The View, the Ladder

“I’ve earned the right to be like this”
—Kesha, ‘JOYRIDE’

“Story of my life” leading into “a lie we can’t go back to”
but want to, a death drive
in a basic Peugeot knowing the silver gearstick
does nothing—goes nowhere. But if you could just pull it this way
a little bit more again…? You sound immature
to those enjoying the view, the ladder
of light beams you built in your bedroom up to your suspended bunk
never stopping for them, while all you can do
is pull it off, the plaster
over the latest sore popping up today. Though tomorrow
the shoots out the darkness—that we try not to mention, even lightly
oddly, considering the new models we make over
for it—are like thoughts of going inside
all the time: you’d crawl and die
in there forever if you could. But more theories
circle themselves on you as if they connect, only it’s only
internal concepts sliding through that you cannot put your finger on
anymore, like the gearstick
going inside… and it’s back around again being silly. An infinite loop! Miss Understanding over you trying to talk you up, you bad boy
you, her feet in her darkest
heels! she thinks, not knowing
it’s the height that makes her head hot, not you: you
take the blame anyway as you want to feel something; you crawl around in the mud between shoots
but no one dare notice. How does it appear to link up
some life, without going anywhere? Suddenly you could be a millionaire
with so many rooms to go inside it’s almost crass: back down
again you go
quickly. And you can’t go up again! No one enjoys reverse parking: it’s stupid
again, all so terribly trying
“Story of my life” again: you give up and go for long drives around the same old streets at night, the ones you know so well now, the same town; you dream
of letting go at speed with your eyes closed, pleading
with the flickering lights, “Please, please, don’t make me come again
for another lie
as it only seems to increase the whole thing.”