Quaaludes And Nyquil - Poem by Kyle Schlicher
time was the world made perfectly good sense.
way back when the menu read such as thus:
take one brown bottle of rorer 714's,
no one cares, the passing lane is empty,
take as many as needed and then more.
wash them down with the contents
of the green bottle and sit back and wait.
and the world did make perfectly good sense;
a prescription for self hallucinating dreams
of the wandering madman turning away
and the empty green bottle falling to the floor,
rolling down the darkened hallway.
soon, crashing waves of welcomed opiate likeness
as the fingers and lips grew increasingly numb
as time appeared to be standing deathly still
with each passing second seeming like a year
of the sentence handed down by yourself
the moment you opened the cookie jar.
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