In the final overture of overload indulgence.

In search of vessels gold

the tourniquet applied

showed the abstract

art of needlework,

and the heroine at play.

In a bath

of whiskey and dry,

running his fingers

through cannabis oiled hair

he bathes while the minstrel

he sees plays on the ceiling light 

sitting comfortably

in the crest of the moon

as the stars with faces grey

chant, chanting LSD, LSD.

Placed on the end

of a syringe, a teardrop

where sad goodbyes lies

in the clouds of his tears -

its give-way to the psychedelic overload.

As the poetry in motion

takes hold, one enjoys

the trip of words,

verbs splashed freestyle,

not addicted, drug free

separated from reality,

its the writer's call.

Reviews

[Patricia Wedel]

Plants that naturally grow in the ground are not like “Votes” that cannot be found. I stumbled upon a “High” that does not need a higher
Court. Like a Peach Orchard that bears nourishment for our body... we need Peace of mind. tenderly, Pat

[Chris Shaw]

Hello Andrew. I immediately started to wander back to the sixties and seventies as I read your lines. Sad scene in your poem, but then I thought how poetry can be like a drug too. Yes, I am addicted.

Chris