peice of writing from last ntie

Like the deconstructed set of yesterdays dream
Like the melting clocks of a Dali painting

Like pushing a button and exploding into a million colours
Like an old tripper who makes no sense and never quite made it back

Like the burnt out used up good heart of a woman who gave it to someone she thought was worth it and the charismatic wild eyed young boy lost inside the wasted old sod of a bloke who hungrily destroyed her.

Like flowing and floating and flying through time and like struggling to move at all.
Like the boy who remembers he’s an aspiring alchemist after forgetting because he can’t help but ingest the chemicals involved in his work and like the boy who never gets to pull the chocolate cake out of the oven because the mix alone smelled ever so sweet and good enough to eat.