My Uni Days...

How young am I? Scratch that question; I'm too old to care. I'm wearing Khaki shorts with a surfer's T-shirt if that helps paint a picture. 

A lady from an imaginary desert is sprawled out across my bed,
magic & naked:
her feint breathing curls with the atmosphere creating a surreal truce between
Coke
and
Pepsi. 

Weed arrives in medical capsules, blending with the subversive prison theme which my routine abides by; waking up in the afternoon for lunch and survival. This also includes breaks of sublime, dreary states, noticing shadows are funky in Jazz soul media. 
My drugs are situated beside the iconic models that
border my desk; 

The Dude, 
A vault-tec bobble head,
And a glass jar with paper Asians inside.

The latter, given to me from myself, always baffles me;
do I confide more with cultural references as suppose to my Mother's home country? 
The answer: Patriotism, Nationalism, and LSD. 
Maybe I need these things to be a more proficient citizen. 
Maybe just the LSD.  

An individual Hank Moody without the 'Hank', coated, with an attraction to municipal brands which smother and conceal my anti-social demeanour. The latest brand in this shameful play list is Yogi Tea, and, although they do a damn good black Chai tea, benign statements stamped onto each tea bag leave sour thoughts in my mind. "Love is a source of bliss and infinity."

Might as well -
Convert all slobs into serendipitous, nonchalant hit-men, and wrap dynamite around their faces.
Yet, with such benign, rancid tenor towards the topic, I've spent over two hours searching for the girl who wore a strawberry hat last night. Olivia, Ophelia, whatever the name is, my memory isn't enough. Am I obsessed? 
No. My memory is mortal. 
Mistake. Not fate. 
Shit, I can feel the self loathing kicking in.
Keep repeating, I have an I.
I have an I, dear,

but with resent,

I became insane,
as crows
consume
my Mary Jane.

My dear, 
a prisoner of my own abode;
a robotic soul
that has too many modes. 
Terminal access to my mother's woe,
I, my dear, entered: motherlode. 

My receipts are sought in Keith Richard's lounge:
I picked out the stems
and seeds
from betrothed clowns. 

Fuel me up with weed and acid!
Dear I, my loved beet, am
consumed
by jassid.

Listen to The Kick Inside, Mm… Food, and channel ORANGE.

Sincerely,
A writer that doesn't care.