30 Jan. 81

Magic potion

Rushing erratically about
Mad to live, mad to die
Scream and shout
Tango in the sky.

Ride the yellow carriage
Meet a beautiful stranger
Talk of love and marriage
Maybe we can get together?

Our tongues were electric needles
Performing dances of magic intensity
The ball rolled slowly up the alley …
I gave it up …
I didn’t score.

Sickness is the dawn of pain.

I wrote this either while suffering my worst drunk ever, at Ft. Gordon, or immediately thereafter when I was so sick I probably should have been hospitalized. It’s based on what I remember of the night.


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