Morphine

I’m taking morphine today

to see what it’s really like

to be a Democrat

to be a twenty first century

American…

to feel

asleep at the wheel

to dream I’m awake

in the face of the fake

to get from here to bed

as my only ambition.

It’s too late for the poets

by the time of revolution.

It’s too late because poetry

Is for the sensitive, 

not the mob.

Poetry is the reason 

I didn’t become 

a defiled actor

a corrupt lawyer.

Poetry saved my life.

Apollinaire died in the first world war.

Lorca was killed by Nazis.

By the time of war, ideas are mainly

propaganda, no matter 

which side you’re on. Only after

the slaughter do people start thinking

about the truth again…that’s history.

And “Heronymo’s mad again.”

Coda:

High as a kite

is just alright,

especially with music.

Cosmic carcass lazy, abandoning care,

concern, order.

“Let it fall apart…it’s been wanting to 

do that for a long time anyway.”

If everyone did morphine, maybe we

wouldn’t have so damn many people…

(oh…they already thought of that.)

Oh, I like fresh air, the flowers and bees…

yes, I love Mother Nature, if you please….

But, reality is in the mind of the beholder:

the goggles get boggled as you get older.

I play with my mind, but not with my food.

One way to distance oneself from the “self”

is what Rimbaud called “A radical 

derangement of the senses”, which we 

groked on LSD. 

I take morphine because I’m on a battlefield,

wounded by salvos of ignorance and madness.

or, just because it feels good…for a while.

You want the truth?

You can’t get there from here.