• illicit_skunk 8w

    to live is to write a verse on flower extracts that exudes a newfound absence of meaning

    wisps of dust
    on disheveled guesses;
    all things eventually take a stale turn.
    the need to keep up
    with the rate of dissociation
    turns me into a cheese-less wheat disc
    topped with minced meat
    and olives.

    a smoke crammed,
    posh, Calcutta based bar
    and a mixologist
    entrancing people with his spirit play;
    soaked in a thick haze,
    i wonder if you'd like my heart
    done tender
    with a slightly charred exterior.

    the likes of you and me
    aren't exactly alike
    but if the two, scour through
    basic degrees of coffee roasting
    they'd prefer theirs brewed
    with dark roast beans;
    and when served so,
    they'd like it flung across the room.

    a figment of my mist laden imagination-
    a vagrant with intense eyes
    crafting supple leather lodgings
    for a rich woman's maquillage
    bought at extortionate rates.
    i accidentally let him get pulped
    by a machine in the tannery
    whilst he dreams of better days.

    the background music in my life
    is a wild mix of genres
    and i'm not yet a fine music maker
    but i'm good at raising hell
    and smothering myself
    with the most bizzare expectations.
    tying the reality to me,
    is a delicate, translucent tendril
    and it snaps
    just as I start to get the hang of it.