Why You Should Drink Red Bull Ethan Palmer Poetry

local_library Why You Should Drink Red Bull

by Ethan Palmer

Published in Issue No. 254 ~ July, 2018

The great statue

of two bulls colliding

toppled beneath a dying sun,

shaking the smoldering earth.


The scattered factions of the Nation of Red Bull

trembled in their fetid sewer dwellings,

while above ground the party was just getting started

for those who had surrendered

to the way of Monster Energy,

their fists bumping,

their jade emblems glowing in the cold dark.


The last of the ancient promo codes expired,

and it seemed as if all hope was forsaken.


At the 2 for $4 prison camp, the thunderous

cacophony of ten thousand revving dirt bikes,

400-foot speakers blasting alternative rock,

inhuman shrieks of “Brah!” and “Woo!”

drowned the weeping of an old man

in a Sonic the Hedgehog costume

who writhed amid the malevolent tribe,

waiting for a chance to talk,

crucified on a Monster Energy logo.


He waited for the right time to say something like,


“This ocean of obscurity from which we were born is pulling me back, yet mind’s transubstantiation of ichor oozes relentless. In better knowing a tree in my new neighborhood, I may no longer recognize one from my childhood, I may even see both as something brand new, forever muddying my understanding of every single moment, and I could spend lifetimes trying to get the originals back. No one is making you go to sleep. I have missplaced the keys of death and Hades, and life’s production values are cheap. All attractions are fatal. I mean, attractions are brands upon the soul. One is already happening, the other already happened, is already owned by someone else. One beauty destroys another, and the past is terrifying, or maybe it’s not, but the present is terrifying, or maybe it’s not, but the future is terrifying, or maybe it’s not. I can hold on to so many heavenly moments, but there’s nothing I can hold long enough. Let all the words we never shared rush from this torrent. We have always loved each other. We were just never given the chance.”

but he never got the chance to say any of this.

A beach ball hit him in the stomach,

and he died.


“Enough!” God screamed.


A sick house beat filled the cosmos, and lightning struck like strobe lights

as angels descended from the heavens, passing out free promotional Red Bull

T-Shirts, hats, stickers and frisbees to those that had kept the faith.


The apostates were forgiven and given their own free promotional 12 ounce cans of Red Bull,

and they reveled in the delicious flavor and subsequent rejuvination of body and mind.


And there was peace at last.
I was there,

writing incredible love poems that everyone loved,

and this is how I knew it was all a dream.


My tears of joy turned to vodka and fell

into my 12 ounce promotional Red Bull

and the pixels died, one by one, until I woke up


with no time to shower or eat before work. Groaning and coughing, I inhaled an 11.5 ounce can of Spicy Hot V8 juice and a handful of vitamins, while looking everywhere for my keys.


At work 7 people told me they loved my hair.

3 customers became very angry with me.

I gave a homeless person 3 dollars.

I smoked 2 cigaretttes.

I drank a 12 ounce Red Bull.

I dissipated into the stars, like a spark from a bonfire,

my heart swelled with electric blue as fearful symmetry,

geometry, both sacred and unholy,

and the lush music of Spring

intoxicated me.


I felt like I could stop time and take in every detail of each precious now,

and somehow fix every problem within that great stillness,

save the world,

then start it back up,

good as new.

The green light of change sent me

dropping like dew

from the gulf of space,

into that same ocean of obscurity.



hey, don’t take my word for it!


account_box More About

While I was obtaining my diploma from East Tennessee State University, my poetry was published in the college's Mockingbird Literary Magazine. I have since self-published a variety of works online in a plethora of global collectives that cater to poetry's involvement in digital art, macro image poetry, alt-lit, absurdist and science fiction literature. For the last 2 years I have been hosting the Electric Pheasant Dreamland Open Mic Poetry Jam: Knoxville, Tennessee's own unique congregation of slams, sonnets, performance art, and everything in between. This event has become a staple in what makes Knoxville's Historic Market Square a sanctuary for any and all forms of poetic expression. Right now I am wasting away in a service industry nightmare, but I am planning on becoming a high school teacher within the next year. I am currently obsessed with contemporary science fiction from China, and I live with two cats, a dog, and three talented artists.