Off Balance

Off balance
They keep us
From liberating ourselves

Numbing our news
Hyping our games
Locked in with thumbs up

Omission of truth
Covered over with false flags
We’re nonchalantly hijacked

Speed in our milk
Salt on our wounds
Born dream-drugged

Eyes drifting backward
Butt heavy
Brain light

Expendable
At this rate
Waiting for the mushroom cloud

Hell
We’ll probably throw confetti
At the special effects

Stir-crazy for more
Guzzling drinks
Pinching the next-door neighbor

She’s an ample broad
Eagerly kissing the frog
Anything for a sex spank

When we finally fall
On our smug faces
We’ll just call for room service

The guy in red tennis shoes
With an endless appetite
For more and more of our ignorant souls.

editors note:

Maybe we could keep our feet if we all wore red tennis shoes… (We welcome Stephen back to the fold of our Contributing Poets with this submission. We’re happy to see his mad missives on his own page again – check it out.) – mh clay

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