One-Forty-Eight
(Midnight Morena) by SamHaiNe


Neon dreaming under a sky tuned to a dead channel.
Peppering through the shooting gallery in silence.
Still-water with dull switchblades in the sleeves.
There were rubber bands and bent spoons; stoned faces scattered throughout the urban tomb.
Soon, Poppi pointed the way upstairs with burnt hands.

Stairway to heaven?
This heathen ascends.
One flight, two flights, three, four - finally seven.
Rooftop of the world.

The skyline is my picket fence.
Glittery displays of decay and technology.
Industry and residences.
The glass slipper of violence.
The difference between the have-nots and the minor grievances.

The full moon overlooking us nocturnal creatures.
Getting by. Getting fucked.

Tongue dosed with acid. slowly fading.
Short breaths after a whip it. Nicotine and drifting. Cold beer and kissing under the sky's chandelier.

We were young analog criminals.
Shoplifting crumbs from the underbelly of Hainesville’s kitchen.
Scraping mere morsels and gristle from the devil's fork.

Far beyond driven, the psychedelics blending definitions and bleeding moments for sport.
Embracing my jawn as the walls begin to breathe deeply when snow falls, perfect, celestial baptisms upon our crinkling expressions in awe.

Alone in the silence above the vibrating asphalt.
Somersaulting emotions off the fire escape and burning away our guilt listed in order on flaming loose leafs -
to any gods or ghosts who'd answer when we check out of this life and knock at the door.

We were children at play up and down the lifelines called avenues and streets within the veins on the left hand of night stretched over this clandestine city.

Cold breeze and wet knees.
Rolling around the rooftop making snow angels as the acid burns in the 3rd degree.
Passing the Dutch and then breathing again.
Into the night sky; exhaling the imperfections as they peel away.

Reading the city's wonder with your eyes.
Memorizing its details.
Her lips taste like candy. Galvanizing.
Rearranging sentiments into late evening.
Cold skin against mine.
North Faces embracing each other in the blizzard of a winter moment.

So sayonara to the codes of conduct as the pineal blooms and our iris’ deepen.
Hello to the midnight blue of night atop the neon city in tune with the saxophone of violence, the muted trumpet of iniquity and the low-key/Lo-fi/Hi-tech backbeat of the city.

Like living in a criminals Norman Rockwell where a thousand different stories of immorality, turpitude and resilience are there to be disclosed within their own dioramas.
And far and away was any drama weighing us down while we slow danced in the snowfall of our own urban snow globes.
Pirouetting around, in the dark jazz of our existence.

The distance never lesser than it is as we shared secrets in a single breathe.
Eyes closed.
The night vibrating.

The trip escalates.
The peak approaches.

Shadows existing under the Halo of Christmas lights.
She whispers something else but the wind took it away.
Memories like teardrops mingle then frozen with the snowfall.

No different. No better. No worse nor lesser.
Bleeding hearts tapping the vein; tying the knot. Fiends looking for release.
Precious moments & Wet socks.
No interference.
Nothing better.
Reconnecting at the source.
Together. A distorted romance in dissonance.

Memories like teardrops mingling then frozen in the snowfall. Beautiful.