dead!
But
buzzing by his own blue light this night
the
Critic as down in his self-righteous might
may
smite him but not insist:
"to
each his own blue can’t resist!"
Yet
nothing will stop him from getting his fill
in
knowing that his own cravings kill,
but
he’d rather point fingers and criticize
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