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"Crispy Christ, what is this?"

Each word a bubble, each bubble a hard cough.

Miles away

my arms swayed like becalmed seaweed

and someone spoke in tones of excited, blistering purple:

"Platinum Stone. Incandescence grown. Harder

to find than peace of mind. The good

shit."

I swam through the words, breaking the surface

only to pass the blunt, the cherried key

to a better world, the pen dipped

in the ink of the Universe, Prometheus'

flame.

I lay back, swaddled in the very air

that surrounded me, my consciousness

a clear film superimposed

over a wild and churning sea, all foam and

blasted debris.

Out of the cacophony she rose, molded

of divinity, mountain tall and

extending an arm down

through the unperturbed clouds.

There fell a book, with gold bind and

gold trim and gold lettering, into my grateful

hands. Supplicant's hands. 

Hands of Icarus. 

They opened the book, and warm light spilled

out, flooding and choking, blinding and deafening, erasing and-

"Dude." A voice, a peal of thunder that

shook down the world, knocking everything

loose, slamming books closed and banishing

wandering spirits. 

"Take the blunt." 

Created: May 16, 2017

Tags: poetry, satire, dialogue

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