I may just die to Verdi one day. I’m an eggsucking snake which climbs into burrows and things. Til I chopped my own head from my body and grew past it- transcending my slithering nature, ushering in an existence on an ethereal plane of being. An oval disquette of matter just holding all forms of my former slickness in temporal rage. The way i did things is trapped in this primordial sludge - an amber goo which crystallizes my former deeds and wants and allows me to cast a judgemental eye on myself. And fuck you for reading this- I’m too high to care. My desire for something different spills from my head and enters the physical plane. My dick is an obelisk of shame. My head is hung. I don’t really care about the end cosmic destination of my tattered white t-shirt soul. It floats like a bag in the wind.