You lose your head, or your mind,
Or something between your eyes,
But behind your face,
And a little bit above your skull.
Like a soul or your spirit,
Or a mixture of the two
‘Cause they come together you think.
And they make you.
Like your parents did,
But its different this time
‘Cause you made your own spirit,
Oh, and your soul too.
And now they come together
Now they make you,
Somehow you keep adding to them.
Like one might add cola to a strong cocktail.
Or rum to a weak drink
Anyways your mixture, is floating way above your skull.
So you start to not feel it, and your insides,
Like a child lost, are screaming.
No wait they should be,
They are actually just looking around frantically
Stunned perhaps.
Your mixture is about to fall,
Like a building, or better yet a blow up doll.
Who stands in crowds with you, and hold hands with you,
But uncomfortable with public affection you let go,
And who on this occasion
Was shot with an arrow from a hunter-gather
Who sees your friend as a nutritious, snack of stolen pride.
And you feel the weight of your synthetic-fuck fall
Like a heap beside you.
Curiously having a mirror effect inside you,
Like a separate entity, it falls, collapses.
Bundled upon the ground, all twisted.
Alone, and aware.
Just like how your stomach feels.
Ashamed, you make a new mixture,
quickly,
subtly
With a red faced tingling
That comes with the white wash waves of anger,
Or thorough shaking regret, that makes you feel sick and hungry.
Your new mixture leaves your body,
Lifts,
The carcass of your old mixture,
Like a bawling baby might be lifted by an angry mother,
A quick hint of contempt, but fast motion tenderness.
That juts smoothly,
think a typewriter with arms and precious cargo,
And incestually they mix,
To create a new cocktail.
Shaken not stirred.
And now you decide
“I will drink this down.
My mixture stays in my belly
My vanities in my eyes.”
Embarrassments offer such insight.
