Fools Russian

there was an old man

who swallowed the sky

i don’t know why

he swallowed the sky

i don't reckon he'll die

this old man he played one

he fucked with his own head

just for fun

he took a single drop of liquid LSD

(just for fun)

he may tell you that he took it for his PTSD

(just for fun)

and that the PTSD he got from his OCD

(it was only one)

the OCD that manifested during the GFC

(now there’s none)

yes and the GFC was in part the fault of the KFC

(here comes the fun)

but the KFC had NFI about SFA

(and there goes the “oops maybe i shouldn’t have had that much” moment)

hand me a phone i’m calling BS

(a word from our sponsors)

T MINUS THIRTY FIVE MINUTES:

i feel it in my centre first

like a slow motion punch

like proving a hunch

like digesting a light lunch

like digressing a whole bunch

the abbreviations have since departed for warmer climes

the senseless saw the approach of many easy rhymes

punctuation was somewhere there in spirit

and the ghost of the carriage return

crept to the darkest corner of the page

T MINUS SIXTY MINUTES:

my body was like a volatile container

dampening one soft explosion

successively excessive

excessively successive

my circulatory system was a race car track

every blood cell a Ferrari

clocked a coupla record laps n all

my nervous system was a series of feather boas

shaped like the roots of a tree

making sure to see that short bursts of me

were able to flee

able to flee and be free

my stomach was somewhere high up my back

but that wasn't gonna bother me

SPINE GUT!

wasn’t going to be needing that anytime soon

T MINUS TWO HOURS:

i'm grinning like a cattery full of Cheshire’s

i got some gold medal cheek flexing going on

my eyes are like fucking spotlights

the darkness cowered before me

i was sweating like a racehorse

i was beaming like a champ

i think i fancied a nice cup of tea

but ended up having some beers

T MINUS EIGHT HOURS:

there is peace amid this terrific turmoil

a quiet calm behind the pulse

and yet i feel like i could power a century of useless electrical shit

i may have moved a little closer to the something i wasn’t ready to know

i could see the lines of the evening

a misty gradient of not really there

layered according to varying temperature

little bits of every nothing

just hanging in the air

i must have been wearing glasses

made of cotton wool

everything was fuzzy buzzy

an oozy woozy lazy hazy

T MINUS TWELVE HOURS:

i can smell me in me on me i’m tramping

my cheeks are sporadically cramping

my eyes are moths and i’m lamping

i've been sat for three hours i’m camping

my eye lids are heavy

there is a dreamy fluidity

attached to everything

it drips into the cracks

between the worlds

it drips into place

i’m laying there

i’m laying here

i’m wishing

i’m wishing

the sun hadn’t come up

and that this gritty reality

was actually

an hallucination

Zzzzzz…