Sativa Medico
(Jan 21/06)
I should be working on a report on Medico Marijuana that I have been ask to clean up and reproof, but instead I’m listening to a dinner party for Mozart, a repressive childhood trauma gone bad, a viola without catgut and horse mane. From the slattern-blown pane of my bedroom window, I face a tonsure bare maple splotched and weighedlow with late January flurry. Sativa desiccate, Doritos tapered to fit nicely in the bolt of a drool-proof mouth. Mozart’s Requiem begs a well-rolled fatty tamped with a stogie filter.
I should be working on a report on Medico Marijuana that I have been ask to clean up and reproof, but instead I’m listening to a dinner party for Mozart, a repressive childhood trauma gone bad, a viola without catgut and horse mane. From the slattern-blown pane of my bedroom window, I face a tonsure bare maple splotched and weighedlow with late January flurry. Sativa desiccate, Doritos tapered to fit nicely in the bolt of a drool-proof mouth. Mozart’s Requiem begs a well-rolled fatty tamped with a stogie filter.
I’d give the methadone maintenance a go, except for one wee problem. I’m not, nor have I ever been, no wee heron addict. Never done the stuff, truth be no one. Fact is, I don’t ever know what the shit looks like, and me claiming to be a fucking adduction cowslip and all. Never once ever even seen the stuff, in a picture or a snap or on the TV, but beyond that, never with my own eyes, spectacled or not. Give me a Dad’s or a gingersnap any day of the week, even on a chiming Sunday, biscuits not being one of my strong suits, nor much to my liking.
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you. FN.
All births are tragic, even breaches and c-sections. The grandee natal expectoration, spit out from between angry, bitter thighbones, and that ungodly slather betwixt Monad Venus and parturition hole, not a weeping eye in the house, not one. Doctor, doctor ladling the speculum up into the warren, fishing around for an arm or a collarbone. Just my luck, he hooks me round the scrotal-sac, and yanks me out through the rectory door, my expiration date stamped on the auld of my funnel coned head. Birth’s tragic, yes indeed, and so is the afterthought, the slow trundle to death. Live whiles you got the chance, cause tomorrow could very well be the first day of the beginning of the end. The final exit, yes indeed, thanks to Jean-Paul and the other post-structural miscreants. Hang on tight, the ships lost its keel, follow the rats, they’re the only ones that know up from down, port for stern, ass from teakettle, yes indeed, yes…
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