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Chains of connect-the-dot girls and calendar faces

Dreamworld disguises and sheep in wolves’ clothing

Mountaintop, enlightenment

Smoky, dank basement

Pass around the truth

But don’t mess up the rotation

Headlines and bylines and my lines rehearsed

Actions, reactions, infractions and factions

Of sanctions and fire

Lava words flow from flaming lips of voluptuous volcano

Unknowing glances, blown chances

Escorts, cohorts, money sports, and horizontal resorts

Playtime at nighttime and daytime’s dream

A dream of sweaty dollar bill

Clenched in the fist of a tired proletariat

At the end of the day

Comes high time for bedtime

And playtime’s a scream

A dinosaur of fractured ideals

Of fossils of fiction, of fairy tale yesterdays

Of the birds and bees

Cramped in the backs of ’57 Chevys

Of 2.4 parents- and children who grew up too fast

Of lovely lace adorning, concealing

The Quaaludes under June Cleaver’s pillow

We are the children of “Tune in next week!”

The offspring of the baud and the Veda

The cosmic hybridization of HBO and DNA

If life’s just a movie, who cares what happens to me?

As long as I have good lines

But the lines disappear

Black bleeds into white until our ethics are tired

And all that’s left is the dreary gray of Father Time’s beard

Some old baby pictures of Earth

(Before she lost her virginity)

And a memory of a story

When daytime was playtime

And nighttime?

Was for dreaming

See all poetry for Benjamin Frandsen #F29177