I threw a bottle to the tide,
and pretended to be
But it washed back to shore,
as if to say,
“No one even knows
Exhale the dream:
jazz beats of kaleidoscope shrapnel.
Familiar smiles framed and hung on honeycomb hallways, dripping endlessly into this black hole honey pot.
Fall into constellations.
Glow bugs powered by suns
take shape as Giant cats
knead the edges and need
melts away down stairs and slides,
Taking root in reality
There is no reality
There is no holy
Order is the blemish on chaos
Beauty is the unbridled
Fading into time
As I fade back to life.
This is the cocaine binge
I’ve been hunting
for so long. These are onion
petals on the island of Lotus,
where I lose my ability to speak.
Toes and star gazers
are lit by fire and my fingers
cracked like 4000 tombs built by 4000 cherubs
and their tears and ejaculate spatter the walls.
I don’t want imaginary super heroes, and tales and tails
of Kitsune dancing for the torch mob.
Going back again to stop genocide in my lap.
I don’t want to fight
but can only seem to stop
the feeling under my fingernails
long enough to exhale as I am swallowed in amber and ale.
I need to control the music that never dies.
Jet set radio never dies.
Foxy foxy foxy Japanese never dies.
Fuck her once over on the hill top where she dies.
Owen B. Anderson is a 29 year old traveling car salesman residing in the third notch of the Great Southern Bible Belt. An avid psychonaut, he hopes to put to words the worlds he visits on his various vacations from reality.