Horoscapes: Sagittarius

 

 

The kind of girl who smokes electric lullabies. You’ll meet a tall dark stranger, & once the chemicals cease sloshing in your skull realize that dark stranger is you in a trick mirror. Been a long time, you’ll speak, your own voice alien to you, noting in your reflection a black map of sunken lakes, indecipherable ruins & road stops, & cleaving to a giant stuffed panda of which you have no recollection. All the landscapes scalped, miles martyred to the nonnegotiable rituals of addiction. The horrifying thing about circus music is how deceptively cheerful it is: pondering this, you’ll return the glass pipe to your lip, trip through a funhouse in tearful ecstasy tumbling through gyrating wheels with zigs & zags of zebra stripes, a lattice of cords cold to the touch, spinning gauntlet of plates while a hidden grate blows pneumatic shots of air into your ear. Sliding down a spiral slide you’ll realize to be lost forever, infinitely falling through this artificial infinity is your bliss, which is when the blistering reminder will burn you: a giant stuffed panda you won for your daughter, last seen stumbling through midway slurping a motherless thumb.