Ode to a Stoag

The thick, grey cloud coming from my throat

is blowing side to side in the hammock where I float,

swinging every day, every night, all the way

while the same grey haze overlays

the portrait that I see,

cardboard cutouts of the world in front of me.

Grass and trees, dulled in their green,

chairs and seats and empty life goals

around a fire pit with smoldering coals

leftover from some party last night.

•

The last night, the last day,

the last time, the last flame.

How many times do I cry,

This is the Last

repeat

multiply

rolling around

in the garbage where I lie,

while somewhere out there

the trees grow and the birds feed,

and the world turns on.

•

but the beast churns on -

the spider in my brain

with dull metallic claws

that tighten their grip

on my smoldering mind.

It feeds on every drag

of nuturing smoke,

easing the senses

extending the distance

keeping racked body

apart from my mind.

And then deep down,

and buried in smoke,

my soul's gone grey

and is now intertwined

with the devil laid back,

plus an early-life stroke.

•

But that's easy to forget

when what dismantles me

puts my mind at ease

numbing the part

that hurts inside of me.

•

that's called

paradox

•

caffeine nicotine

the only thing limiting

my consumption

is the size of my pocketbook

which is plenty big enough

for the death of

my subconscious