Brother Bicycles on Thatcher, March 2019
He turns his head to the side
Lights the cigarette and a devilish smile
Plays across his face, across the moonlight, and that night we both surrendered a bit of ourselves to that clever moonlight, placing tabs under our tongues like eucharist
Going down paths, happening accidentally on dreams vaguely remembered.
Rises and we laugh at all of it
Tripping off the sky, soliciting guidance from
spiralling into our fragmented psychologies...
Winding up at a gas station parking lot
I recalled my little brother's anecdote concerning an ambulance driver who went insane from the substance, homicidal rampage ensued, sweeping across his whole nuclear family. Snapped out of the drug's clutches, he was terrified and turned himself into the police station.
I googled the occurance, skeptical, and sure enough, it didn't exist. Believing such a story? Either an attempt to frighten me, or frighten himself, trying to achieve both, and only achieving one.
A British accent rackets about in my mind for a little bit, and I can't quite understand all the commotion.
Slipping my face from the ground, I can't quite ascertain my surroundings,
Winding through shock and horror
Picking up precisely where I left off
And I no longer have some
Stupid fucking need to write what only makes sense to a select few
I just want to grab you--yes, you!
And show you the sheer hilarity and terror
Rolling down like egg white on
