Tripped

Circles like a merry go round call you over

And over causing you to return to point one

Before starting the circular movement

Again. Like a circle are the waves licking

You across the sand letting you ebb

And flow. Colors swirl around your

Cranium in sweet catastrophic

Symphony. Black butterflies

Cover the inside of the port-a-potty

Door, barring your return to cold comfort.

The breeze freezes your bare butt and you

Bravely pull up your shorts and push past

The butterflies, watching as they fly off into

Circut board colors. The cold is back and you

Sit on the wet covered table releshing the

Chill on your short clad legs. Fog and vomit

Comes out of your mouth like ash from a

Volcano. Numbness on your epidermis as

It nears nine o' clock. Fire dances in front of

You as you come down from your high. Never

Again, you swear. Never will you nom on

Another nasty mushroom.