Saturday, March 19, 2011

Nyquil High

The rush of the earth impinges upon you such a sluggish display, and the room around you becomes festive and boring all at the same time.

Tomorrow's troubles seem like distant nuclear wars.
The waste of dread bears down on you like thick, gray chains.
Tear at you like starved bloodhounds.

The hot, steely lips of that broken-down devil swears and makes poems.
He leans against his liquid black car. The tears of his past pool and ripple around his ankles.
He hides his sly grin in the sleeve of his brown mole skin coat.
The epitome of empathy and compassion is letting those who will harm you win.

When you close your eyes, you can feel his voice settling in your ears. You can feel the room and all the world melting into a thick damp fog. When you close your eyes you spin like a dainty water lily traipsing around the glass-top pond. Consciousness flows out of you like a forgotten dream and you are at peace once more.

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