The Danger of Drugs: Documentation of a Mind Under the Influence of Caffiene

The tired mind wanders looking for an out of this paper box, glued to the ink on the page. Maybe with enough force I can shove these stale words far along, over several pages, off the lemming cliff. They come from nothing and return to nothing (and other abstractions as well.) Start with something simple: a house. Maybe it’s made of wood and has a face in the wall that repeats, “I’m the basketball.” The drywall crumbles and congregates on the kitchen floor. Matthew comes chewing his bubble gum, slips on the sandy stuff, bites his tongue, gets the gum lodged in his throat and chokes to death with a mouth full of blood. What are you going to do with that? Matthew is dead. The words continue along without a care. On to the next victim. The front half of a bicycle sticking out from behind a cracked brick wall. Amy rides it to and from work, indulging her perversion, skirt and no panties, hoping they get a look at her ripe ass. When she gets really horny she takes the seat off. The gynecologist, “how did you get these cuts inside your labia?” “He promised he’d be gentle.” Of course that’s an old fantasy, a cliche even. Testament of my fatigued wordbrain. How about coffee on a rainy day– and no burnt prison trash they sell to the students and the ignorant, a real cup of coffee. Mmm. The words are pushed along, spew out and flow along the tubular rapids laid out just for the occasion by the gnome engineers. Then there’s the tired experimental musician leaning on the counter at the record store. Red eyelids drooping, bugs crawling on his skin because a coworker brought his collection of wasps and pincher bugs today. For show and tell. Outside it rains on the construction work, sealed off with yellow tape, where the tables and chairs are supposed to be. The ink is setting into the paper where– and we better hurry, for there’s little time to correct the matter– it will settle forever, strange record of the rambling falsifications of the one thought of Eternal Holy Youth (which thought itself is untrue.)Well not exactly forever, but as forever as we care to think about. The fruit fly officer to the judge: “how long do you want us to lock him up?” “Forever!” Three days later: they are all dead (may their sweet little souls rest in peace), the remains of the prisoner decomposed, energy continued forward in the next manifestation (as predicted clearly by the first law of thermodynamics.), any record of the incident erased. Forever. Frames per minute: order: timing. Now with the analog click of a digital button we can travel time, forward, backward, at various paces, even up and out (only if you have the strength to walk away from the computer monitor). Onward ho! To the red rain over Africa, falling in heaps of organic mush, divine silly putty. The locals gather round it and celebrate with trance-inducing rhythms. The party is much greater than we first imagine, each drop of rain chattering its tiny voice into the shamanic song, clapping hands for the real winners of this Oscar. The obsessed fanboy: “I don’t want to sound like an obsessed fanboy or anything, but maybe the judges should reconsider.” “Maybe you should reconsider when to keep your mouth shut.” And with the that the Upholder of Convention blows shot through his insolent skull. The blood and bone sinks deep into the soily earth where it collects in a pool to be swallowed up by the Cosmic Fish and spit out as red rain of the new world. Now, the good news is I’ve been digging for the missing body of Matthew. It’s hard with a pen, digging that is. The task isn’t made much easier by the fact that the earth is made up entirely of bubble gum. Three layers in and I’ve got spearmint, soda bubble, and ashen oat (for the eaters of the dead). Impossible to dig through this goop. I’ve been digging for seven days and it’s all I’ve managed. I know his body, exactly what I’m looking for: limbs sprawled out stiff with rigor mortis, red baseball cap sitting just above the remains of his head, left cheek bitten off by a rat. Then it hits me all at once: this is the wrong house I’ve been digging in. Everything’s the same, but it’s a decoy. Oh well, I guess little Matthew’s body will have to wait. If we hit the rewind button on this wad of spearmint gum, we can get back between Amy’s red lips. The haughty hotty: look here at the red spittle running out the edge of her mouth. This time when she lifts her skirt (pleated to fulfill those Catholic fantasies) there is nothing you expect, no perfectly formed downy white cheeks or tumescent outer labia. This time there is the vastness of known and unknown space, head gets sucked in; galaxies, stars, black holes, nebulas and more, strange things that you may never see again, things that may heap a thousand more models of misunderstanding on the already burdened discipline of quantum physics. You follow the trail of her starry body into the swirling solar system, into a stirring leafy green planet, into a patch of forest to the tip of an arrow loaded in the bow of an amazonian girl wearing a leather toga, hair pulled back into a ponytail, loose strands framing her porcelain face. You look down the shaft, past the knuckles of the hand holding the string taught and realize you are looking into the black eyes of god. Perched up in a tree is the filthy joker, motley suit getting stained by dirt and rainwater. “We speak of nothing, but know nothing of what is meant. Nothing must refer to something. It can never really mean nothing, but only the absence of what is expected in the context of some something.” Then he cackles and throws apples, because the pain and acidic sting of apple juice is the only thing these tourists understand.

