my trip

We walk, our cold shadows echo each other in the darkness, yet we choose not to hear.
As when souls are lost in the dark, they can not hold hands; they only creep in fear.
The man who is scorned and reviled is usually the one who can see
the truth, the amazing silly key to the mystery that is but greek to you and me.

Feed me, the stoned philosopher says. Feed me and all will be well.
It's all a scam here, welcome to my little slice of hell.
Half-open eyes. Half-empty lighters. These dichotomies mildly amuse.
Opaque eyes and a flourescent mind tell tales of use and abuse.

The marble woman with no nose sashays out to numb me
I walk her halls with a vapid smile.
Each door she keeps with a crooked grin of half- curled lips, so hot.
I see dreams of me and her, my instrument sheathed in her stone.
She winks, i blink, she flickers, i want to hear her moan.

A tree sways
and i run.
I am lonely, and my mind
is in the gutter where the water flows.

I have sprinkled
sweet wine on a cold lawn,
and i run
as time across rain
or a leaf
to the wet grass.

You run the arithmatic so smooth,
but I walk, and the morning is imperfect.
You smile, but wire tangles in the leaves.

Last night i sat in the command post
connecting telephonic messages.
the line was overloaded
and i drank too much coke.
I had to piss in the dark.
even the stars were imperfect.

Everything is olive, drab, mundane --
What can he do?
Thats my trip, baby.
Oh yeah.
Thats my trip.









Its a sick world, sick,sick,sick.