Untitled #30

I then lose all of my intuitions
All of my dreams become one-dimensional
I don’t see them anymore
I simply see myself in them
I see him in them
His exaggerated words
Pouring out of their skin
Like icing onto a cake

There’s no escaping
It tastes sweet at first
I start to lick salt off of the lips of those who pay me interest
I sense the ground moving below us
Shaking around our feet
Lifting us towards the sun
And letting us slowly brush the dirt over and onto our lifeless faces

I repeat the words
Over and over again
Take the trip with those who have other intentions
I inhale the plants
And fuck their cultivator
Hoping it will turn his eyes back around
Back towards me

The deviant fantasy of our escape
Is unfortunately cut short
By further indication that the world is up shit crick
He’s too in love with the idea of another clean angel
To see that I’m not going to last much longer

Then I hear the news
That bullets don’t miss
That there are plans for the next thirty days
Which will inevitably rip us into a new bleak oblivion
And I know how it’s supposed to go
How it’s meant to happen
How we’re all finding the ground

I circumnavigate the details
Sneaking in during the sermon
And finding the cold silver in the top desk drawer
Below scattered papers of words,
Cross-checked
And repeated for a better sense of denial

I will say goodbye to the flowers
And be on my way
Back to the front porch
Back to his bedroom
Back on stage
Back around again
Back and forward
And back
And forward
Until it all stops making sense again

- C.W.