I’m not sure when LSD morphed into
acid, perhaps Pacman played a key role.
You have eaten it in crystals, liquid,
laced on sugar cubes, rubbed against your skin.
I like your skin. It’s shiny. “Mescaline
is for the weak,” you said. “Give me acid,
vodka, horse tranquilizers. The wormhole
in my head needs feeding.” Be my Voodoo
Chile (slight return). It’s all about our fun.
Our wait for things to happen; things impure.
Baring your dark skin to the flat, white sun,
huddled down on the striped towel in your
homemade paisley bikini. A lesson
while we wait for something fun to happen.
I love liquid beating drum. I love spurt
and jets of milk. I love closer, closer.
I love hot. I love acid bastards.
I love lithe blue. I love infernal blood.
“Darling,” you begin. “Picture me naked
before my typewriter searching for words
and the keys to put this down on paper.”
“Darling,” you begin. “There is still wet dirt
under my nails from the last time we met.”
I love how the sun lifts up the dill’s long
green stalk. I love how it gets its roots wet.
I love raw. I love how it’s never wrong.
I love breaking. I love swallow and spit.
I love more. I love knowing when to quit.