LSD

I wrote this about three years ago after the first time I ever tripped on LSD. Prose is the first style of poetry I've tried to perfect. My skill has developed past this, but it's kind of nice to see what people think of my raw unpracticed style.



There is steadiness in ones family and ones feelings and ones love for their hobbies. Kissing is not kissing, anymore. Kissing is not a stepping stone but a doorway burst into. I want to believe there is a punchline for all of this miscellaneous shit, for all these people rushing in and out of my day to day life. I want to believe there is pattern and order in any ones emotions and anyones words but there isn't. There is no steady hold, there is no consistant tug of feeling there is only me and him against a refrigerator not making out but grazing eachother's skin and shielding each other from different awkward awful elements brought about as a result of living too hard. Thinking too hard is taking its toll on our souls, nonexistent because of the athiests in us, and eating away our mental health. Drugs and drugs and snorting and drinking and inhaling and little white tabs under our tongues. 14 hours of being a paranoid schizophrenic, too afraid of the lurky hallways and flower wallpaper in your mom's bathroom. It swirls, it bulges, it runs together like tears of colors and psychedelically breathing in and out, and there is pure nonsense for days on end. You forget to speak, forget to drink and nourish your body, you forget you've already smoked 15 parliaments in a row but the dry mouth isn't a factor. There's a kid with a poem in his head about eyes and they're shooting beams of truth into all of us, he's just too dead inside from the LSD, he's lost the social skills you need to express anything right. No one will listen if you can't smile right, if your eyes are too glassy and tripped. But the boy with the limbs long enough to reach and actually grab me doesn't know what words to say, only climbing high enough to reach me on my pedastool after a couple lines of blow up our noses. We're on the same level long enough to stare off into space as I drive, shaky and uneasy, and he's wondering when I will take off. I won't make it out of the small town that's robbed me and my friends, but mentally I will pack my shit and make it to the City Lights Bookstore and I'll be 85 years old and not hip anymore. I'll be square to the pop culture, like I always was, only I won't be able to get away with lines like the "two right winged bald eagle", I'm too spaced out from the insecurities, too warped from the television and the girls with the money to use expensive cameras and prove some talent that really isn't fucking there. You parents will smile and wave as you close your dorm room door, and get so sloppy drunk you puke on your fraternity brothers and wake up to the slut everyone knows, and you'll laugh it off. Until you're raging with pimples and blisters of a new STD you and your brothers proudly created together, singing with their keg cups in the air and their dicks out and ready to forge a new frontier of testosterone. Leaving girls skin burnt with tanning booths and eyebrows waxed with chemicals all slowly dripping into their brains, like the waves of the television eating at their "God given Christian souls." They'll go to heaven because they love their puppies but will eat the cows, processed and raised so you can ride your Escalade through the drive-thru and not have to get out. You are a filthy cunt, you are festering with modern medicine and with any excuse to keep you alive. Long live Allen Ginsberg!

I like it.

thank you.