Diphenhydrinate
The soft slow pull of the Glasgow wave,
you can feel the froth trailing beneath your legs...
Dream bubbles, ghost echoes,
white on pale shore,
I'm moving toward the shifting horizon;
Purgatory, the line where dreams live
and cross sometimes in visions. I'm straddling the line
where our vase was shaped and broken, where the old ship
sailed and gone the way of the sirens.
Yet now it is not love, but the mind that crawls-
root of all illusion. It is easy to miss truth
in sick transparencies, all character is falsity,
super-ego, philosophy on the shores of
the West,
contemplating the shore
until it no longer exists.
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