Rehab 29

(Lana Del Rey style – even slower, more narcotic, velvet reverb, distant surf crash, cigarette ash falling in slow motion, 70 mm film grain)[Verse 1]

I rolled in on four chrome wheels that bled rust like open wounds,

trailing diesel smoke thick as funeral incense under a bruised violet sky.

My nurse junkie floated beside me in starched white that dripped like candle wax,

fingers trembling on the throttle, steering me straight into the neon mouth of ruin.  You were posed like a broken saint in the electric-blue cathedral of the dayroom TV,

high-junkie choir swaying behind you—ghosts with halos of cigarette burns.

Lamb chops glistened on cracked porcelain, grease pooling into tiny amber lakes,

each droplet catching the flicker like liquid gold tears no one would ever cry.  [Pre-Chorus]

Hot syrup nights in the buzzing fluorescent cathedral,

Room 29 where the wallpaper peels like old skin

and every shadow smells faintly of vanilla morphine.  [Chorus]

High high high—we blasted off that first night on silver wings of heroin sky,

Jefferson Airplane spiraling through our bloodstream like black silk ribbons,

two lovers riding foaming whitecaps of liquid starlight,

no gravity, no guilt, only the velvet roar of velocity swallowing us whole.

Ride ride ride, my marble-thighed phantom lover,

white mattress stretched like fresh snow across a midnight highway,

dopamine stained-glass windows shattering inside our pupils—

will you still want me when the four wheels rust into red dust

and the white plate sits empty, reflecting only the ghost of our hunger?

High high high… ride ride ride…  [Verse 2]

You slipped away through the half-open door, leaving me tangled in sheets

still radiating the fever-heat of our bodies like sun-warmed marble.

Fluorescent tubes hummed lullabies of abandonment while you chased the dragon

down corridors lit by cold blue veins of institutional light.  When you returned the air turned heavy with opium perfume—

jasmine and scorched sugar and the metallic bite of spent needles.

Your thighs were quarried moonlight, cool veined marble glowing with faint inner bruise,

skin so smooth it felt stolen from some ancient statue that once dreamed of sin.

We fused again on that breathing mattress, four-wheeler heartbeat pounding beneath us,

altraviolence blooming slow like black orchids in zero gravity,

petals unfurling upward, thorns drinking the salt from our trembling mouths.  [Bridge]

Dear Jesus on the dashboard, when I finally reach that powder-blue heaven,

can I smuggle my rehab lover through the pearl gates?

The boy with lamb-chop grease still shining on his lower lip,

the one whose kisses tasted like rust and honey and terminal velocity.

We were young American tragedy wrapped in old-money glamour,

cheap perfume clouding the air like incense in a burning cathedral.

But the high always fractures, baby,

and the ride always ends in the same quiet room

where longing grows mold on the walls

and every echo whispers your name.  [Final Chorus – triple-tracked, dissolving into haze]

High high high, Jefferson Airplane circling overhead like silver vultures made of smoke,

institution clock dripping morphine seconds onto the cracked linoleum floor.

We made love like beautiful fugitives on borrowed skin,

in borrowed light, on borrowed time that was already running backward.

Ride ride ride, till the chrome wheels melt into liquid chrome rivers

and the white plate floats away empty,

holding nothing but the after-image of our mouths.

High high high…

ride ride ride…

my marble-thighed phantom fading into chemical twilight…

still waiting

still burning

still yours

in the soft violet ruin of Room 29.