Alan’s Psychedelic Redux

Windows still dark only reflect the glow

of the atom hearth mother

Fifty years later

still ambivalent marmalade

Keys mark the cadence for first watch

until echoes of china

Sugary Saturday morning memories

Kettle’s whistle clarion call

Then strings guide us to the waking skies

Grey of filtered light

as intoxication takes hold

Now seduced by the cruelty

that beckons from sizzling grease

and quiet murmurings in a familiar tongue

These cleanse the cerebral palate

while the table is also cleared

Retire to the sofa

and count every drop down the drain

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