To write, to bleed.
To bleed, to eat.
To eat, to shit.
To shit, to write.
Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry
Tagged as poetry, shit, writing
THE ECSTACY OF 50GMS OF GRASS
Remember the feeling when your body exhaled its last moment of rush.
You wondered where it would come from next, where you could find the relief.
Dirty fingers scratching and then the life juice flowing.
Now just another sore to weep.
The easiest fix is to flood the pipes.
So you open your window to feel the breeze, something you can ride on.
Lean back and then you feel the rush.
50 grammes of grass is all it took.
The farmer is cutting tonight, rain is on its way.
Rain is falling way back from the breeze but it carries the smell.
Water on freshly mown hay.
Water adds to the ecstasy of it and completes the sensation.
The smell is upon you.
The ecstasy of 50 gms of grass.
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