a cola poem

it tastes so good
like capitalist nirvana,
swishing it around
like a pretty one-night stand,
but it comes in a box
on-demand
without the long wait
under a Bodhii tree

the trouble is:
it doesn't last,
like a quick cigarette
the thing is past.
so rather than let
the pleasure sink,
one might say that
I chain-drink

a bad habit
is what some might see,
but there's a reason
the world's free.
see, I walk around
like a broken machine,
and no matter what I do
the pain won't leave
my circuits

So it's cola rain
on the desert floor
softening the suffering
making way for Spring