Jehovah Was An Asshole

What bastard said what pronounced that way not forgetting the moon was in Cancer on that special occasion. Hope we feel better for this that the ugly god had pigtails why battering against the head bang south gate pretension myth. Then female insertion syndrome catches us once more and tzaddi not paying attention to much of anything arriving for no reason on the shores of Naisha with fire and water. Flying basketball like Jehovah was an asshole dumbshit child god of tantrum thunder and plagues fighting alongside the Black Brothers wallowing in Malkuth. Then thou must bow is why pride went that way like ‘sin of Lucifer’ chartered by a fuckwad English poet preaching plague and pigeons to the too-bludgeoned masses sold from the first on restriction fear of sex fear of knowledge fear in all then bow shackled spirit! Who demands the blood of his own son for what purpose why “almighty” the only way to redeem testicle licking Dog-god? Silly twit always demanding blood can’t take your own yes I dare address you so directly with cock and blade drawn and everything above this plane of the four-way street. What is thy nature what thy Tree I say by the power of the planets by the body of Nuit by the joy of Hadit by the Vengeance of Ra-Hoor-Khuit demand you reveal yourself fucking coward fucking slavemonger drop your whip and fight like a man. Power all that speaks explains history by the fish gone goopy under the hot light of inquisition avaricious poisoned dogmen of now and yore caught by the net of blackest convention restricted at the throat ‘your children’ buried deep in the hoary muds of swampy time lost bitch.

Spiderleg [1959]

Soft skin and purple daze of the heart. It’s bruising from all the slow torture. I told them fast and never with the arm straps. But do they ever listen? Those silly mechanism administers of pain. This is a sentence. Is not. We’re not scare-mongering.
In a blank white room with flood lights, she arches her back, arms stretching upward, whispering with the lick of the tongue, “what were you saying about the soft skin?” Well, it was Sunday. “And?” Thighs. Mostly thighs. I could live there. Soft licky lickable woman fruit. Mmm...Did I mention it was Sunday? “The Sabbath?” No.
And at the curling leggy grip of the spider I...I? Nobody. This is a story about nobody. The sky, well, it’s blue. So we presume. Tree falling in the forest, subjectivity, subjectivity, etc. Then perhaps no sky even without subject-hood. Okay, scratch it all to hell! Spider. Yes, one that will do. Octogonical occularity. Eight by eight. Color? How about not. Grey sky. Grey sky at night! Warning! Warning! Spider approaching! Approaching what? Oh, good point. Okay then. A spider. Umm...builds a web. Yea, that’s the ticket, baby!
Many hours later that spider finds herself happy situated in her fine homely web. The furniture all arranged, the hi-fi tele that mom got her as a gift a blaring loudy loud. What’s it sound like? Hell if I know, Cedric. Hell if I know. Oh right, cooking in the oven. Alles gut. But...
But? She has no masculine presence to father her several many-legged, many-eyed offspring. Oh, what is Spider Rider Rix-Dix Dider ever to do? How to find a man? Meeting people is so hard these days. Maybe an arachnid dance club and couple sips of fly blood gin fizzly. Or a look into the personal adds. Yes, yes! Single green female seeks male to populate her web. No particulars. Bring sperm. Single orange male seeks SOF or male, open to experimentation, long flights in the wind, and bird hunting.
You psychotic beaver! Wha’ the hellsa gonna’ take wi’ dat fuckin’ arsthahal? How the hellsa gets rippin’ wi’ a go’ damn shtory li’ tha’? But ooh! it’s so good to be clean. Subjectivity, I’ll give you disorder! I mean...subjectivity...heh. Little too much on the fly blood. It’s the Spanish one that will get you.
Ooh! Pinchy pinch a little cheeky cheek boy. Hoopsa– ‘nough of that! No plagiarism, or “allusions” as you rooty tooty no so pembo intellectuals call it. Hand me that ratchet. Clink de clink de cling. OOOH! THAT SLUT!
[Cut] No longer permitted. Foolish child. Always gettin’ about on that merry-go-round. Exercise daily to avoid cancerous growth. Public disorder, I’ll give you public disorder.

