A friday

'Today, young Gorky, you will lose something.'

Probably something important, like my sense of smell.

7

acid finds you
when the time is right

it sends you spinning
through the night
its whispers are so
serpentine
my brain is full of
turpentine

Faff

This brain in drift

Through golden clouds
My shadow falls
On golden crowds
Who filter through
The alleyways

On their Mercs

And Chevrolets
While all I own
My shadow keeps

My brain in drift
Your brain's asleep.