Drunk Sunrise

Drunk Sunrise

Oh what a glorious innocuous sense we breath!
Hanging from signs til’ they bend to the streets,
and out of sight!
In this concrete jungle
only water is free,
so I go back to the point of forms and become:
formless.

Last night I gave into
my strange friend, leading me
from this warm worn mattress, and colored tubes
feeding my relentless hypochondriac self,
and I spun the age old yarn,
blissfully, til’ direction imploded,
and I grew sick and spat myself into
the warm arms if summer repeatedly,
til’ drifting I saw strange illuminations in this self.
Now, I sit recalling all,
to spin like the spiders cryptic web,
each strand holding the sum of my parts,
waiting and dangling from tenement rooms,
lit by cathartic cigarettes, and this sense of…
awe!
And flowing wine,
the constant hum of electric fans cutting
thru the thick heat, while I cut through the
thickness of the self I am struggling to
eradicate.

Yet the soft silhouette of
reflected street lights
fighting to claim the skies
from eternal sun, are beginning to crack!
And the staccato hack of global lust is settling
with a sigh, and feet are
again digging into the
awkward wet soil, as
spines straighten to its lackluster touch.
And this spinning slows to a translucent calm,
my body/self drifting to the edge of nothing,
settling like dust after the storm,
here to watch and wait again.