Photo by Hungrybison

my oasis in the desert,


beautiful, wild,

sometimes disturbing.

Extreme euphoric, spiritual,

and bringer of clarity.


Sit with me on the prairie, amongst the emptiness.

I want to ask you,

what is the taste of red?

Why does your brother have a black aura?


Your heart is ice cold.

You have beautiful eyes,

and you are cute,

but you are obviously an elitist.

Go fuck yourself.

You are hardly an “observer”,

any notion you may have of being one is imagined.

This is now part of you.

You’re like the bull’s skull that floats on the breeze.

Which is better:

the short sharp burst of psychotic realisation,

or the mind numbing dullness of the everyday?

The action or the thought?

The talking about God or the talking to God?

This, where we sit was stolen,

in an era of madness.

An era of greed,

when magic became superstition,

when ritual became frivolous.

You were not part of that world,

now is your time.

Now is your time,

it is your turn,

the new gold rush.

There is a treasure you want to acquire,

no matter how much you destroy it or extinguish its value.

Look! There’s a goddamn thunderstorm under those rocks,

under this earth are a thousand angry souls,

waiting for their time.

The skin on my hands is starting to look like the bark,

of an old knurled cottonwood.

There are stars in the green liquid,

and the haloes of angles circling within the cries of the coyote.


1 Comment

Filed under American West, art, Blood, creative writing, fiction, original writing, photography, poem, Sex

One response to “Peyote

  1. Rick Carnal

    I really liked this, on a topic that is dear to me.

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