How far do you think you’ll get with that needle still sticking out of your arm? Forgotten and hanging out like a silvery beesting trying to flee the body, shitting its lifeblood into your highways.
Run from what? A syringe of opioid receptor agonists? When ice-cold-heaven-bliss fuckstarts you from your arm to your skull and back again, why leave? Cold stone walls and a piss-stained mattress mean nothing when you dance with Aztec Gods. Dance within Huitzilopochtli’s terrible rainbow feathers and hidden claws. Fire your molten seed in a slow-dance of silver until you melt with the earth and forget the dusty grey of who forgot you and the brown stains of a spent mattress.
And now you’re back. The tether reeled a flaccid form, a tired fish, it dragged you back until you find a cold, semi-clean mosquito hanging limp, a defeated libido, a betrayal from god, hanging, post-coital from a clammy rock. Stretched skin shows surgical-steel phallus chilling you to your jaded bone with the horrors of sights and smells and sex without metaphors. Through bars you flew, Quetzalcoatl, god in man, yet chained you are to wax-yellow bones waiting to be buried.
In a world of colours without reasons and flavours, without holy metaphors and the beautiful soliloquy to guide your soul to nirvana and fucking, you find an echoic, persistent monologue, blurrily muttering on a cheap radio you couldn’t sell. That’s all you find in this room you can’t run from. That, and a piss stained mattress, Cold walls, and two ominous windows which show the same room on the outside.