I lie agog
legs splayed and stained with incontinence,
roaming facial tics disguising my euphoria.
My gut burns with roughly distilled meths,
(one large peeled potato in an icecream container
add meths-wait until spud turns blue,)
My mind sours, my sensations as rich and textural and exhilarating
as the deepest art.
The irony of its isolation. Its irrefutable singular existance
and yet its breadth, its sheer vast topography, as outside
my body thrashes firmly, methodicly, epileptically.
I can feel the drizzle.