The wheels turn on the cold grey floor
We are lying still
Mind stirring
A pot full of embarrassment and decay
Wrapped up in a silent crisis
We gobble the sweet powder
Down
Crying
Laughing
Who knows which way is up any more
Alice giggles
Turning tricks
At the table once again
I’m a hundred and fifty you know
Together we barely scrape an eight ball
Flying high
Like a kite
Struggling
Breathing
Mind stirring
A pot full of embarrassment and decay
Wrapped up in a silent crisis
Thick as rain
Wet hair
Fingers sticky in anticipation
Of the next hit
And the next
Thoughts
Falling through forest veins
Like wheels
Unruly
Cold
Grey
Floor
Thud.
