She begins her poem with one word – bliss:
as only dreamt about by intellect.
Then, tackled by the irony of this
she concocts a new reality; wrecked…
visions tumble; a free-form masquerade
opens a locked door, a struggle ensues.
She assumes the soul of an old man, made
all the worse by circling demons, obtuse
references to goblins and slitting wrists,
severed from reality, losing grip
with certainty (if such a thing exists):
the mangled wreck of a fantasy trip.
. How so that psychedelic thoughts expand;
. then shrink… vanish with footprints in the sand?

© Tim Grace, 14 October 2011

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To the reader: Sitting in a fast-food cafe, I watched two girls struggling with the after effects of a drug-fuelled night before. The crude reality of a wasted night sprawled its way across the table in front of me. And then, with continuing stupefied indignity the girls oozed their way out the door to a waiting car. As the car drove out of view, my eyes returned to the now empty corral and there lay a small piece of note-paper; replete with the text of an experimental poet.

To the poet: Her poem is in free-flow with an inventive array of emotive words tumbling through an hallucinated storyboard. Having become the keeper of this lost poem I decided it also needed rescuing – a sonnet make-over was underway. Poetic licence was taken where necessary but for the most part the plot and characters remain intact. For the moment, the original author is anonymous; I acknowledge her inglorious inspiration. Her poem is in good care – awaiting return upon request.

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