Tibet and the Icecream Scientists

You should take a break, put down those clothes you’ve been carrying and kick up your feet. Put the pen to the page, who will take you to your dead sage? No salvation Tibet. “Take me to my dead Christ.” Who do you think you are, carried from shore to shore? We will bury you under the sand, me and Uncle Fester that is. And still nobody believed us. We stood out there in the fading sun, “X” marked in the sand where your body could be found, pointing, trying to tell the beach people, “David Tibet is buried right here.” They couldn’t relate to your ego. They didn’t care. At least we left you a shovel to dig your way out if need be. How’s he s’poseda get it from under the ground? Oh yeah... oh well, onward we go, leaving you where you have always lived or to climb or to climb out and sulk in a hotel. I’m going back to San Francisco to have a sup of coffee. Shovels taste good with icecream. Dirt can get in the ink a little and it’s still okay. But dirt in icecream? Let’s test it out. So the scientists get out their beakers and Bunsen burners (white lab coats already on, mix the dirt from the shovels in with the icecream, heat it to a nice sludgy solution. They let the frosh, Martin McVeinmangler, handle it from here. He fills the syringe with the solution, finds the first sap laid out on the table, the word “ready” across his forehead, and injects him with the stuff. The audience is holding its breath, but he gets the needle in right the first time. What happens, what happens! The subject dies, that’s what happens muther fucker. So shovels may taste good with icecream, but you damn best keep em clean

Mars in Scorpio

Little virgin thighs #24112 is called into the grip room by a voice on a rusted prison announcer, enters and only recalls steel bars. Time for her DNA injection.. The room disappears and only doctor clown face remains with a stethoscope swinging overhead and a deadly cloud of black gas coming out of his previously rehearsed eyeholes, the voice on the other end of the speaker saying lethargically that he summoned Satan and sounds of screaming voices all in the background. She comes back standing in the middle of the street, handcuffed to a steering wheel on the left wrist, nothing but a tattered jean skirt on, blood running down her legs, thinking she knows what: gotta find that smug shithead and offer him up to the fucking beast. Then it’s all by the short splotchy black hair, finds him stretched out on a couch. She clocks him once on the head with the steering wheel; he seems indifferent to the pain, so she drags him off the couch by one arm, thud to the floor, drags him along like a limp five-year-old, North winds coming in through the front door. He’s looking up her skirt, no panties, says, “looks like someone popped your cherry.” But that’s it. They get to the street where the demon is tearing through crowds of people. They lift him up overhead and give a good toss... Nothing like you expect happens. They’ve all been visualizing the stupid shit being torn to pieces in a storm of blood and limbs. Instead, when they spring off the ground with a hut three, he’s gone and the girl is caught with that look of someone trying to not get hit in the face by a basketball that veered off in a completely different direction. Then everyone is gone and only an empty cracked street remains. Cricket legs tell you not to worry about demons or Christ or anti-Christ, but they aren’t either. They shall not harm you at all... Then a metal toaster bubbles up in the Akashic sea. Only problem is you don’t believe in toasters, wearing a black robe and holding an index finger between your lips like the silliest of Egyptian gods, standing before pyramids, even refusing to believe in old glass tracks chanted back across several Aeons. There is a literal sea following like a lead coat over an abandoned street, the Sun of Ra most certainly present, obscured by the tantrum of our own little Gaia. And it’s hard to adore something you can’t see (Jehovah such an impoverished god, not power to smite, not to be mistaken for Jove or Chronos), by the delightful rays of the sun I tip my hat. And it would most certainly be a Ra sun if only we could see, banished like that to the realm of the invisibles, oh what a world! But not to lament too long– certainly not indulge in self pity or pity of any kind– before the back of my hand reaches my forehead I cackle out loud and thank the observable but infinite Nuit (forever blessed Our Lady of Stars) for all of everything and drink this Soma called “coffee” to be myself firmly Hadit, though wondering even as I say it as to whether or not caffeine is such a strange drug, having introduced myself some years ago out of childhood curiosity about the things implicitly denied to non-adults. When can we say to know anything– the effect predictable of course. Must we drink wine? I do not desire this, having seen it all before, having done it all along, counting by the bottle by the hour what a sad boring story from beginning to end.

