and let the record state he did not die. he did not go into decline or disappear through the wall like some resolved apparition. he bursted forth out his door and set the fucking world on fire. he churned his anxious day and night to compose twelve-hundred part symphonies of tracks on tracks on tracks trashing the fascist masses and the last alamo of the mind. the eternal sunshine melting like butter. the bread sliced thin and spread across the table to his twelve amigos – fuck disciples. he was not above. he was not holier than thou. he just had a mighty fine rage living in the cavity of chest that needed release and so – he released. a ten tentacle kraken ached into existence and grabbed at the bottom of the burning buildings. the city folks stopped to pull out their cameras and snap memories of the day that he took this mass-produced consumeristic ideology of what is and replaced it with this crazy fucking socialist idea of what could be. of a society built not like industry. not like a model t but built like the human heart. only taking to gain the strength to give even harder. give even harder. this one is for the adderall kid. too punch drunk of daft punk to keep the fire in his hell-bent chest. he burned, and he burns, and he will burn. for three thousand eternities and for nothing more – than the rest that comes – at the end of life – well spent exhausting one’s self – on the cause of setting the ugly parts of this watery world – on fire.


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

4 thoughts on “ONE FOR THE ADDERALL KID”

      1. Ah, the illusion of separateness… as a poet your skill is giving voice to the universal even when you think you’re talking about yourself.

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