What if I got drunk,
****** out of my gourd,
decided to get stewed
on the cheapest whiskey,
throw myself
into oblivion
shooting smack,
poke my biggest vein,
inhale a pile of pink-flake,
the kind that
melts in your mouth
& you can't feel your tongue.
I might attack
my ****** soul
with ripe *****,
pop some dexies,
lick purple stars,
then go
whacked outside,
into the salt breezes
driving my beat up Rambler-car.
I could pipe my distaste
for this messy
robot-establishment,
tell them how it is,
these control freaks
trying to run our mean streets.
I could spew it to them in rhyme,
write free flow verses
about starry night skies
& our misplaced loves,
the agony of
our cracked
bleeding hearts.
Indeed fellow trippers,
I could show them
the danger in my eye,
cry for the sympathetic wolf,
flip a few Molotov cocktails.
But whatever I do,
you must believe me,
you wonderful people
& you sober-minded drones,
I have seen the light
from the bottom
of the abyss
& it ain't pretty,
it't ain't pretty,
doped up,
living a ******-up
life on the edge.