interior

A Poem by Alex

Interior of the mind, when living in a form of semi-lucidity in an ethereal dream, static vision, visual snow, brain fog, lost, lost, lost, break against the shore of the human soul with the consciousness of understanding, undertaking what can only be seen as drunkness, drunk on the idea of a greater idea built upon another idea.

I said to him, it's ideology dude, maybe because I don't know what in the f**k I'm even talking about but that's okay, I was high anyway and when you're high on the idea of an idea it's because you're lost in the technobabble realm of human understanding, when you're connected worldwide but all you do is jack off, smoke a joint and browse some memes.

I was reading Plato but the brain fog set in so I messaged him and said fam sort me that 10, but he didn't reply so I drank and drank and drank and she didn't know but it's okay she's busy and I'm busy trying to make busy with the busy bees lost in a busy world, it's post-modernism man, no one's got time for anyone and there's no love, cold, marketed, consumed, throw it away, buy another plastic bag of Ishtar's own f*****g pubes it doesn't matter.

All worship your techno-Gods at the rain temple when all is lost, the interior is cool and welcoming, not warm, cold, a winter's morning, fresh dew nestling and caressing the beard in an uncomfortable but familiar way, pray for rain, acid rain, acid in the brain, acid in the name, no fame but shovelling cocaine.