the indigenous brain of an old junkie

 


my brain is an old
junkies brain

it moves in strange
ways

like:

laughing at the jokes
that flowers tell

sitting in a graveyard at
night and talk with
dead children who
will never know
another birthday
or Christmas

that an honest hatred
is better than a false love
on any given day

seeing that truth is
held prisoner by
perception and
that perception
is no better than
a rotting fish lying
on a rocky beach

and that there is
no use in arguing
with reality

regardless of
what that
reality
is