Neuron flash in fifty watts pinpointing to the streetlight limbo.
Told me it was chemistry why I behave like this.
Why I move in misdirected impulse and speak in scrambled clusters of white noise.

Traction is not a term of endearment.
Death is an experiment best conducted face down.
Vertigo may not include spinning, but it ought to.

I am languid in the puddle, face full of concrete cellophane.
Don't say a single f___ing word unless you speak with a drowning tongue.
I am not listening. I am not focusing.
My eyes have sunk and set and I am invincible.
I'm water proof.

Someone said that heaven is just coincidental collision of electrons.

This is not the time for touching me.
I am a conduit changing colors, frantic humming televisions, conducting city spasms, shorting voltage like a fuse.

The elevating vibrations of hysteria, amplified by the armor of the tarn.
Flashing lights paint veins across the sky.
And everyone along the roadside just wants to see a saint.
The serenity of sirens, the allure of the femme fatale.
Her defibrillator hands can't stop me now.
I feel quite all right.

See also:
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