Witness

I am rolling the stone of sobriety.
Toying my hair in a caffeinated state
and dreaming that
the art
of spraying honest liquid into television sets deserves an audience applause.

I hear the sting of claps.
I hear the sting of her steps.
I feel the membership fees rise.
I feel the inbred call of suburban slither.

Chew my lips as if there were coffee gains,
each motion a galaxy of publically educated distress.
Images of the sublime slapped with censorships stickers and form pink dot coverage.

As a witness, I have a sharp desire
to drop like acid
between the grates below before I realize all my best efforts are falsely inspired.

Callum Jackson, 2015