Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Valproate

At first, your body glides with
a clockwork surety.
Did I forget? Did I forget?

Then
time clots;
it forms foggy balls, cloying sods
sticking to your limbs, your ears, your mouth.

You can float!
Tilting above yourself,
watching the increase of
stumbling mumbling movement.

Soon, you're drunk with it.
It could be giddily fun, you know.
A carnival.
But there are these monkeys
eating your eyes
and a ringleader
whipping the soles of your feet.

The sadist apothecary knows, he knows
how this powder touch
holds all this meshed rotting,
flashing and spinning.

Physics, physics - irrelevant!

Just as I begin to imagine
I am above your gravity,
your quaint Newtonian ways,
I reach for the blister pack.

Light, colour.
Diffuse.

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