busy fuckin bees this is me they are in me in my skin under my skin inside my flesh inside my head buzz fuckin buzz

burn with me - i need a smoke; but more then anything i need a new soxhlet

no scratch that

more then anything i need someone to come and trepan open my skull to let these bees out.

i'm grilling and looping and burning and bleeding and all I can do is beg, becasue i don't know what i need. i want to sleep, i want to run a mile, the nicotine makes me want something but i can't fucking PLACE it, i can't put my finger on it because one finger's on the syringe and the other's on the trigger

god fucking damn this is the london underground of drugs. i'm digging for some change from behind the couch at the same time as I jump in my car and drive south, way south, till I hit the cliffs and plunge into the ocean.

fuck. sharpen my knife. ride the snake. this bit will pass soon - but do I want it to? I'm never quite so happy as when i hit the misery. because this bit I know is real. THIS bit is real; the rest is washed in bleach and hot water because i want my cd4 sites unmolested, thankyouverymuch.

glaciers of ice, verbal intercourse. wu-gambinos. heaven and hell. liquid swords and the duel of the iron mike. the sound... it only makes the bees angrier.