Table
of wood.
On it,
a gift.
I got it from a conference
a few days ago.
The glass, colorless walls
of the glass, laminated flask.
The flask being full,
of a substance of red and brown.
First drop.
Revoltion.
Disgustment.
Who would even gift this?
Exertion.
Is needed.
I was told this was supposed to be bliss.
Concentration.
Annulment.
This is why I don't drink caffeine.
Titration.
Untreated.
As tired as I've ever been.
First sip.
An interesting flask.
Of an interesting color.
In it, an even more interesting liquid.
Disgusting, yet intriguing.
Sweet, yet bitter.
Fruit, yet coffee.
Concentrated.
Brand-new, avant-garde
sobering narcotic.
Anaphylactic with a note of plum.
Pristine condition spick-and-span
vessel of disgustingly revolutionary,
incredibly credible,
extraordinarily normalized
reddish brown fluid.
Second slurp.
A bit of an effect,
though it might be a lie.
This concoction is still
disgustingly horrible in taste.
These things never work for me,
so why do I think this one will be any different?
A bit more awake.
My eyes close no more.
This one might be different.
It might make me soar.
Attentive? Yeah, right.
As if I could be!
I'm losing myself in the world
of nonexistent words, of poetry,
and the sounds all just travel
past me without toil
and yet I sit here, chaperoned,
contemplating my soul.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Hell if I care!
I'm falling too deep
and drowning in the drops;
I should stop now.
The taste's not even that good!
It repulses me with its revolting repugnance,
resembling only the rebellious smugness
of the black
seedy
dry and horrific
sweet
and sour, and bitter
substance THAT IS MINE
NO, YOU CANNOT TRY
(and the content is gone)
IT IS ALL MINE, the repugnant - ugh - and unnaturally natural - gah -
reddish brown liquid of
pro-awake
con-sleep
wakeful psychedelic
attentive fruit
So nice and moist and - GOD it tastes horrible
I'm gonna be tasting this for a few more hours
Such a horribly, desiccated sensation of disrelish
That yet, somehow, keeps me awake more than any
Beverage of vigor
Goblet of black ink
Carbonated potion of saccharine delight
Or bar of unending animation
But addicted? ME!?
You have no right to say such untruths!
Addicted I amn't; far from it in fact!
I am what I am, and that I know well,
and as much as I'd wish for it to be true,
addicted I'm not, you all can go to hell!
And as far as I'm concerned,
although it may seem false,
no one but me has tried this,
so don't engage in these brawls!
SHOULD YOU KNOW WHO I AM,
AND WHAT I HAVE DONE,
YOU WOULDN'T HAVE SAID
HALF THE THINGS YO-
.
.
.
Table,
wood.
On it,
gift.
Received
at a place.
A glass
flask.
Empty,
yet full.
I drank,
and I filled.
A void
where it spilled.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
Table
of wood.
On it,
a gift.
I got it from a conference
a few days ago.
The glass, colorless walls
of the glass, laminated flask.
The flask being full,
of a substance of red and brown.
First drop.
Revoltion.
Disgustment.
Who would even gift this?
Exertion.
Is needed.
I was told this was supposed to be bliss.
Concentration.
Annulment.
This is why I don't drink caffeine.
Titration.
Untreated.
As tired as I've ever been.
First sip.
An interesting flask.
Of an interesting color.
In it, an even more interesting liquid.
Disgusting, yet intriguing.
Sweet, yet bitter.
Fruit, yet coffee.
Concentrated.
Brand-new, avant-garde
sobering narcotic.
Anaphylactic with a note of plum.
Pristine condition spick-and-span
vessel of disgustingly revolutionary,
incredibly credible,
extraordinarily normalized
reddish brown fluid.
Second slurp.
A bit of an effect,
though it might be a lie.
This concoction is still
disgustingly horrible in taste.
These things never work for me,
so why do I think this one will be any different?
A bit more awake.
My eyes close no more.
This one might be different.
It might make me soar.
Attentive? Yeah, right.
As if I could be!
I'm losing myself in the world
of nonexistent words, of poetry,
and the sounds all just travel
past me without toil
and yet I sit here, chaperoned,
contemplating my soul.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Hell if I care!
I'm falling too deep
and drowning in the drops;
I should stop now.
The taste's not even that good!
It repulses me with its revolting repugnance,
resembling only the rebellious smugness
of the black
seedy
dry and horrific
sweet
and sour, and bitter
substance THAT IS MINE
NO, YOU CANNOT TRY
(and the content is gone)
IT IS ALL MINE, the repugnant - ugh - and unnaturally natural - gah -
reddish brown liquid of
pro-awake
con-sleep
wakeful psychedelic
attentive fruit
So nice and moist and - GOD it tastes horrible
I'm gonna be tasting this for a few more hours
Such a horribly, desiccated sensation of disrelish
That yet, somehow, keeps me awake more than any
Beverage of vigor
Goblet of black ink
Carbonated potion of saccharine delight
Or bar of unending animation
But addicted? ME!?
You have no right to say such untruths!
Addicted I amn't; far from it in fact!
I am what I am, and that I know well,
and as much as I'd wish for it to be true,
addicted I'm not, you all can go to hell!
And as far as I'm concerned,
although it may seem false,
no one but me has tried this,
so don't engage in these brawls!
SHOULD YOU KNOW WHO I AM,
AND WHAT I HAVE DONE,
YOU WOULDN'T HAVE SAID
HALF THE THINGS YO-
.
.
.
Table,
wood.
On it,
gift.
Received
at a place.
A glass
flask.
Empty,
yet full.
I drank,
and I filled.
A void
where it spilled.
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