Updated draft

Maybe one last orgasm,
or one last drag.
Maybe one last spicy Frito,
dipped in a luxurious fountain of chocolate−
or one more pill−until the bottle and bag are empty.
Then with the flick of my tongue,

with the quick swallow of guaranteed happiness,

I’ll ward off death again.
And soon, as promised by the nutrition label, I’ll rest.

But first let met take in the sweet inhalation of a second joint,
and feel the sweet, limp eyes, and
the kaleidoscopic chemicals working their way slowly into my brain until I become a dog and bark at passing strangers that look like rainbow-colored farts.
Maybe then I’ll rest.
But first, just one more temporary high;
Just one more prick of one more dirty needle,
so I can watch the blood trickle down,
and become a slick stream of scarlet on my arm,
coagulating around the other scarred memories,
while my heart struggles to pump the thick, red grease through its feeble conduits.
And when the hours gone and the high subsides,
I’ll flick open my glistening, rectangular god,
making the room burn with colorful, feverish dreams.
And with a few soothing strokes and probes later,
I’ll be fine:
asleep waiting for death−
or the next hazy day:
whichever comes first.
But first I’ll take a virtual whiff of some virtual girl showing me her virtual breasts,
the jiggling plasticity microwaving my pupils,
while I read what the TV guide has to say about love and other contingencies school had never planned for.
And when I finally realize my need to be a real man-
with real thoughts and real emotions-
so I can please another expiring lump of flesh-with bulging, brown eyes and bulging, brown feet,
dirty from experience-
I’ll flip open to the movie section,
with its fading, tear-smeared words,
and watch a George Clooney movie.


~ by ardentbowel on March 21, 2013.

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