Smoke-lit.
Later than it needs to be.
Darker than it needs to be.
Transmissions drop and hang in mid air.
Flicker steals every eye.
Lack of sensory escape.
Peel away, meet the harlot.
She’s selling us death
In miniature doses.
The price is high,
But we all buy.
And have another.
And have another.
And have another.
And it feels good.
And it warms our blood
And it warns our brain
And helps us see,
But not quite to the third degree.
From harlot healing to hanging
Transmittal eye fixating
Until pause and break
(Or maybe breakdown)
To mention the suicide,
But only in jest,
Yet received as a threat,
And met with mockery and disdain
And silence
Despite the rhythm and the beat
That fast forwards to the our core
Bypassing the ear
Misused for so long
By the snake on our shoulder
Whispering and pointing
Back up to the transmission,
Back up to the harlot,
Back up to her box of sweet death,
Which is much above us
As we try to climb back up to the floor.
