I saw them in the courtyard rush,
those sophomores at the club
singing slanders of the time,
grinding down on the drunken cannon-fodder.

They wake up belonging to another
A mind
A time
Where we dress in absolutes
And flaws become popularity
Embarrassment becomes a test
For acceptance but I really can’t tell because it’s all too
Hazy
And this in not a prophetic
Unmotivated insight to disrupt
The plans of the archangels
No
I’m talking about slave week
Ha
Girls in the hands of the
Handed down
Past a generation
Past an initiation
Skipping stones on the boardwalk
Like losing it all
And giving it over
Under influence
Over fire
Feet dangling just far
Enough away not to
Get burned
But baby, heat radiates
And rises
And pulls you in
You can’t orbit around the sun
And be so cold
Or deny its existence
Revolving around it
Every single day
It passes
We laugh
And a dress code won’t fix that
Surely, the archangels
Are laughing now
If not at us at how
There is a solution
In resistance
But North and South just push away
Surely I am a 19th century metaphor
Surely I am over the heads of the public
Surely the closest company is what matters but
Won’t make a difference
Surely I am the Mason-Dixon Line
Because its slave week
And I honestly could care less
I’m just trying to write a witty, clever, narrative
But I start to see an education
In our
“Distraction from education”
where if anything we were distracted from a greater evil
Teachers please check for dress code violations
Where girls dance on tables
And cry under
Red
Lipstick
Red lights
And sheets
And beer pong
And vodka
And chasers
And sweet weekend keggers
And nightclubs
And young life
And initiative
Where I dance in circles around bars
And poems
And music
And art
And it’s all just the same thing
And truly then
It is the young life
From your perspective
Fear no art,
Broken girl,
I’ve belittled your future hook up
I apologize
But you’ve just succumbed to follow
Everything he says
And I’m not better anyway
I know
But I can’t be that guy
Though its fun to sing in spheres
Around
Shapes
Satire
Fear?
Fear no Art
Fear no Popularity
Fear no Discretion
Fear no Good
And I’ll waste away
With a dying P.A.
Teachers please check for dress code violations
A dying soap box
Either way
I cannot contend with a number
In the ceiling rafters
In the corner
Masseuses on a step ladder
Rubbing tension from the crowd
No this is not why I’m hot
Even if you do Make it Rain
I don’t want your frickin Umbrella
And No
I do not wish my girl friend was a freak like you
I will not Get Low
I hate the Window and the Wall
And if my girl hits the floor
Next thing you know
I will pick her back up
The candy shop
Got asbestos and closed
I realized that California Love
Was shallow and insignificant
Your milkshake is stale
And if it ever brought me to the yard
There is still no way you could
Back That Thing Up
And even so
I’ve still got 99 problems
And it seems that this is one
And this realization being another problem
That makes 100
Great
Just so you know, Laffy Taffy is made
By standard people
In tourist trap cities like Gatlinburg
And sipping on Gin and Juice
Is like wearing a blazer over footie pajamas
And I am saying she’s a gold digger
And she’s got a whole lot of gold

So I suppose that we are the golden generation
And everything I touch will turn to
My will
A status and insecurity
It’s just a status
And if you’re
In security
Am I out security?
How much?
I hate your costume
And I hate your games
But really,
Really,
I am all to blame
For creating the counter
For making a standard
And an assumption
To deny or contend
But not erase
Ah damn
Its slave week