Tenessee death row fudge and omen

"Christa are you with us?"
 
where am I?
Who are you?
Can you please unstrap my wrists
What did you do?

Why are my arms hurting?
I'm looking at you cop
if you wanted to kill me
should have gotten it done

You administered twice and failed
What's wrong diluted the dose to save state money
And now your stuck with me
A murderer a torturer

A women enraged who will remind you of your error
every single day
I dont' know if it was the Devil 
Epstein's ghost or what put me back on the map

But my arms are killing me
I'm going to need more of those drugs
My lawyer is going to be in touch




(RIP Colleen Slemmer)

She likes the cinema

 She dreamed about the cinema
Planned on going there
Among other priorities
to walk the curves of the city

Make yourself pretty for the public eye
Enter the grand atriums where all onlookers wait
And the chambers with those big screens
Where your mind can be almost entirely absorbed

She didn't just dream about going to the cinema
She walked in her high heels there boldy
moderately excited
The street like an unfinished plate of food

The odd morsel almost worth a sniff
But mostly things left over
Waiting for the inevitable "biff"
Then gone from the commerce

Yeah excited she walks
More certain of her get up
Proud of her brisk "stop me not" pace
When she arrived there, there would be no lines

She would find her special place among the seats
Take in the images sounds and intended vibes

Forgetting your problems

 Joint moistened soaken smoke drawing through
Browning the paper
Clouding the mind
Ember all uneven fighting to stay lit

Thc pouring through
Into the lungs
The young man dizzy stoned
Park bench a little less even now

Sitting at an odd angle
the taste of smoke
The throat becoming super dry
A salty effect on every mucosal bridge to external reality

Haze intensifies, thoughts swirl into dreams
That seem too good to be true
then backward into spiny nightmares
The body shudders and the throat dries even more

His future plans get jumbled
Little aspects of them fall away
He is left with the essence
But can't remember any deeper sense of the why

He loiters as families take their children to the local nursery
He walks in circles lost in strange thoughts
That promise a road ahead but slowly fade into nowhere
He retreats to the bench and grabs his bag

Starts walking back to his small apartment
His occupation and his beliefs to trick him into thinking
He is on his way forward
His life was more of a moonwalk 

Playing the universe

 It isn't about winning or losing.
It's about veering off the road where there was no driveway.
It's about morphing into something even you can't understand.

It's about cradling a vision, a parallel world where things are different.
That is where you play with the universe.
Because you never see it clearly, and by proxy you confuse yourself,
becoming a little inside out.

But I can do that.
Others think it's just words, but I've told you before that words are spells, strange magic.
I can play games with the universe,
or play them on myself, knowing I'll eventually get confused,
laying the metaphorical acid beneath my tongue,
spinning out of control before resurfacing into the normal grey repetitions.

If I was the Magus

 I would put the bewitched reptiles in enclosures and sacrifice different creatures to them in ritual form drooling at the gums. Purring in the throat. And getting the hall ghost all uppidy.

I would dance around the banana and electrify the webs of the orb weavers, bestowing supernatural powers upon them.

I would holler at the full moon and have it illuminate the acerola hedge.
The equinox is non existant, the humming bird slender and taut.

I would bury coins beneath the papaya,
so the roots could feel rich and call the ants to guard them.
 
I would teach the passionfruit vine to climb beyond the wall and send its tendrils into the night, where the bats could conduct their arcane ceremonies.

hide and seek in the bamboo wasteland

 The water hit the railway lines and increased
swallowing them whole
while the young empty minded
Ran around the bamboo wasteland

Night to day and back into night in a flash
Convincing themselves of their roles
Until they had no identity
Outside of the seeker outside of the hider

Conjuring the sense of normalcy
the sense of absolute insanity
the young and empty minded
looking within and finding voids

What is common and easy to fill this gap
what is popular and acceptable
world look at me
Uniqueness is shame 

Cleaner and the Dame

 Standing inside the chamber of the train station
Furr coat and looking resplendant
Early afternoon it was
At her left the cleaner with his wide broom
Long yellowy dreadlocks working class swagger
Taken by her elegance
Uttered sweet words under his breath

She pretends to ignore
Let it all pass but its been such a long time
Since she heard such things from a man
New passengers exited the train
Walking up the steps toward them
She took her things and descended

Her perfume and person grinding friction
Against the oncoming dull eyed commuters
Train doors close and dreadlocked cleaner looks from afar
In his mind treating the train itself as thief
As it moved off slowly
That rich woman he would never even have a chance with