trite as the last moon of saturn

tw drugs, dissociation, sexual references

how would life be if titan was the last moon of saturn?
last standing, last withdrawing
who would miss the rest? the rest, dissolve. to dust

the dragon who lives in the cave with orange mineral inside, wonders to himself:
why do i feel greater enjoyment in catching a beast, hearing it scream, then having it get away, than i do when i devour one without a sound? the dragon, who had three horns that, if the tips of which you connected like dots, formed a triangle pointing downwards towards his feet, wondered why it pleased him more to hear a beast scream in his grips, escape, then live in fear of him forever, than it did to devour a beast without it remembering terrors nor him feeling hunger and dissatisfaction. the dragon looked into a fisheye mirror deep in the wall of the cave. it had holes on the roof of the curve so that dense droplets of water fell and collected on the bottom. it made sounds that echoed into his eyelids. oh, god, thought the dragon. the dragon picked apart his body parts. his teeth, the damascus blades that gave him protection, gave him weapons and utensils, became alien objects to him. the teeth no longer belonged to him. the teeth were instruments in his torments. the choir of cave drippings sang from behind, deep from within the crevices of the cave where orange crystals grow, they sang louder. the teeth, he felt paranoid, served only the growling mite with paper skin. the mite in his optic nerve or in his nail beds, the mite he felt under his scales and now in his gums, they build the castles with sand, jeering at the wind. he left the cave. he stood on the border. he saw all of the left beasts who shifted their gaze when they had seen him last. they wore bandages. the choir of cave drippings grew louder.

splash your face with water

can you see?

can you see now?

morphine, an alkaloid. that's why it tastes bitter on your tongue. the bitter taste, your bitter taste. your coca cola's been shot. you're afforded no more. you go to see the one who will not eat. the one whose brain is black. the one who was poisoned by the doctors, the one who is still poisoned by the doctors. she wants to hold hands. you are scared. you are very scared. you had swallowed the swish of morphine. it was blue. it was bitter. the trite of the television screamed. she did too. she was afraid. her syllables all began with the silent consonant. you don't know why it was you or why it was your mother or why this is happening as the ducks fly to the south. where the right side of the face plane lies on a shelf where your foot cannot reach, where it can't reach it can't reach it can't
oh
the knifes do not stab your stomach any longer
they are warmed, lulled away
oh
the clouds
do you feel the clouds?
the clouds tastes bitter
you feel
the warm
love
6 god strokes my face
this is better than the ativan and the weed
this is better than all love because it has all been bitter!
they have all left because youarentsoundenoughgoodenoughnormalenoughsuccessfulenoughcompositeenoughcoolenough loveable enough
worth enough
worth nothing oh nothing nothing nothing
i feel nothing
are you holding her hand? you are. she is still afraid. it is not much longer. you think of buying a
white, or black dress
you will need one 
in a few days
the angels fuck you softly they pay attention to your face and neck and chest, and you trust them and they trust you, they are gentle, they are aware, they sing softly, they hug your body to theirs, they feed you rabbit over fruit and the fur is still on, it is so rare, the pear and the blood, the cum
cool
you sleep in mounds of rabbit fur
the tv screams
you have no mind for it
maybe a new mind for love under the eyes of morphine the softest cloud or shallowest water or thinnest blade of grass, the whitest sun and moon and bluish sky
do you cry? her brain rolls back in her skull. you are the thief

you talk
you wish he would call
he doesnt
its ok

you sleep three hour later