My crystal ball of burden connects with the ecliptical space rod
igniting the spirit within, and I breathe tiny specks of sparkling dust, I wince and I get better, a battle I did not win.

Bats fly quietly past my head
There's a commotion idly playing in the far distance
Under my moving bed

Two green tunnels open wide
My hands shift, separate and attach elsewhere
As I spiral down the ride

A soft coating of relief
I swell in and out of both hell and limbo
A razor blade motion to the throat

I give to my own reflection
A red smiling geyser with pin-sized eyes
Blue dread with little hope that sinks low

**The days get further as I swallow nothing
but lumps of dry, flakey air

I've been walking past the same dinosaur ******* a dozen times and it doesn't bother me. What bothers me though, is the threatening message that is faded and smudged out in the bathroom's handicapped stall. I can barely read it saying "Carl something, I will find where you live something something. Above the message reads a cryptic proposition: 416-818-9120 Jay. What kinda sick fun could the number propose.

As I walk out I see the extinctee's gaping cavity release nutrients for the thirteenth time. I feel like someone important in some kind of cerebral movie; especially the fact that I've found a newly discovered purpose in my life. As well the clothes they have given me add a prominence of flare and swagger. My friend catches up to me asking about something, I don't really hear him. I find a pay phone and punch in the digits. The phone rings but no answer. Disappointed, I walk away, but the phone then rings. I pick it up and hear only heavy breathing. I don't know what to say. I say nothing.

He then says: "This is Jay."

He spares me the details and he or she tells me to meet him at the Slovenian BLED HALL.

"What's there?"

Click . . . I ruffage through my bag for a change of clothes, I don't know why -- a muscle shirt and sweat pants with lobsters and oranges on them. I leave the duffle bag. My friend and I jump in the car and pin it.

On arrival, I see a dirt path that leads us to a white church in  the middle of a stray field. The paint is chipped off from harsh weather, windows are smashed, and brown is smeared on the front porch.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this" my friend says.

I ignore him. I walk up the sticky steps and open the creaky entrance door. The room is filled entirely with candles, ceremonial red paint cover the walls, and my friend has only a bad feeling about all of this. He wants to leave.

"You shall not leave" the voice of Jay echoes.

"Who is that?"

"I summoned you. You shall not ask any questions, and you shall not leave. You with the pants. I want you to undress your friend."

My heart sinks. I have no choice. I feel a dozen other men staring at me behind the darkness, their daggers pointing rock hard at me. I feel like I'm in a gay ***** film now. My friend starts to sob as I undress him. Shut up, you'll be fine. He is shaking, his mind in shock. The cauldron bubbles at the end of the room. I know what must be done.

We both stare down at the scolding hot ***. He's literally begging me to change his mind and it really gets on my nerves. I throw him in head first. His scrawny legs dangle upwards. He pops out, holding his burning face, his guttural screams echoe the chamber. One of the men hands me their dagger. With one swift and easy motion, I slit his throat. His body descends, his life no longer a struggle, he is now simply being cooked. I hope these guys don't try to **** me.

You are free once you are stripped of your privilges. You can see after your time in the darkness. With a piece of mind you can still find the time to enjoy the heavy rain on flat ground. See the aged and delicate swim with their pink umbrella. See how the dog is still tied firmly to his leash. But not held captive to the things you mistake as luxury. The sonic boom will wake you from misery. The company owns both friends and foes and all that stand in between so meaningless and futile. Sharp smiles, the dollar rises. But murky bodies forgotten, float down the Nile.

