Mechotek music on the jukebox, Jack–
no savvy da lingo dere,
not down with the chops.
Caught in the corrosive scour of narcosis,
candled in the oxycodone light,
dropping them by the fistful, by the tub,
pain killer pills to keep you bearably numb,
because for the last decade you’ve been running
through the tunnels between dreams,
brain burning like dry pitch,
banging on every closed stone door
with your tin cup
so long now you
can’t remember what dreams are for
or when hope blinked to blank.
What goes down, is down, stays down.
Fear of the dark.
Of the whip, the grid, the rockets;
the robot milking your loins
for the last sweet drop.