I want to get fucked up.
I want to get so fucked up
that the summer of love
feels like a cold tug in the tub.
I want to get so fucked up
that the world begins to levitate.
I want to act primate.
I want to get so fucked up
that the smoke in the room
and the mushrooms
seem to tap dance in unison
to the bass boom.
I want to get so fucked up
that the waves in my hair straighten
from some love-laced stranger.
I want to get so fucked up
That I land in a California King
with two Malibu queens,
wake up next to Victoria
whispering secrets, oh so sweetly.
I want to get so fucked up
that the spinning Wheel of Fortune
spins out of rotation,
keeps landing on win a spin.
I want to make the City of Sin my bitch.
I want to get so fucked up
that if I got hit by a truck
the autopsy would glow gold with gravity.
I want to get so fucked up
that The Weeknd would be my best friend
’cause I feel like that’s what fucked up
would probably be like.
I want to get so fucked up
that The Weeknd and Vampire Weekend
would play my birthday party.
I want to get so fucked up
that the cushions of my Maserati
and the cush weed
sings to me, slaps me
in the face with honesty
and all of a sudden
I know everything.
I know me.
I want to get so fucked up
that I don’t care about
the illuminati, the paparazzi,
and the people saying shit to me
’cause honestly right now
I break so easy.
I want to get fucked up
instead of being a fuck up
or being fucked up.
Just One (or three)
wild nights in the city.
Not a life time of being
me.
Not this current me.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His third book, Train of Thought 2: Almost Home is available now.
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