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.
