It gets you up in the morning
It’s a kind of liquid armor
A gift that flaunts its Faustian Bargain-ness
More in the register of Goethe’s clawing, climbing, fighting towards the godhead
Than in the spirit of fuddy-duddy Marlowe’s moralism
Satan-as-aggro-life-coach
Not
Satan-as-the-burning-monster-mouth-that-swallows-you-into-the-lake-of-acid
But still
It puts its thumb in your eye jelly
You have to drink it down deep
You’ll resent it
Even though
No
It doesn’t push you, it drags you
Which is what you chose, isn’t it
And yes
You’ll hurt if you say no
Lots of things are like that
But this one’s particularly bitter
Even as it displaces your beyond lame borderline vacation-ass self with a momentum that wears your face so well
