it withers me, it fries me
WHEN I DO WEED, i'm ninety-nine & hyper, strained & scattered.
i’m hyper in a dying body, tweaking inna sagging bag o' crackers.
when i do crystal X-Tasy, am later sad—exactly—as was happy.
X is for an exxed-out experience, a nullity.
i bled to sink, when coke i did, and heart exploded wetly in a thousand Sim adjacencies:
a bloody mille of sacrificial mes to fund my dope trip, my sorry little coke fit.
thanks unto LAHIRI MAHAYAASA, for the Save:
to the Man & the mantra, and for fighting Darth Dave.
tell me is it fraught in here; freighted here with fear?
cold in here, and old in here, a frozen Long Year?
vodka is a lying poison, poison that i soak my brain in, numb the face with, bathe the scalp in, cauterize unclinical psoriasis with.
the trouble with these highs
the trouble with these highs is: they get u thinkin ecstasy's a seven-hour trip, so entrain you for a crash, for a downslope, a catch.
dope will make you skeptic re the bliss you're in the midst of—
will kill a buzz of sober bliss—
in life or Everafter this.
maybe it was true: the classic Hindu PSA that drugs will get you booted out of Heaven.