Times of intoxication are some queer compilation
of escalating arcade’s inner transmigration
to the primordial arousal of the alienatedly aberrant scenario
from the usually running over blocks realistic mundane concatenation,
that tries to crystallize your mind’s journey to the land of inebriation,
taking the flow of your receptive trackers
onto a illusioned simulative mind space of black and white
hollow concentric springy whirl that exports
the spirit of flighting liberation deeply into its helix
with the infinitely falling mind’s flying winds,
airing the senses to extricate the persona’s stoned transition
to the ecstatic stern shades of weedy elation.
Such exclusice moments of unparalleled variation
inducts your flickering frames of the prime innate,
that drives the dreamy sensations to the intricately
prolonging dull visuals’ enigmatic dancing,
stancing its scenic moves of the blank continuum’s
moth smoke fantasy ballad.
Sound of the fire screeching the pitch black mind’s gathering realms
to divulge the circumstantial inferring dreads,
to light the roll of the dimly dried nature’s profound panacea,
that screens the opera of the smoky oratorio
composing the visions of the Mozart’s eerie meme opus,
edging onto your head’s passé delusions
with the point blank foe shot’s placid high of the monstrous beast.
The drifts of the floating devil’s profligating darker shapes
from the impeccably overweening quiescent blow outs
of the inhaled burning crushes’ phlegmatic aftermath,
transfuses the inside theatre curtain draw
on to a elusive sign off over the prime innate
operatic smoky oratorio titled ‘Point Blank at Pitch Black’...