Wine From Plastic Cups

These auriferous eyes,
these truncated dreams of soporific pipelines,

this nighttime endowed with entropy
and misguided hindsight,

this road map of ill-constructed guidelines
and meditative wildlife,

these fluttering black demons in my peripheral vision,

hallucinogenic inverse of intrepid wisdom;

schizophrenic smoke ascending, dispersing, dissipating
from this apparatus of wishful thinking
and lost hope,

furnishing finite saturnalia
with somnolent escapism.

We’re here,
drinking ice cubes and cheap wine from plastic cups,

watching contradictions as they burn,
experience rebirth,

and drive us to inky,
permanent,

blackness.

Willie Watt
5.15.15 

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