Please see "The Color Down"
The mind is a fickle thing...
Certain images fade like the ailing among us,
Skin, loose and leathered, the air peppered by
Sand-papered rasps of regret, always just before...
The frame fades to black.
Black and never back again.
Someone help me find the real
Far, far, SO fucking far away from
The white-knuckled mannequins,
Bound for escape once their illusions and
I observe these unoriginal rituals and
Have come to accept my inability to
Pretend to practice mockeries of the Holy Gift;
Shit, I admit to missing the point of it,
However ripe for peacocking as the pages
Before the prolouge may be.
I mean, few survive unscathed by some
Manifestation of Warhol's fifteen,
Those from points of origin, lowest in the caste...
Yet, I dare opine and you'll find my brethren and I are quick
And cease inhaling the smoke blown up our ass.
For none of us are better than,
Or deeper still, separate from
Our fellow travelers here.
We may love to claim two where,
The truth is much more singular.
It's here we discover the key to it all...
And all is mind, my dear!