Author Information
Psychodelia
Telling me what to do
the red behind your eyes
leading the pointed knife
with silver hands
drawing deep into rancid flesh
the bosom of your god.
I'm so very tired
wishing I could sleep and dream
fancy dreams for you and me
but when the visuals turn dark
I find that I was already
in the warm throes of slumber
and my pining thoughts
were nothing but a child's wish
for something blessed on Christmas.
All I want
is a peaceful life
yet I am held prisoner
by the banalities of the mundane
I work I shit I eat I sleep
inspected by my fathers ghost
never reaching the pinnacle of affirmation
always wallowing in quicksand
avoiding the keen strike of the viper
laying in wait for those
who wish to partake of the fruit of knowledge.
Will we ever know
what we were meant to?
Will any of these questions liberate the damned?
Wait, what?
