Ron’s Old Ray Gun

Boredom settles like a layer of dust, gradually accumulating granules
specks and spicks and discarded cells catching late morning light
appearing to dance to the whispering speakers, low muttering tunes
shuffling from one decade to another, all unheard in my waking slumber.

Sick again, betrayed by mortality and the fading illusion of youth
every sip of silver tequila shines inside like a holy light, revelation
on the bathroom floor, deep contemplation of a sacred sign
hidden faces in the blood stains, salvation on a slice of toast.

Seeking allegories in the algorithms of this vast uncharted land
finding only clickbait and cocksure bluster, blockbuster head-shots
and finely crafted lies, so abject and imperfect and yet revealing
depths to which we can all sink, one more drink, just one more, please.

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