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A poem.

Don’t talk to me

Before I’ve had my morning dexedrine

Last night, I had a long dream

I was on a jet ski

Saving my drowning colleagues

Three by three

Like if Catcher in the Rye were set in Jacksonville

Or inland Tennessee

I’ve got: two tickets to Paradise

Oh great, a middle and an aisle seat

Lucky me!

I’ve been ratfucked. And on the first day

of Eid.

Nonetheless my spiritus remains high

High! High! High!

I had a life of Promise and Wonder

and I let it all pass by

But at least I was high. High high.

I took a walk into the marsh

with

Anne of Green Goebbels at my side

She was a heather-haired Nazi witch

And in the twilit morning there

She gave me a morning kiss

What a hex. What a joke. What a jinx.

Don’t talk to me until I’ve wiped the crime scene clean

Last night I had a dream

That all men were created equal

It was obscene

I see you there God, doing a looky-loo

From behind your Geisha fan

Can I ask you something personal?

Or is this too forward, man?

I wonder

Oh I wonder if

This was all part of The Plan

My aunt’s got mesothelioma

My uncle’s got himself a Reddit ban

Last night I caused a scene

I dressed a senator in a plastic vest of RDX

and TNT

Lordy, lordy

You’d have thunk I raped the Queen

Don’t talk to me until I’ve aced the eightfold path

Snuffed out my inner wrath

Hid my secret stash

Exchanged my gold for cash

Called my Nazi girlfriend back

Set my spine in whack

Relapsed

Niết bàn

My dad spent some time in country there; he caught a little flak

Me and my Nazi wife we’re moving west

To rest, undress, reset

To spend some time alone

Where guns and bison roam

Out to the radio Redlands; where a house is still a house is still a home

The manosphere, the Iron Dome

Right hand a few feet from the chrome

And we

Take a pill

Scribble out our will

Shoot to kill

Say a thank you to Saint Isidore

The godhead of Seville

There, on the pitched edge of old country, chain lightning and a pack of Andalusian stallions bolting from their pen, a high yellow color in the hot electric night; in sackcloth and cords and capirotes we flood onto the plain

Don’t talk to me until I’ve gone insane

Until I’ve put this bullet in my brain

Until I’ve said auf wiedersehen

I lay to rest now

My wicked little wife

Let us drink black balsam in honor of her

Abhorrent fucking life

I’m so lonesome I could die

I’m high I’m high I’m high

I tiptoe down the blazing tract between psychosis ‘n’ peace of mind

And somewhere there’s a snowmelt river

Blooming morning on the Rhine

Tipple of lemon sunshine

Purity, I call her, come to me, unwind

And somewhere else NARAKA – bone cage of the sublime

I crafted mirror versions of myself there

So that the pain could multiply

Across my schizoid spine

Across the Gross und Klein

Across both space and time

I lost myself

I’m fine.

For Sylvia