Catastrophes of a Nineties Kid

There’s a museum of
4/4 beats

artwork hung like
flavour of
the week
post-relevance like

escaped
felons in daylight.

How many of those
remind me of friendships
I let sepsis during
insurrections
of spirit;

how many held
dearest saw eye contact
fall away.

There’s exhibits of heroes,
bold visions of villains but I
am none of
those in retrospect;

just a junkie for
rogue voices

supposed to calm
bad choices on a whim

(catastrophes
of a nineties kid)

Except these
new
showcases
inspire
naught
but nausea,

send me into
tailspins.

Put me in my museum,
already,
with dinosaurs
and Jesus because
I’d rather be a fossil,

apostle of bygone eras than
living in fear of what goes

for
gospel
nowadays.

(see you in hell, K.)

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