I made a bunch of DMT with lye the other night,
I vaporized it on a copper scrub in a bong until I had a seizure.
They took me to the hospital and I chanted Hari Krishna mantras for a week straight,
And then I thought of you.
We were in a sculpture garden, and you were the golden purple mist.
There were perpetual motion machines cresting rows of fountains,
the kind you used to throw coins into.
I was waterboarded the other night,
in a Muslim-run hotel in York, England.
They put me in their highest garret,
but the windows wouldn’t lock.
I unscrewed all the latches with a multitool
so I wouldn’t accidentally fall out.
In the mild midnight sun of Europe
I wooed myself into orgasmic hypnagogia
and then I dreamed of you:
we were in the middle school library,
the one with recessed reading pits
that you could fall into and break yourself in.
We were on the central floor of the library,
and then a floor above, with the same layout.
Nothing looked different,
it just was different.
And I don’t know if you wanted to cuddle or what,
but you said to me:
“This is a different place,
a different floor,
and you’re not supposed to be here,”
but now that you were here,
I am here too.
I got hit by a car and recorded another terrible indie album the other night.
And in every song I remembered you
climbing up the fire escape
to your mom’s apartment
that changed every week,
with your mom’s boyfriend
who changed every week,
and her whole family of toddlers,
and there was a new one every week,
and I know you’d rather be smoking
but right then it began snowing
the quietest snow
that I have ever heard.