Ritalin

This body was ever an octopus.

Sometimes squeezing, other times shooting a jet of ink to the gulfstreams.

The vial monster, it pushes, too much work, on the vein, to endure.

You ache for reprieve and never intend to learn the murkish song.

Or feel it’s eight whistles surround the limey neck.

The pools of shimmer, they will tell you you look so just just fine.

But folk don’t mind, when it’s the other guy’s spine which cracks.

I wish I could swear I didn’t like the embrace.

Wish I could rid me, that Spider of Old.

But some puh puh poisons, they stuh stuh stay

so much longer in the systems

then even waters can swallow . . .