Songs to Snort Cocaine To: Track 1 OCPoetry

Did you have Botox in your refrigerator and Valium in your hallway closet?
A veritable, cliched bourgeoise composite.
A pile of cash in your bedroom drawer?
All not very good hiding places, I'm sure.

Especially for those who didn't grow up with a spoon.
But rather a knife
A symbol of doom.
Thank you sir for the invite But I don't want to go to your Upper east Side bed-room.
(be careful, I bite).

Although one's past life may have been
rife with strife - you realize (all lies?)
A key under your nose
Can open more doors
Than those with golden locks
And fake tits on whores.

We can't buy subway tickets
But we drink $1000 Champagne
after juping the silver turnstile
& we hide our pain
in a clear glass vial
of powder inhaled into our miserable brains.

So fuck all your spoons
and your knives and your lies
Let's do drugs and drink blood
and eat Central Park hot dogs.
Because silly English majors can't get jobs
We came from dust, and writhe in the mud
not stardust,
just greed & nothingness & lust.

Not in this City
this shitty city
The city of dreams,
Of all-dressed-in-black Kariem's
Stolen, sewn-up clothes
Forgotten, menopausal moms
never return to our alienated homes.

I'm an angst-ridden bitch
and I'll make you drip blood from your nose,
make children that never got the chance to grow.
and if all of life is merely a depressing 3-act show
They'll ask, "Is it the one in the Theater District?"
"No, no that one was a failure", a girl will reply.
Because, as we know, in the end they all just die.

But many years later, on a snowy bench in the Park
or a gloomy bar in BK enshrouded in the dark
Inhaling a cigarette with the face of an ex-con
I'll see you again,
But we'll all be gone.
As ephemeral as the thin wisps of smoke,
a heap of ash,
the forgotten punchline to an anticlimatic joke.
(And I'll just be a classic Hollywood trope.)

Designer drugs and clothes can't designate your fate
But if it's gotta be star-cross'd
then nail me to a cross and stab me in the side.
I'll flip my blonde hair back
swathed in Chanel black.
The earth isn't inherited by the meek
mainly just us creeps -
but if I saw you in winter in the park,
or in the dark,
there'd still be an icy tear meant to slide
down my pale, plastic cheek.

Submitted December 17, 2015 at 07:17AM by missarray http://ift.tt/1RT4NyW OCPoetry