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.