Happy Hardcore

I’ve come to tell you that you’ve been playing second fiddle
              to faithful pets

of paradise, dusting off ancient riddles to one-up
lion-hearted jesters, using a neoclassical sunset
              as your power play. There is no need to ask

who can talk the talk when there is a bouquet
in our midst speaking of passion
innocence passion innocence — my one true
              wild side, waking again and again

to the celebrity of rose-tinted histories
describing my fate as a matter of method
and economy. Who is to say what is a cakewalk
and what isn’t? 

              We’ve all been hit at some point in our lives
by a sugar rush of buzzwords, cardstocks nesting
in their aisle, cooing of rhyme and reason. Birds and bees
bent on the legalisms of light. An act of worship

is an act of survival. Sometimes, I think of thumbing
the master switch with you, whisper utopia into your ear
then run off to tell the disciples of crop circles

what they’ve been missing. At ease, pill pusher.
There are no more questions left to conquer.