Trip

Trip

A philosopher took me to see an acid trip.

On the thinest wire, in the center of Allston.

Spinning in little drips and webbing in massive webs.

Singing and sting and running all around my head.

Hollow aches a mourning heart.

That pumps on empty, blood run black.

A tired trickle that makes you sick.

An awful frighting sound.

Feast

Feast

There are these things that emerge from the darkness.

They crawl into the light with grins in their eyes.

And smirks on their minds, teeth white and wide.

Looking for a feast of flesh at least.

To satisfy their quench for human hearts,

And blood soaked passion.

Stinging the air with a poisonous stench,

Made from the depths of hell,

Which rots our noises with a lingering oder.

And all the while, we sit and smile.

Hoping to become their next meal.

Helpless and hopeless, just standing around,

As they tear us limb from limb.