My friends

to my friends,
who let me roll
in their broken homes,
and drive down dark dusty roads,
trafficked by the ongoing lust
for superlative inebriation.
my friends,
so great they are
in the artificial shade,
perpetually obfuscated by rooves and dying neighborhoods,
basically, anywhere lacking a pulse.

my friends
are stuffed like insects
inside a hole too small.
I with them, stuck like cheese on a frying  pan,
red eyed, with a low-pulse.
the world doesn't change significantly,
but significance changes the world.
so, it's no surprise to find

disco lights erupting into panic
volcanoes.
The manfall runs the doors down, and
feet are the vehicle
and only feet are
between being absorbed into
a system deadlier than your
worst computer virus, and
doing the same thing again.

and i'll do it again the next day
unperturbed, and giggling,
hoping tomorrow
i can just do it again.