Postmodern Poetry - Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook

Everyone’s mad about enlightenment these days.
A good dose of amphetamine injects a swirl
of heat just under your skin—surfaces dew,
become frictionless. I’m writing specifications
for web services I won’t use. Children either wake
slowly or a wool of cinder smoke chases sentience
over pitted plaster walls. You can’t miss
their footsteps. I, too, would like to avoid writing
a bestiary of noises, but just to let you know
I’ll need words, and that’s fucked up. If we could
pass scenes through skin, if with touch I could
teach you by flows. But then we’d all be dead, like
those frogs, you say, membranes so thin
poison passes like a breath. Oh well we’ve all
gotta die. But then I say, Not Really.