Thel the Truth

Point One: You feel it lightly, hardly invasive, wishing for metal veins instead or dual exhaust, something you could put a wrench to...chickens clucking about the cheap pine feeder that Mildred kicked and split in a mad fit of sex and booze... the arm of a lab coat, the eternal world stretched to oblivion like stockings of tender white light... they forget the incident of swords, the sweet and macho young girl reminding you about her Discordian wedding, the bread beatings that left her a little sore even though they didn’t hurt at the time... the tattoo ritual at the parlor, ears ringing right proper from the buzzing of the needle, just the green outline of the golden apple... your own back violated similarly, moustache rubbing against the vinyl table...

Point Two: The colors in the room melt like globs of acrylic from godly tubes, hands start to forget the correct strokes of the fuzzy square of flesh– get it purr just the right way, but now can’t keep track of the three of them rotating in the speckled space about a common axis... “that’s the golf club now” then laughter from your right (only wrong it seem to misuse appliances that way, so you imagine– that is what’s with the laughter isn’t it?)... you only picture chess pieces sliding about the black and white checkered marble, stained and crusted from years of over-zealous coffee breaking free from precarious cups, mostly the pawns– pronounced as the knights may be, so like the horse (as any horse head is, right?) That lived in the pen among clumps of dirt kitty corner to Kidney Johnson’s old backyard... “why such a long face?” this perfectly unsettling timing on her behalf almost sets you into a fit, only you can’t seem to express it even if you wanted to heart that way cranked up beating have to breathe fast and heavy like a maniac and any minute thinking about the front door having to bolt upright and get out for some O2 less offensive to the spirit, that exact moment echoing back over your head caught in one moment some fucking time fart feeling of the exact right time and place for those two things to converge– probably thousands of others if you could only learn to pay attention (like the meaning behind green panties anyone?)– until it seems that nothing is an accident in a good way sort of right place right time, and else an abomination that couldn’t easily be lived down... at once it occurs to you at a new glance that the chess pieces are unevenly carved and not even laid out in a sensible way in the squares, somehow the red-toothed grin looming about the board in a frightening and clear indicator of how malicious intent can come to make chess pieces on a chess board look out of place– then quick but bright lightening flash about how it’s been about the current you’ve been in the whole time, but it’s gone dashed off into the air orange and green astral butterflies and with little capacity to form a net, all before you get a hold of it visually... “thanks to gardens and to holy beans” oh love of the world if only you can receive what you have...

Point Three: It comes to you a fully formed and seemingly geometrically perfect egg (hands still barely cooperating), still not sure what’s inside, electric pulses tingling ecstatic expectation... somewhere in your imagined periphery something sexy is happening, panties down, legs opening at the knees, good slow fuck simultaneous to some future moment, butt happily in the air visibly moist, nice without being too distracting until considered and the Taoist cliche occurs beautifully between her labia major, your whole life running like the river of the vaginal canal... feeling cold and wet outside the waters near dusk kind of lonely and gorgeous in a solemn way, remembering dad’s fishing pole arched in a J shape, pulling up those rich salmon, you just wanting to get back in the water, let it carry you belly up, happy to let it do so... “knight kingside, your move” only the move will make itself through you, happy as you are amongst crusty coffee stains and uneven pieces in some cases chipped away, fully formed complete set or not it was some forces at play, some choices to make even if the metal gears in your head helping to move exhaust through a metal respiratory system and entire universe taken all together made it a point shrinking infitesimally into irrelevance the fact of being able to observe and describe it in those terms made it just as infinitely lovely and enjoyable until ascension by descension, not perfect often more like the squared ovals of a cubist painting, the various triangles intersected... “it would have to be red and blue of course” damn she should stop doing that, the thought already loosed in your head before you can chastize it to oblivion for failing to conform to your profound realizations, before you even come back into the herenow with a chicken picking lightly at your temple more tickle than anything, leading you to see how far ahead of yourself you’ve gotten, hatching your eggs before you counted them, feeder still in need of repair, tools themselves to attend to until inch by inch you get out of the chair, without an anxiety attack as you had previously thought might be the case, and commit to starting from the beginning...