Listening to this new age bullshit.
Degrees of separation from my last breakdown.
My eyes are wide, maybe too far apart from my face.
Doesn’t really even matter now.
Doesn’t. Never really did.
This digital depression you throw yourselves in.
You, not me, I am writing to.
You want to know what the mission is
Before it is even written.
And the world is cold soup.
As far as you know.
The blue frozen rose who left you long ago,
Tattooed and sharpened,
Her blades on the metal chopping block.
And you, you, think you are so fucking great.
Like the world owes you anything at all.
So sing and dance, and laugh
And fuck and snort, and hiccup.
I wait for you to wake up.
If you ever will, who will know.
This aftermath, oh baby it glows.
And it glows, like Shamans, like lightning bugs,
Like dark fastened to dark.
It wanders away from you like a lost kitten
But always shows up again,
Medicated, and ready to work.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His new book is Train of Thought.
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