Pieces Of Sleep, 40% Proof.

Knocked back,
Another liquid lobotomy.
Boring holes in boring thoughts.
Slurring speech.
Madcap laughs to Madcap screams.
To the blank silence.
The sound of drums:

Insanity.

Insanity.

Insanity.

Is this Insanity?
Or just making sense?
Was this happiness?
Or forgetting regret?

Dancing up the ire escape.
Drums silenced by surgical tape.

Then:
The barren fill,
Before the breakdown.
The rumble of thunder,
Before it pours down.
A pint of paraffin,
With white wine head.
A shock of lightning -
Not ready for bed.

Send away the tigers.

Pat the black dog on my shoulder.

I could be Hancock, Hicks or Reznor,
Or Reed. Or Shirley.
But no, I'm just not fucking real!
(Then maybe that's how I want to feel?)

This is no problem 'cause it is my problem.
And it's just fucking sad!

General anaesthetic,
Asinine, anodyne,
Aberrative and alveolate.

The vacant visage,
Of victory over image.

Voraciously:
Down another whiskey!

And the horror film fades to yesterday,
Yet remains non-fiction,
This was Cinéma vérité.

Ready to reprise with the next sunrise:

Knocked back,
Another liquid lobotomy.



Only sex... and sadness... should have a sequel.