we go to hell,

come back, smell-

ing like fire.

wake up in a field under hydro wires

facedown in long grasses,

cold, by cold bonfire ashes,

weeds, bushes, blown trashes

and scattered cans.

hellish visions: smoke, fire, beaucoup yans.

you're like "shit, how many yans did i drink?"

i'm like "only half of 24, i think."

by: pesty c.