Rising at night on your porch, all candlelit and stoned
Searching for a smokey web to cling to
Smith's spiderman comes in pizzicato strings
and carrying waterlogged midnight fantasies,
mixed memories and no less than 136 peers
Crushed in a crumpled pack of Camels
Designed and sitting opposite one another
toward an awkward glance and fleeting image
Shaking limbs and brain stirred to a half-conscious mess
Heavy hail, the king has come

Paranoid and persistent, demanding a glass bowl
"A drink!" he yells, scared to drop his guard
Break in the storm - run to the car
Lost in a dream, dreaming lost
Spin on, Night, I'll sleep to you soon
I don't need your acid or your attitude
When will you reach out?

Step to the rhythm of your clothes,
vibrating down to the smallest string
and submissive; subservient to the slightest whim

The white noise in the box fan
spreading an isolated sound
slipping a sheer over the door
Alone in some crawling dark
infinite and asleep
Alone in the rainy sun at dawn
Still and still stoned
Stuck and stuck in
Hiding in a still moment;
in a quavering stereo