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Dirty Heaven (Prose Poem) by SupremeDreamer
It's quiet now, finally during this cold morning, light just exploded over the lower lip of this days cloudy horizon; flat mates continue their digital battling without sound effect, though only Robert, aka Moose (named that after hurling himself clear through a wooden fence on pcp cuz some bastage dopehead retard called out "five-o five-o, cop bust comin") and Gemini (puerto rican rapper born again sober) were the only ones still captivated by the games glimmer and gore. B.J., the half black, half white guest of ours, brother to our recently departed house oreo, struggled in order to remain awake, intent on catching the first bus headed for Morgan Hill for some free crystal and spare cash. Hard-headed, insecure but he don't front, or so he says, all stone no flesh, though his furrowed brow betrays worry and sensitive warmth, a touch of guilt to complete the picture of his burden. Breaonna, latino run-away, who found temporary shelter here, spaced out with cd-player and headphones putting her in that groove only junkpad children acquire, sits at the kitchen table, longing for a blessed smoke, writes down lines of adolescent verse shadowed by melancholy and self-doubt, passing the time till eight, till she meets up with some anonymous nobody she met at 7-11 two hours earlier for a ride to Pasadena. In theory the methalyne god, or "cris-cringle" should be callin' soon, in need of the pad and willing to reconnect the I.V. supply of amphetamine adrenalin to keep our blood pumpin' through our over-worn, beaten, hyperactive bodies... but honestly, I could care less-- content to pass out in a sudden release, emptying my soul into the Nirvana dream landscape of my soul. It's quiet and calm, it betrays the boiling ectoplasm driving the mental frenzy in us, causing dry-mouth foam to crawl from the delicate corners of our lightly cracked lips... but the illusion is real enough says I it's reminiscent enough to con me into feeling at home, at peace, and secure... Welcome to dirty Eden, maculate Elysium of Hades. Just dream your failed past-life into oblivion, solemnize the surreal pearly white horizon of Shangri-la, and keep quiet- no need to upset this modest-precious, oh so precious, sweet, sweet calm.. Just dream.. Just dream here in dirty Eden, maculate child of Hades, just dream this Elysium pristine, pristine, and serene.

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xxx68.164.242.1510June 5, 2005 11:31 AM PDT
Dovina17.255.240.2068July 25, 2004 1:39 PM PDT
Anonymous205.188.116.707July 25, 2004 12:38 PM PDT

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