Bong Black Blood

By Anonymous
Big Ben chimes.

Five bongs.


Face up, snort the street-mix of dog shit, spit, duck-fat and gas.

“Open up.”

Blurred crotch helicopters in, morphs shackled to unsheathed by hand with thumb-massaged base.

Erect, steady, cocked back, ballistic-ready.

Reach out, spine-arched, late, slitting cat-eyes to slow time.

That nuclear white-noise microsecond, that unrepeatable pleasure falling into sonic blindness stalked by my own deafening Paulinho percussion of highs, sighs, moans, and emotions drowning in the black sea of despair.

Another … expiring?

“He resisted and grabbed your gun. So let him bleed out, OK?”

Big Ben chimes.
Six bongs.



2 thoughts on “Bong Black Blood

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s