I don’t think his lips

Ever dipped below

The meniscus, that

Lazy smile, chronic

Often contagious


He dripped from the

Walls a sanguine pool

Luxuriating in an air

Of incense, his eyes

Drooped inexplicably

Downward as though

Made of melting wax

The fire still imprinted

In the iris, those blushing

Reds like sunburn or

Smudged lipstick


He was as skinny as

The strings on his guitar

Long and completely

Strait except for his nose

Which favored artistic

Interpretation by refusing

To subjugate to any linear

Constrictions to me

Indecently beautiful like

All anarchistic renderings


He was absolutely brilliant

A shaman perhaps for

The drugs really did

Seem to lift the veil

From his third eye

He understood life

And humanity on

A psionic level, I

Really believed

He could rearrange

The constellations

With just a puff

Of that sweet

Smelling smoke


I struggled to write today. This about a guy I knew in high school he was into drugs but his mind was remarkable.