Wednesday, March 23, 2011

All of our good souls whizzed before my eyes
in hedonistic splendor.
They were having orgies on acid trips
and creating, and
creating, and
with help from their friends;
never remembering any of it when they were of
sound enough mind
to write it down
or sketch it out
or hum its tune
or whatever else artists do.
They were afraid of reality--
they couldn't get a foot in it--
and they saw stars and
colors and
shapes and
she that was not there.
They were in a Blue Dream Haze
and knew of only one way out:
that final blow.
But they were too scared
of what lay on the other side of the solution
to actively seek it out.
No, they just dreamed of it as they flipped all sorts of
bubblegum, jawbreakers, caramels and peppermints;
dreaming of Sheba
and her carpet ride to a place called Sanity
and on to Adulthood
and Responsibility.
They hated Sheba, so they broke her up,
wrapped her in leaves
and smoked her;
turned her to liquid,
filled the syringe
and shot her up;
crushed her remains,
whipped out a straw
and snorted her;
or whichever way Sheba is best taken.
They gave her magic carpet bad directions,
so they ended up back in Candyland,
where tomorrow doesn't matter.
All that matters is how full you can stuff your face
before puking.

They had both their feet outside Reality,
so they were unaware of the burning books
and smashed instruments
and broken pictures
and spilled fuel
and mass genocide.
They heard about gallons upon gallons of water
and turned to their friends, asking,
"Do you know anything about that?"
and no one did.

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