DOING METH WITH LUARA
General Prologue, Brain dump, every month is cruel,

Bathing in a drought, in a tank, it’s the season and it’s warm,

we are waking up startled at the waste of our spirits, I’m sad to say

my hands shaking, I don’t think it’s a Problem, or is it Nature,

only middlebrow critics make a fuss over addiction, battery hens, petrochemicals,

heavy metals, the thrum of panic undercut by

the thought of gleaming kitchens, our adult lives

what the decadents died of, or was it for, carried off

in any case, fearless as a box of wine, cruel to themselves, real villains of taste, come baby,

I’ll read your fortune, such pleasure in confirming

what little is known, tho we can only guess and your guess

is better, or that depends were you at the pub last night or in a bathroom with your friends or on

some premiere poet’s carpet, howling o no

I can’t be trusted, I have no motives, the figure crouched inside is but a

trick of the light — nobody asks, things matter

less now than ever, and so the more, Lu says despite their

hard work and commitment, she can’t trust them,

bon vivants, 2.5 kids and garden plots, cheese and wine, those Verso sale motherfuckers,

might be small differences and narcissism thereof to say the mortgage class should not

be garbed in the aesthetics of revolution, but, she says, when we cannot

help but build our lives around this want, what plain idea

is so beautiful it can’t be resisted, and pain

is so easily forgot, and how good is your money if nobody wants you dead, nobody comes,

but we do, we come, we come for bread,

we stay for roses, we get rooted, I am having dreams again, we get up, we do the work but not

the way we want, isn’t it funny. I’m pretty sure it’s not meth but there’s only one way to find out