in the quiet  
between the metal madness
of flesh being ripped from young bones  
the watching and waiting  
the stinging eyes
the flaring nostrils filled
with the sounds
of ****** painted flesh  
there is a cool liquid silence  
that comes with
the token tokes we take  
as we pass the golden bowl  
those times when we forget
we could flick a switch
and rock and roll
rock and roll
with ******-delic cassettes, or  
full metal jackets, though  
neither allows us to see
there are times of senseless silence  
and lost lizards lounging
on dew dappled leaves  
in mornings after  
the crushing steel  
the fatal fingered agony
we sewed and reaped,
there
is
this
quiet,
this still green scent  
the lizard and the fruit  
the green promise of tomorrow
that we may erase
with our screaming toys
and deadly ploys
but only after we awake
from this smoky drifting dream