I don’t think his lips
Ever dipped below
The meniscus, that
Lazy smile, chronic
Often contagious
=
He dripped from the
Walls a sanguine pool
Luxuriating in an air
Of incense, his eyes
Drooped inexplicably
Downward as though
Made of melting wax
The fire still imprinted
In the iris, those blushing
Reds like sunburn or
Smudged lipstick stains
=
He was as skinny as
The strings on his guitar
Long and completely
Strait except for his nose
Which favored artistic
Interpretation by refusing
To subjugate to any linear
Constrictions to me
Indecently beautiful like
All anarchistic renderings
=
He was absolutely brilliant
A shaman perhaps for
The drugs really did
Seem to lift the veil
From his third eye
He understood life
And humanity on
A psionic level, I
Really believed
He could rearrange
The constellations
With just a puff
Of that sweet
Smelling smoke
=
I struggled to write today.This about a guy I knew in high school he was into drugs but his mind was remarkable.
News: Samuel Kohan, PhD, Psychoanalyst Video
