Wake up, says the teacher
as the classroom is dismissed
by a new flow of insta-lows
to a life that don't exist
with the dreams and hookers and those strips
of cocaine gist
dies another failing year
that wouldn't seem to bare
the absolute rejection of the after-midnight list.
Wake up, says the doorman
as the final beats die out
to a freshly ground, street-like sound
pumping all about
in cities of dreams that crash down at dawn
and whither in the hands of those with clout -
waits the restless, spiked-as-fuck souls
all made up of doubt
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