Strawberry Doom

Wake up, man. It’s tomorrow.

I’m watching incense smoke linger in the sunlight from the windows, just hanging out laying thick like a familiar feeling. It smells like woody strawberries and peace. And my apartment is gold in the eyes of a miner. And a train wreck strain is a great additive to the pleasure the pleasuring and the pleasured right beside the train station where phenomenal orgasms prance across the tracks of time pockets if you just relax. Hearing the quickened breath like a horn that blows again and again coming like trains on a restless summer night. Listening to stoner doom metal and the irony lies in the grass of it being one of the most hopeful noises under the sun of it being the opposite of doom and sounding like divine design. The sound that jumps the tracks. The sound that takes a long ride to somewhere they don’t know and it’s over as quick as it came and they’re gone. Then somehow it comes back around on time schedules and the patterns of our days and we see it and we know it and we are it. It’s all of it it’s everything. And it spirals out again hopping freight to fright to freight to love to freight again moment to moment never ending because stars keep being born and giving way to black holes and we don’t know where any of it goes except for halting here right now for that one second to climb on board.


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