Ripple

American literature pours over me like Ripple, in a curvaceous brown bottle 
it makes me nauseous and its not worth listening to. 
Authors penned their works in the golden hours of a breakdown,
in most cases, caressed by Angel's Dust and Jack's. 

Maybe if I knew a backstory without listless struggle
I would be tempted to peer into their heads and wonder why. 


I ripped up my copy of the Crucible, the red aura around the print 
burned through my retina. 
I am blind to the Classics, and
I don't regret it.