Disco Volante

On a saturday night
it feels right
to let the top drop
on the disco volante,
the getaway car,
the ticket out of my head.
I take a trip
to the mountains
to let the cold blackness
swallow me whole,
and it feels good
to disappear.

Godlike I arise
and stand on high,
clutching stone tablets
while watching the waves
eat cities alive.
I raise my hands
to the heavens beating
rain down upon us
and beg to be stolen
from existence
for some precious
seconds.

I pass a few days
in a haze,
addled with anxiety,
choking on fumes of
polluted thoughts.
And at breaking point,
I find the biting point,
that sweet release,
and let the smoke chase
the disco volante
up into the mountains
again.

Adept I step
back into the depths
of my cryogenic capsule,
isolated, insulated
from the miasma of hysteria,
that heady cocktail of dread
and fear.
And when I stop to draw breath,
I steal a furtive glance
at the world beyond the frosted glass
and I see that
everything is the same.