Your mind’s been blown
in thick pink clouds of rancid hue
from smoke and silt and residue
which left your brains in acid stew.
The film that stains your clothes dull green
lies in shadows kept unseen;
emits to us the raunch of what we see.
It keeps you dead to us ‘unknown’
and makes you perpetrate and groan
your want. It’s yours alone.
You pitiful sad thing,
you . . . you wanted everything
but now you’re left to feel the sting
and let the needle cling.
It’s done its deed.
You’ll lie in slush and let it bleed,
consuming wants with all your need.
It’s sad, indeed.