Tagged: weed

Finely Ground Keef

“I don’t know if I want to”
The tip pressured when lips are sealed
In hesitant piece
Moist complacency
Spread round
Like a bandana worn banner
Stating “place cock here”

They budge
They hate themselves for it
They compromise
They sink their rubber boot
into that first
Puddle
leading to the ocean
their mother warned them
“you’ll drown”
But the water feels good
On your toes
And so you take another
With a nod and a whimper:
“Thank you”

They pluck a pill
And sink it
Swallowing
They pluck a pill
Placing on the dripping
Tongue
They pluck a pill
Pop
And the wrapper
Radiates a thousand colors
They stick the stone
And feel the pain slip away
Like a towel
From an awaiting lover

They say it melts on your tongue
But you were the one to melt
In that warm saliva

They say the stomach cramps
Will ache only for a little while
But the hurt lasts indefinitely

Molly
And mouthfuls of mind
And the ice cream cranium
Melts in the sun

Until you’re the tread under
The passing feet
Observed, but otherwise
Ignored.

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Insanity Meditations

Helping the masses understand insanity
Just a little bit better
Disorganized
Lost
My words
Aiding contemplative suicides
And real men that don’t bother to use a mask

Only 18
And already my heart aches
Like a swelling, slowly inflating
Balloon
Far beneath my ribs, and decalcified bones.
Where I forgot
That I too am human
Pump me full of another drug
And I’ll soon forget again
Hopefully I won’t remember
How it hurts
To be real

Masturbate, music, migrate, massacre, mediate
All of the things
At the disposal of 18 years
Of rot.
These are the tasks of a writer
Changing the world with words of wonder
While asleep on the girlfriends couch.
Fighting hate and fuckery
From the armchair, blue pabst in hand.

Like a Crooked Spliff

Like a crooked spliff
embers chase down to the filter
shrouded in layers of ash
sins taught by a book
With small declarations in gold embroidery

Bibles your family and friends flashed
Like Spanish vocab
Smoldering beneath layers of conventional guilt
Until ash is secreted in a series of grooves
In a never ending road top

Sometimes stogies
Are crushed into the pavement
Eager to burn
But chance has snuffed potential

In hell’s eternal flame
somehow
unable to find
The generosity
Of a 5 o’clock shadow
With a lighter

Hemingway and a Hand Grenade

It’s 30 below
In the valley of Mount Kilimanjaro
The plane crashed moments before
The departure from the runway
Like the spreading knees
From the flaps of skin pulled back
Push bitch
And he never understood the pleasures of the peak
the mountain top
The feelings of inadequacy
That they’re all so better than me
Better than I
That’s the way to die
With a red pen
Mightier than the sword
Correcting and critiquing
All the way to hell
But reassurance
Dwells
In the bottom of the bottle
At the end of crooked spliffs
The King conquering the corners of the world
Too tired
Too pained to leave his throne
To guide his throng
The slave
That would rather take the dirt
In the wounds
That stains his shirt
Than to stand up
And dedicate his life
To a cause much greater than he
Or anyone else
May ever understand.
I wish to be this slave
I wish to grab the teeth of the nine tails
Of his sordid whip
And pull him forward.
Knock him off his feet
Or at least stumble
futile rebellion
Then die
Knowing I took a stand to a power
That as far as I could ever foresee
Is
Or was
Entirely unstoppable

Freedom is from the same place of the mind as apathy

Leave the bra
Hanging from the headboard
Tap dance on scattered needles
Like it’s a red
Velvet
Carpet
To the trigger that you’ll never
have a handle of

Let the teeth stain
A seasoned brown
With tobacco juices
A healthy veneer
Of THC

Drink stolen malt liquor
Like it’s a vital aspect
Of our composition

Like
without it
For three days
You’ll die

I can hear the siren song from lisping garlic breath

Stagnant
We all sink
restrained in pot holes
of sinking mud

under my heel
I can feel the sorrow of the last writer
He wasn’t so fortunate
it’s far easier
To sit

The blood of Christ
And the sermon
We used
to roll this joint

Dive
rush towards the end
There’s a road
Off of Sammish way
Where you can see the writers sinking
On each corner

There are some small craters
Where the greats used to be
I can see Kerouac crater
Right between
Steinbeck and Poe