I jump out of bed to the sound of my father's wake-up call. I was just playing a very important game in one of my stupid, meaningless dreams. My head spins downward in a still drug induced motion. Lora had been with me last night, which had helped me sleep. I run downstairs as Downers always tend to sustain my energy. My lunch is packed and I belch up some of my Gatorade I had already drank. I can feel a reassuring burn in my throat that tells me "Today is another day." Father asks about when I'm getting my tonsils removed and I tell him, and he says "It's good you know. Just get it over with." Yeah, that's what I'm doing; getting the **** over with and done, I get it." I come into work and I see orange foamy **** on the ground that smells like *****. What a **** job I got myself into. And the kid that works with me is a ******* four eyed *****. He stares blankly at me, never hearing what I say. "Looks like antiseptic." He responds, "What?" I walk away and get to work and think about the Fiorinal I am going eat. I go to the bathroom and take two with my Gatorade and then wash back another two. I take Franky out to the field, and he's chortling and having a real fit. I tell him to shut the **** up. I also let him know how much of a **** he is. My head feels loose and my body feels light. But it's still a mundane kind of high which is ****** to cope with such a mundane, life-******* job. So I take three more. Franky starts spinning in circles like a two ton child waiting in line for pizza day at school. Franky's nihilistic values and unruly behaviour has been a total ******* hassle to me. I've heard he's bucked and killed three people so far. So I feed him some of my Fiorinal; about 300 milligrams. I kick the ****** in his paddock and he runs off to harass the others. My head is throbbing nicely and my center is igniting with a sunlight feeling. I see Franky out there gradually falling under the spell. He then keels over; lopsided like a fat bag of flour breathing heavily with a dry cough. I give him a peanut butter sandwich as a method to resuscitate. He cranes his neck from his idle position and eats the sandwich. It turns out there was another 300 milligrams concealed within the sandwich. I walk away as I eat four more pills. I'm good but not good enough. The kid that I’m working with is still sweeping the hallway. The mundane procedure erases his reality into some meaningless nightmare. He then looks up to me and asks "What's wrong with Franky?" I tell him to shut the **** up and get back to work; "And work better while you're at it." I knew about the pills in the sandwich cause I put them in there for Franky. What I didn't know was that Franky was allergic to peanut. I see him out there, spread eagle with his belly touching the ground. I go “****!” and eat another dozen-something pills in response to the distress. The kid asks what I’m eating and I barely hear him and then I think about burning down his stupid church so there is no excuse for him to miss every other Sunday’s work when I got better **** to do. Then I think about the pain in my stomach and the blood I taste from somewhere. And as I’m running to help Franky, I think that he will be fine; he’s lying on his stomach. Usually when they are dead they are lying on their backs. When I come up close to him, his large red eyes see only death. I feel something raw and smooshy in my underpants. I must have soiled myself unknowingly. He’s still breathing, that’s good. My body and mind do not feel intact and everywhere I try to open up my closed eyes, the peephole becomes smaller and smaller and smaller. I smell like ****. Was it the pills? Was it the store-bought stuffed peppers I ate last night while playing solitaire? I think of its oily texture and merciless burn which only causes more stomachache and diarrhea. I’m now lying next to Franky. His struggle to live is sad and pathetic. I close my eyes thinking: respiratory depression. I start to cry. I hear the ambulance. I open up and I see Franky’s eyes frozen directly at me; as if he knew I killed him. He is stiff, heartless and somewhat waxy. He looks like he should be on display in the Kremlin. What separates between us now is the coagulate sandwich that smells like stomach juices. I don’t know if it’s mine or Franky’s. “Are you alright?” someone asks. I can’t respond; there is no energy. I’m sure it’s the paramedic. Now Franky’s owner races through and steps over me and onto the coagulate sandwich which goes Sshjerp! Tears stream down her puffy ***** face and starts consoling to the dead animal in a very sick, twisted kinda way. She goes back and forth from talking to him and then yelling at me. “You did this! It’s all your fault! You can go rot!” I’m half conscious and I have an oxygen mask strapped over my mouth and I’m humming one of my favourite songs, thinking about how delightful it is to be alive whilst the ***** still points her gross, fat fingers in my face. “Say goodbye to your twenty thousand dollars, sweetheart.” The twenty thousand ******* dollars you had spent every ounce of energy to maintain and keep alive.

You're all fools, you know I'm right
You just don't wanna see it
You don't wanna deal with it

You tainted my beer, painted my name
A new colour of thinking

Outrageous codswallop
Infamous gossip
Destructive worship

I don't struggle to sit on the outside
Just to melt in the rain
I have a tolerance
I have a conscience
I have a condition

You're all fools, and you know that I'm right
If you don't believe me then just read my
Holy scroll that rests atop
The mountain of Timbuktu

You'll spit a taste so vile
Villainous beliefs, total nonsense

But I'm a copper skinned fool
Who thinks for himself
Deal with it

You go on keep reading the ****
From the Masses
Hope it's a hit
You mindless tail
Swinging off a
Gutless *****