Manoeuvred Analgesia

Narcotics tingle my insides as the cheap liquor
combines with the smoke of tomorrow;
I’m on the roof, and the picture perfect paralysis
of the ignition of life seems to combust with each
firework on New Year’s eve. I am trying to lift
up the equanimity of my mind for the next fixation
of three sixty six, when my resolute description of
arbitrary edges seems rather unresolved from the
past three sixty five and I am trying to locomote my thoughts
over what happens, where it happens, how it must proceed
because I’m falling whilst standing on sturdy ground,
because I’m breaking while dipped in a tube of glue,
because failing to sense pain when I don’t have a condition of CIP
is exactly what the crease of calamity finds itself
fissuring upto; perhaps it is too late to find complacence
in being the turbulent tornado when all I am thinking
of is something more subtle, more unwary, more damaging
more Earthquake, more tsunami when I’ve survived through
years on drugs which have only come to define me a hurricane;
a little less predictable, a little more forgetting to my instability.