After Hours by Douglas Cole

It's after the last drink
and that terrifying moment
I think I haven't had
a breath for centuries,
the walls go fluid
and the ground ripples
and those creatures
in blue relief within
the fake Picasso print
come alive and dance
across the intermediary air,
that is when I know
there's no covering the eyes,
no plugging up the ears
in this avalanche,
this tilt-a-whirl show
as I go through
the crowded onslaught
of other free souls
and the memory debris
and fallen angel cities
and cloud companies
into the open air.