Battery Acid
September 28th, 2018

I’m fucked up.
I feel like I’m off
battery acid.
lt’s lithi-
um, my eardrums can’t take it.
Something, somewhere is still banging.
Sip some water to stop it:
the hardest pill to swallow is logic.
I shouldn’t have ever gotten this 
popped off:
touched the foolishly sweet.
An energizing, lying nutrition, other than when
less is more, 
where more leads to nothing.
Cyclicism pretends that all left behind by the centrifugal is easily retrievable,
but in this state of
un-high-non-sober,
I can neither preserve, nor create. 
Hoarding trash and throwing away keepsakes.
My ambience is growing painful and costly.
Broken glass; ditched grinders; flushed zips:
why are they so important when
I’m not getting what I’m always reminded to need?
Paraphernalia is invading my work space:
I’m writing in pack and hitting a pen.
Every note taken is ashed away,
and from a distance after being unmoved,
I’m confused as to where they all went.
Dissonance does away with relations;
lost, too, are my favorite of opinions and observations.
Polarized signs at every angle advise to take a tolerance break.
Still, I smoked the summer away and chased my dreams off:
So, goodbye: unwritten grocery list.
Goodbye: appreciation for that date which took place on June-something.
Goodbye: next epiphany.
Goodbye: sunset from yesterday.
Goodbye:
Goodbye: oh,
it went out.
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