All I wanted to say is that I was vigorously depressed and on nights with pale owls I seemed to have grown a taste in suicidal infiltration.
Instead I chose to dance the hell out of there.
With time; abstractness becomes a shallow companion,
you try to drink with it, you try to make it an essential cage,
made of glass bottles, phallic flower vases.
There’s always a serene bird outside my window, on neon lamps,
gambling with my swirling smoke and making me swallow cosmology and making me a rampant asshole and perhaps a poet.
Go away sweetheart, all I want to be is a cross-country truck driver and get doped on sideways.
And let those abstracts cut loose a little,
a little whoosh here, a little puff there;
I must gather those pieces, I have promised those owls and those ‘bluebirds’ to show my whiskey drenched blood one day.
Come out of that door guys and let’s cheers to this spiritual insanity.