The drugs made his tongue slippery, a snake
shivering white powder, unashamed—
a quick snort from his hand, lips cracked,
peeling his smile back, his gaze drifts, blank
as walls of thick paint, deep hues curdling,
slicked, psychedelic strokes, in seizure.
A strobe cuts, slicing the crowd like a blade—
tighter they press, all touch, no tether;
hungry, he dives, a greedy kiss melting
in muscle spasms, eyes flickering, his soul
undone, unheroed, a heart pounding
its own violence, swollen and caught.
To be happy, just to feel, a blind wish,
eyes of trust, of terror, masked alike,
shackled in seconds of breath, each beat
drawing closer, riding ******’s cruel peak
under dark, tidal waves of night, colliding,
picking locks through consciousness.
Beads of sweat thread bad habits together,
strung like a rosary for sinners unredeemed;
we are the murderers of our soft selves,
our punishment twisting like smoke.
In his hand, the medicine man’s prophecy
dissolves, as music stirs a ghost of meaning,
a scatter of memories, vague, severed,
each doubt echoing our bodies, our homes—
this flesh a lie wrapped in pulse and touch.
Reality shock-shatters, a flat line stretching
until silence is all: the strobe dies
and he fades, release breaking him free.
