Written during a very strange moment waking strangely enough at 4:20 in the morning.
No, I wasn't under the influence of any substances.
But it sure seemed like it.
And...edited a little.
Four not quite twenty in the morning and
some snoring beast is stirring up my eyes
to open rose-colored into an apocalypse
of scarlet ceilings, demons in the snow
outside rumbling as the radiator makes
that krait-hiss when it’s ready to strike
and I check my neck for bite marks
for a vampire invited by accident
but no dapper devil’s next to me
just a gap between the firewall
and me to meet the glory glint
in its quartz rose hole like
a blazing third eye, like
my mind is watching
watching me toss
watch me turn
up and down
my neck and
rush my back
to break the
chest to break
the think and
I am wrestling
I am resting
Close your eyes. I am rest in
Close your eyes. wake or
Close your eyes.
The scarlet fever won’t scare you.
It is Sartre in absentia. It is absinthe.
It is only the inside of your birthstone,
your garnet locket discourse through your
disco-colored glasses. Do not be disturbed
by the radiating snake, or the snow leopards
bloodied in your brain, or the sneaking suspicion
of sickness stuck between clocks of twenty and four
and not quite twenty and not quiet and quiet and cry.
Close your eyes and cry.