The Haze of a Nation Puff Puff: smokers delight) sweet weed gets me high from a low place where we reside [lost in the vortex of Yeat’s gyre…] a reality struck, and, completely fucked with oxymorons and golden hair Buff Oons -whoooo wrongly emphasize lies. In such grandiloquence, we___ fall under the sway of his Rohypnol; placed in our glass, while we cheered his indiscrete acts. Smoke, smoke, smoke it away. A completely successful robbery witnessed on national t.v., enforced on the indigenous by sparkling chested heroes with small dicks and heavy belts. Salute them? Those who have repressed time and again, and again will stop at nothing to blindly follow golden rules - no matter how much insanity they scream, the screams fall unheard as echoes muted in forgotten dreams ___where the shadows rule. Yes, “get high,” I think I will… even if it makes me a criminal.
From a puny brown oval shell shoots two, and two with carved edges. In anticipation of a higher day, given from mother nature. Twelve weeks past in culminating redolence, verging to obnoxious, as sap oozes from cola pockets of sticky crystallized emeralds. Trichomes glint as light passes over thick stalks ready to snap under dripping, bulbous flowers, staked upright to support our sanity. Moving amongst the woozy plants is magic to another day, for kids who dreamed of mirages melted away. So we snip, hang, and burn in a cure, of fantasy’s lost in a haze.