Or maybe those were angels?

(11/26/07)

Or maybe those were angels?
Flashing lights across my drunken vision
scathing across the great plains
and jumbling through my gas drank
as I flee, fleeing some being
that we're all destined to become.
My brother, my brother
tell me again how you wish I was never born.
He sticks a needle between my eyes
and weeps.
I fold my hands and pray
before my battered body flails to sleep,
sleep, deep sleep. Or some floating
sensation like derailing through the sky
past the darling starlight and
crippling sun bashing through the layered cake
we rest on.