Art, Poetry
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we can’t pray when we’re high

midnight magicians conjour their spells

a pinch of NaHCO3 and the rest snow

(this ain’t no boiling pot shit)

Jesus’s cross is the upside down syringe

his head rests where our thumb pushes in–

our Lord’s prayer in an ejection

 

Oh Michael,

we are but sugar cubes in granny’s teacup

slowly dissolving

they’ll give us a rainbow of pills

blue to forget the headaches

green to smooth the bowels

 

 

the prayer thins in our veins

spreading in our blood

the harp crescendoing to the slip in

the fairies tango arcoss eightteenth notes

and dip at the rest

 

the symphony slows on the strings

our high is nothing but a low

I once read that Frost chose between two roads

but suppose we didn’t know

we found salvation in a hypodermic needle

but Michael

He can’t save us if we can’t save ourselves

 

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My name is Michael and during my free time I avoid having a day job. Strangely enough, this gives me the freedom to run this blog. I write just about anything that can be considered art. I also occasionally post articles that may or may not be relevant to the theme of this site. You’ve been warned.

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