Peter, Jr. Alcedo

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Smoke And Alcohol

On a February morning,
a sword sliced me in half so clean
you can't discern a mark.
Only bread and hotdogs to eat,
and cold water from the fridge of an unpaid electric bill.

Blood slowly gushed out off my guts
as the world engulfed in white imprisoned me.
Only the scent of smoke and the burp of alcohol
kept me from moving this now-numbed body.

Heaven's reached and I could sleep.
Driving through the blinding streets,

I found myself chasing a blurred figure
through a narrow white hallway.
Every tread trailing the wheels
of a ...

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