I don’t like pain. It hurts.
That’s why I don’t run marathons.
Hangovers an irritation.
I’m kind of fascinated;
Eager, somewhat, to see the credits roll.
Obviously, not any time soon
(or ever, but let’s get real.)
I thought at one time I’d do the same
as Aldous Huxley. Go out tripping
my tits off.
Ludicrousness wonder clarity.
But, no. I’ll cop it,
not cop out.
That said, if I’m
in paroxysms and incoherent -
turn the morphine the fuck up to full
and let me dream into distance,
into delusion, into comfort;
I do dissolve.
Squinting a fading
idea of sighing mind -
fade beyond feel -
a welcome home
from gigglers gone.
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