Orb of Thought

adrift in the infinite swamp. Daisy-chain of twinks, gilt orgy, 8-ball, nine PM Tuesday. I used to rub my wine–smeared hand over my wine-smeared mouth (the pout that launched a thousand UFOs). I now recall the warm feeling I got when my brain warped. I hurled a peridot Rolling Rock bottle at the wall, maroon in the dark. I hear it shatter only now that all is well. (The top shelf’s bowing.) I massage myself at night before I sleep, first my face, then my shoulders, then my feet, then my left palm falls upon my right. My skull streams clips of some forgotten life I left somewhere in a world such as this, but brighter, or better, or so, so much worse.