my fingers are laced in a chalice
of drugs that **** my sensations.
i used to resist them as a loner—
until the white coat angel
ignited my fouls with
radio-**** tweaking.

now i sprawl in expiring
fictions that come anew
and reprint their additives;
making me a king
of numbers, of colours,
of game.

until my world is all
mold and brain.