The Morphine Dream, 2003

Morphine brings the glowing dream,

golden yellow trails.

Morphine shows me pretty things,

sublime blues begin to swell.

 

At a station, in a rest room,

on a lost highway long ago,

dying with no change,

under a payphone,

watching toilets glow.

 

Morphine dreams have come,

and gone.

The Judge arrives at dawn.

 

Morphine brings the glowing dreams;

ethereal tenors cry.

Morphine dreams,
the pretty things,

the carousel goes by.

 

Morphine dreams,

Nirvana bought;

the Dragon has been caught.

 

Everything blurs, a bit, and dims,

the carousel trails off;

blurry faces circle around.

They laugh, they cry, and cough;

ethereal tenors sigh.

The Judge arrives,
and questions me;

I have no alibi.

 

Yellow light, the holy hums,

ethereal tenors cry.

Morphine let the oxen rest,

before the light makes them blind.

Don Giovanni!

The Commander cries.

A cenar t’eco m’invinasti!

“Never,” the louse replies.

 

Too many Morphine Dreams for me.

Trumpets in the distance blow.

Dying in a bathroom, by myself,

and no one will even know.

 

Moments begin to last too long,

a thousand hours,

breath by breath.

Just a few more moments now,

until the prosecution rests.

 

Under a payphone,

with no change,

on a lost highway alone.

The louse alas atones.

 

I dreamt the worldwide prison yard,

and no one was in charge.

Inmates crawled the streets.

And high above them,

in his tower,

the Watchman was asleep.

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