The drugs are quick
like slipping sand
dripping onto my eyelids.

Through my veins and to my fingers,
and into ink. Black ink
from a ****** moon
tripped up on ******.

My mind is a wave machine,
the world the wave,
whatever I think the world moves in circles.

The music makes colors
to my twitching eyes and eager fingers.
Step here, question there, doors opening and closing.

Fuzzy mind, fuzzy slippers melded together
in insane madness of crazy.

The drugs are quick.