The Wolf, The Castle and The Slit of The Throat!

A poem about a trip.

It was a horrific night, my mind plagued with six hits of acid.

My friend, not to be upped by me, did seven.

He drove us to a party in a '72 lime green Barracuda with black racing stripes. 

The street poles seemed to come to life as we drove on by. 

Some scowled, some screamed blue murder.

Others just fluttered brightly in the sky.



The party was good, the fridge full of beer.

The weed formed a hill upon the table.

Honeyed hash oil along with hot knifed hash filled the air. 



One, full of enthusiasm to our situation, dropped on all fours and howled like a wolf. My friend of seven, filled with excitement, taming the wolf, then chaining him to his side as he quietly sat bemused upon the winged chair that protected him from possible blows of a sideways nature.


It was startling to see this one of seven jump from his chair as he imagined a man rose up behind him and as he looked, no one was there.



I entered the kitchen and found happy faces.

There was one who looked quite ill, and proceeded to vomit. 

It was as if a water fall was made of pea soup and the flow was a plenty.

I announced my surprise, but the room fell silent, as if I was visiting from Mars. 



A young lady I loved but hated as she loved but hated me, took a stand behind me with legs apart and a pirate stance, took a long knife and pretended to slice my throat. 


I knew she didn't, we loved each other, but could never love. But in a mirror in front of me, I saw the cut as it bled, my lover never to be, laughed at my reaction. 


Fully perplexed, as I hoped to be earlier that day, I stared upon an old radio with an antenna capped with  red. As I examined it, it became a miniature of a castle and the red cap was a damsel in disguise. 


I foolishly exclaimed this to all that were there, and again the world fell silent as I remained alone.