Menae

Mescaline eye drops free-falling to a fat splash on the flying iris. 2-clicks in each one to send me searching for the perfect storm while it dreams of ruin. The piercing burn at the back of my eyeballs. The fibrous nerves and tentacles waving, going nowhere ~ gone numb.

Mental masturbation sometimes in repetition, the unsafe way ~ the ones that don’t know say.

The skipping of brains on solitary ponds and then a sit down on the moss with my tired regrets hanging in the cold moonlight listening for the plan so they should kick in and not be left out in the frost.

Specters hiding behind cast stones cast lots along the way with my dirty coin not minding the gamble I was taking with time for the sake of she.

Religious symbols weave their way around my drunken head but not well imbibed they are; eating away at my life fulfilling prophecies carelessly divined.

Numerous voices whisper in the dark ~ Cast it out

I go to the sliding mirror and with broken reason staring back at me I walk through the silver sheath throwing jubilations up in the air at a quiet day; the kind you only read about on the palm of a wounded hand. And you were there waiting for me as always wearing your moods. The happy rearranging of my drugged out DNA has me looking over your shoulder because I never trust; so again I fly with the million eyes looking through your mirrors and smoke. Depth was non-existent for that one breath I held and there I was . . . existing without my honor.

Fog was sifting in and out of the mausoleum going nowhere ever breathing its purpose to the tongue-tied masses. Blood curdling screams fractured the heavy night shattering meditating souls’ dreams falling their prayers to be lost in wandering streams. Ghostly energies scavenged about waiting to take my life at the first chance of a guard let-down. The taste of blood was permanently kissed on their undying lips.

Time to break open the chapters and the craters in your mind and trip elsewhere. Anywhere but here. Step into a whirlpool of emptiness, of perdition and disappear in search of new friends & new frontiers.

In the meantime,

grasp at anything that’ll save your life or maybe destroy it w/a tempered blow.

The rivers of time are drying up fast.

A drought is coming to Menae.

July 1992

Victor Millan