The Quelling

i smoked an ounce

of mouldy weed

and now my lungs

(my lungs)

and now my lungs

(yeah, my lungs)

and now my lungs are fucked

that's an obscure medical term

that strangely enough

has fallen out of favour in recent times

and now my lungs

(see above)

and now my lungs

(…)

and now my lungs are proper fucked

i jammed a purple Mentos

down my japs eye

now i can't piss

i think i’m gonna die

i need a diet coke transfusion

i need an over blown conclusion

i need nasty vague confusion

and all before my next contusion

i tried to eat my bed one time

was i hungry?

i was bored

was i desperate?

i was crazy

i was denied access to the stars

a hundred scares, a thousand scars

i was able to put my feelings in small jars

but

i wasn't allowed to retrieve them

i wasn't allowed to believe them

i wasn’t allowed to deceive them

i wasn’t supposed to be like them

so i took one exasperated saggy sigh

a small cross section of my thigh

a cheap and convenient post op lie

it’s kinda lucky i didn’t die

so now becomes a tale of then

i couldn't tell you what or when

was it the whisper of the reaper

or the intricate elusiveness of Zen

but for a moment

i was able

to pause the torment

for a moment

i was able

to ease the pain

i was able

to see

the sun

(for a moment)

faintly shine

ahead,

in the distance

through the rain