High Fructose Corn Syrup

[theirishsea]

no happiness in high fructose corn syrup
the pipes are clogged
neither steam nor song
the days become old
drop like flies
the centerfielder can not catch
the grass smokes
the world is groggy
just recovering from a banned substance
rubber burns
the wind carries off our thoughts
until they rain
on the unconscious
asleep at their meals
women in little black dresses
serve cocktails
kiss important men on the cheek
the rest of us
as we are all brothers
eat fast food
domestic bliss kisses us
smelling of dishwater, oil
but it is better than loneliness
the arid smell of the desert
the choke back of tears
grains of sand caught in the throat
beneath the eyelids
on the eardrums
watch the sand leap
with the pounding of sound

[dadio]

One of your best, imo, Irish.