unless i ride…


i can already feel my degraded
muscles turning to jello;
i took the proper dosage
for complete wreckage.
they say “he don’t booze,
he can’t be one of us.”

they don’t know they’re wrong.
they can’t feel the kick
or turn themselves to taffy
with the help of good friends,
& the right mix.

topped off with a hastily rolled
crooked cigarette with sweet tasting
smoke, i got everything i need,
everything i want
except for the smooth feeling
of skin on skin
in rapid gyration.

all that aside,
fingers stop obeying orders
and movement is impossible.
i go where i’m led,
unable to speak or protest.

i can live with the jello muscle movement,
the almost random directions.
De Quincey would be proud,
even if it ain’t
the fruit of the gods.
just a homo sapien invention
that happens to do the trick.

by now i’m spread-eagle on the floor,
feeling like an amoeba after
turning off my senses one by one.


thats where it ends. passed
out on some floor
possibly sliding around
but you can’t be sure.

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