Consumable Youth Rebellion
Land of rocks and power lines, we set up a tent,
lay down with sparklers spitting at our limbs,
sweet sauce dotted in the corners of our lips.
Hands on tits and sour menthol breath turning
something into substance into tantalizing sustenance.
And then waiting in the dark
and pissing in a bush.
Something about fast food fantasies.
Something about spirits in a stolen urn.
Something about cyclops crying on the concrete.
Something about wrapping regrets
around my breasts like hotel towels.
Placing god where we can grip him:
in dime bags and then bowls,
stone toads set out as a cry for wealth,
thick honey used to cure a sore throat,
and boardwalk tipsiness.
Living as the stars instead of under,
fire on our heels, in rooms of abandoned houses,
on beatnik consumable couches
dragged in from the muck.
Blowing them out only for the sake
of starting a flame somewhere more sacred.
Not what we wanted to be, but what we are
and what we will become:
purpled limbs and lungs and symmetry slices,
motel mattresses pressed into
stale, white Moon Pies.