Blurring the Line

I am a terrorist.
Or so they say.
Dissident, revolutionary, rebel rouser, motherfucker.
Terrorist?
Screw that.
I think that they know
T E R R O R

Far better than they like to admit.

ii.

It started with Glaice.
I was entranced. His blue-white hair
Hanging long and silken, like the pale smoke
Of an unfiltered cigarette.
His eyes
Rimmed with thick black insomnia bruises, eyes that seemed
To stroke and probe,
Who with one Opal-tipped finger
Reached out and
Touched the soft, sticky humour
Of my eye.
And as I stared into the mirror of his eyes,
My only thought was-

All the black:
Is really
//white.

iii.

Call me crazy. Maybe I am.
They're trying to get me weaned off the water
Half-starved mad in a makeshift rehab clinic.
I knew I had to get off that shit
When I accidently
C l i m a x e d
When I sneezed.

Man, was that embarrassing.

iv.

imhavingsecondthoughts.

Maybe this was all just an Opal-based
FREAKOUT.
I woke this morning to Glaice
Opal Boy
Staring rapt at something on the wall above my head,
Behind my cot.

I gasped so hard I choked.

An enormous
Black hand
Reaching down from the ceiling,
Burned into the wall
Pointing at
My
Head.

v.

Fuck second thoughts.
I heard everything I needed to last night.
About the blood-slick glass-sands of the Middle East after we nuked them.
About the drugs in the water that they use to keep up docile

(C a L M-- A S-- H i n D u --C O w S)

About the blue pills
(frost)
And the red pills that

Blur the line between

K I L L I N G
And
Fucking.

God can part the clouds and reach his
GIANTfuckingARMS out all he wants.
He won't push me down.