Dope City Jailbreak

[fluorescent.43]

Another Edit...?

I wanna be a parasite marching across red-light districts,
protected by fluorescent umbrellas and atmosphere, love-inflicted.
I wanna disappear in a flurry of red traffic lights and get hung up
in Sunday-newspaper murders that shout lucid profanities
to the skies in searing daylight.

My head's trapped in a ferris wheel's neon parody,
my mouth's ejaculating wormy, mechanical blood
in place of the words that dissolve in gastric acid.
I swear it's not my fault it's the morphine so please,
forgive me

Can't you see that I just wanna leave? Disappear into the collective
conscience, crowd of undulating teenagers at a sweaty concert,
into a pollution-crowded city gasping to be alive?
I lie prostrate in front of you so please,
don't make me beg

I'm living in the future already (packed my bags a few years ago),
but the only thing I see is the past.
I criticize you for not seeing through my eyes
but I'm dead on this linoleum mausoleum floor anyways.

Forty three windows shuddering from forty two floors
towards a horde of immaculately groomed owlets in tuxedoes
riding neon pink clouds that elevator to the ninth circle of Hell,
sharing companies with the satan Himself.

Articulation exists only in corpses.

[]

Edit.

I wanna be a parasite trolling red-light districts
under fluorescent umbrellas and love-inflicted atmospheres.
I wanna disappear
in a snowflake flurry of traffic lights and get hung up
in Sunday-newspaper murders, shouting blurry profanities
to the skies in searing daylight.

My head's trapped in a Las Vegas ferris wheel, lit up by argon set
against a black hole. My mouth's disgorging
wormy, mechanical blood: a lighthouse guiding
prostitutes to their sandalwood-incensed brothels.

Can't you see that I just wanna go? Disappear into a crowd
of undulating teenagers at a sweaty concert;
into a pollution-crowded city gasping to be alive?-
-desperately alive.

I'm here and now, and I'm dead
on this linoleum-mausoleum floor.
Can't you see that?

[i]Forty three windows blinking from forty three floors
owlishly towards a horde of immaculately groomed
owlets in tuxedoes riding neon pink clouds that elevate
to the ninth circle of Hell, sharing company with
the satan Himself.

Articulation is for the blue-blood dead.

Original.

I wanna be a parasite trolling nightclubbing streets
under fluorescent umbrellas and
love-inflicted atmospheres. I wanna disappear
in a snowflake flurry of red lights and get hung up
in eloquently articulate murders, shouting blurry profanities
to the skies in searing daylight.

Head’s trapped in a las vegas ferris wheel, lit up by argon set
against a black hole. Mouth’s flapping
wormy, mechanical blood: a dirty lighthouse
guiding parasites and prostitutes to their
respective brothels.

Can’t you see that I just wanna go? Disappear into a crowd
of rippling teenagers at a sweaty concert;
into a pollution-crowded city gasping to be alive?—
—desperately alive.

I’m here and now, and I'm dead.
Can’t you see that?
—god!

Forty three windows blinking from forty three floors
owlishly towards a horde of immaculately groomed
owlets in tuxedoes riding neon pink clouds that elevate
to the ninth circle of hell, sharing company with the
satan Himself.

Articulation is for the blue-blood dead.

[[this has already been edited from the sprawling, messy original. hopefully it's more poetry-like. personally, i like this, but please rip it apart because i'm obviously biased. also, i used capitals! who's proud of me? i still prefer no capitals, though. ]][/i]