burnout, hash oil, resin
black sacrament in a bowl,
distilled from stems
once swollen with buds--
an alcohol extraction
the pure excretion of sin,
melts instead of burns,
bubbbles--how to balance
what cannot balance itself,
upright as an angle
i cannot attain--first smoking
dust sifted from sheathes
of leaves, crystals of twisted
potent pollen, volatile
residue of hobby and habit
settled to the bottom of the bag--
then viscous desperation,
a dry garden, drained well,
stolen promise in a pill
that's not helping. how to balance
what cannot balance itself,
disinterest accrues on the account.
sometimes, packed improper,
oil holds the flame imitating
the embrace of immolation,
cloys with the breath of decay
as coughs arise in fits, gone
green with the effort
of inhaling again--last breath
a better option, a little death;
but out of balance will not balance itself.
if urge and idea die in conflict
nothing ever happens, left
unmoved, an incarnation of unmotion,
as prescribed or as scripted,
caught in the tar of trapped oil
in the dust beneath the garden
blind in a heaven of sun,
blossoming distant as a dream
as close as closed eyes,
as addiction is cliche,
this syndrome the symbol
of this century; the medicine I made
for balance, will not balance
what cannot balance itself.
spinkle 2005
black sacrament in a bowl,
distilled from stems
once swollen with buds--
an alcohol extraction
the pure excretion of sin,
melts instead of burns,
bubbbles--how to balance
what cannot balance itself,
upright as an angle
i cannot attain--first smoking
dust sifted from sheathes
of leaves, crystals of twisted
potent pollen, volatile
residue of hobby and habit
settled to the bottom of the bag--
then viscous desperation,
a dry garden, drained well,
stolen promise in a pill
that's not helping. how to balance
what cannot balance itself,
disinterest accrues on the account.
sometimes, packed improper,
oil holds the flame imitating
the embrace of immolation,
cloys with the breath of decay
as coughs arise in fits, gone
green with the effort
of inhaling again--last breath
a better option, a little death;
but out of balance will not balance itself.
if urge and idea die in conflict
nothing ever happens, left
unmoved, an incarnation of unmotion,
as prescribed or as scripted,
caught in the tar of trapped oil
in the dust beneath the garden
blind in a heaven of sun,
blossoming distant as a dream
as close as closed eyes,
as addiction is cliche,
this syndrome the symbol
of this century; the medicine I made
for balance, will not balance
what cannot balance itself.
spinkle 2005
