“A case study of the effects
of psychotropic substances
on grown-up middle-aged men”
by William Wordsworth.
That one will eat you
from inside out
reversing you like an
old holed sock
excavating your cheeks
defeating your age.
That one will instead
slowly make you its
own,
glowing in a singing swan
grasping your head like an
old deadly hag.
It swallows you up the same way as
it took in you its domain.
That one will teach you
it’s better not to
overdo, not to overdose,
if your mind cannot charge anymore
the path of your own, personal thought
– your proactivity –
in horror vacui slammed out.
The only one I know
though
has a liver and a heart
two lungs-wings
a fucking hot tongue.
What should I do when
already now I want the then?
Tell me the cure, give me the potion,
the secret ingredient that can
give me my candor back.
I feel safe in your fish eye
in the time you can’t define
I get joy out of denying
how dirty,
dirty rainbow am I.
Million faces blue
and my love, away,
the same colour too.
Addiction.
What I cause
What I accuse.
Words on canvas 