It’s like watching two ket heads having a conversation;

it’s fascinating,

entertained by the state of them

because, to relate to them,

you’d have to have been there before.

Ketamised, the only way to communicate's to draw,

scribbling to each other on the living room floor.

To produce a Latinate lexus is a chore

with their eye sight blurry,

 they interact with the door -

it talks back to them too,

telling them to take more.

 

To make head or tail of their doodles is impossible;

to work out what the two were saying is improbable.

Squiggles in crayon they used to understand

made sense eight hours ago in Ketamine land.

 

I no longer find a nose full of powder confusing -

my tolerance is too high from all the shit I’ve been using.

I do thick lines, you try to keep up

which is why you’re well out of it and I’m barely fucked.

So you lay back on your back lost in tranq time

and quietly request that I receipt you a rhyme

and because I’ve got more vocal capability than you,

I whip out my journal and that’s exactly what I do.

 

I read you a poem about a man who’s forty,

who’s left his wife to be deviant, depraved and naughty.

The guys’ midlife crisis is plain filled with comedy

but you’re twisted and believe that I’m speaking honestly

and because you’re hallucinating in your trippy state,

your mind can’t cope with it and you start to relate.

 

You believe that you’re one of the girls in the story

which makes you shudder ‘n shiver like you’ve seen something gory,

because the idea provokes fear in your vulnerable mind

as you're 18 and relating to a 40 year olds bind;

mentally experiencing the world I designed,

believing you're leaving all you’ve lived behind

and I sense your discomfort as your trip starts to deteriorate,

so I stop and put music on, to kindly facilitate.

 

Like you said to me before, at the beginning of the night,

before we took rails of ket and gloriously lost sight,

you said I was a special guy; smart and charming,

yet when I whipped out my ket, you didn’t find it alarming.

Which to me says a lot about the kind of girl that you are;

when I asked for your number,

you asked if I had a car.

Charming I might be, but I think you’re materialistic -

see, I’m onto you, girly, in case you had missed it.

 

You like to be charmed by guys with cars ‘n ket

with a well-off family and monies in his pocket.

A little ket captures you now, but when it’s finished you rocket

so I guess feeding you more is the only way to stop it.

 

So, line after line, I feed your nose

and the more fucked you get, the further into your clothes

I can get,

because your inhibitions are subdued

and I can get away with whatever I want when you’re nude.

 

So as you can tell by now, I’m a deviant soul;

picture what I would do with you when I’m completely in control -

which brings me back to the beginning of this rhyme -

remember those two people, sitting out of their mind?

Drawing to communicate, to try and interact,

now think,

 you’re just as vulnerable, can you counteract?

 

No, exactly, that’s why people like me -

charming on the surface, but with hidden deviancy -

can get away with anything their imagination spurs them to do.

A few words in your ear

and little line or two

and before you know it, I’ve had my wicked way with you

and the darkest part about it is now there’s nothing you can do

 

and next time you ask me to read to you on ket,

baby, this is the poem that you’re gonna get

and imagine how you’ll feel if you trip out to this.

You were safer in the bar love; ignorance was bliss.

Plus I’ve been filming this the whole time,

 so that there’s nothing I miss.

Have another line love,

 I want another kiss…