Pollock’s Drink

My way
Bright lit

A pink porpoise
Barreling through
A midnight dream.

It wasn’t at all
What It seemed to be.

A forecast shadow,
Upon the plains of our migratory pathway;
Coordinates placed heavily,
And guarded reluctantly.

My blood transfusion.
In a bottle, a little while longer than the rest.

My own Utopia filled
With head lice screaming sarcophagi.

And you asked me about beauty,
And about youth,
About heaven and hell,
About God.

My reluctant answers
Pile up slowly amidst the other cars,
On ice.
And on fire.


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