I wanna drink paint.

Gallons of to-die-for lead base.

Put color in the old GI. Experience

room temperature good ice cream consistency.

Taste a spike sledged through the throat,

pin ya to the wall. I plan to drink till

paint pupils orange pith white;

skin gangrene early blackberry green.

I wanna die from ochre, from scarlet,

from vermilion; head in a toilet from Jersey;

zapped on LSD under sputtery bug lights,

while the elevated thunders.

I wanna chug a pint of plum.

Finish off the belly with a yellow lacquer.

Paint the town red as a stop to the blues.

And no more shall the blues reign.

For this paint hath put me down.

Thick bitter tinct made me extinct.

Put me down here – to jitter with you dead.

To jig a cocoon no puzzle ever saw.

Put inspire to bed. Then inside that rattle –

clutched in a piglet trotter – puke pigiron pigment.

Not what meant mentally to blow into my horn.

But what see now meant stuck fast.

I wanna drink paint.

Willie Smith

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