April is the trillest month, breeding
Sick beats out of the dead land, mixing
Tracks and memories, melting
Faces with acid rain.
What are the routes according to Waze, what bud will grow
Out of this concrete maze? Son of man,
You cannot even, for you know only
An infinite feed of filtered images.
He who was living is now dead
He who was dead is now a hologram
We who were figuratively dying, are now literally dying
With so little patience.
And Netflix offers no chill, Hulu no commercial relief,
And your iPhone is Verizon. Only
There is shadow under this Sahara tent,
(Come in under the shadow of this Sahara tent),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning twerking behind you
Or your shadow at evening nae-naeing to meet you;
I will show you fear in a dusty polo field.
O O O O that Ambient Electronic Bass —
It’s so elegant
You gave me my first flower crown;
They called me the Yas Queen.
— Yet when we came back from the camp grounds,
Your pupils dilated, and crochet-bikini damp, I could not
Speak, my mouth was too dry, I was neither
Living nor dead, but truly alive,
and I knew nothing, but everything,
Looking into the heart of Father John, the mist.
D’USSÉ with my boo bae.
What is that noise?
Fear death by trampling.
I see crowds of people, pounding fists.
If you see Security,
Give me the signal and I’ll swallow the tabs.
One must be so careful this year.
Under the heavy blanket of a desert cyclone,
A crowd flowed over Gaga’s bridge, oh-la-la,
I had forgotten how many bangers she has,
So many bangers!
And each of us fixed our spirit onto hers,
On the Main Stage,
But then I bumped into this guy I knew,
And he screams, ‘Stetson!
It’s me! Tag! From freshman year!
Are you still living with Kyle?
Oh, he slept with your girlfriend?
Hypocrite lecteur! — mon semblable, — mon frère!’
Drugs. Disclosure. Dysentery.
Shantih shantih shantih.