so the man in the suit with the penguin walk
offers me the anti-alice for my pretty obvious problems
and a steady stream to my missile guided consciousness.
i took it
because what else do i have to do at 4pm on a tuesday
you stick a stick in a stream and it is never the same sane consciousness twice.
the schizophrenic vomit of all men plunges me through this
shifting shift atlas weight across my broad back.
and drink to quell the shivers
but this is more than drinking.
her wants me gone
but I always come back to it,
over the broad surface of a medicine bottle
plunging through human consciousness like an angelfish
the sodrunkness that I am sober
this little glowing light above my head dictating things in flashes
lord do I lead a colorful halflife.
today the bomb dropped on the hatched cherry of my soul imploding the skin
scorched to an outer singe
incenerated all the tiny hairs
and when the mushroom cloud got higher than a kite the smoke parted like the redest seas
and all the kings men mos definitely could not put that shit back together again.
and there I was, with the singed outerskin of consciousness
the singed outerskin of my soul
I came here now yellow-slim as fight-club's x-drug addicts
the ones that chew each others ears for lunch
bone thin ,yes,
but with panoramic hanging garden-esque vision dripping with hunger.
I came here the way suicide-failures swallow bullets for breakfast
or how swallows swallow sky,
the ball of an eye straddling the socket channeling vision
while relatives die real fake lives in suburbs 20 miles off
like ragged camaro 427s with hood-rattling idealism
into the sunset of own near-real-pseudo-insanity.