Monday, October 13, 2008


The flask has cooled. Sawdust, filtered and boiled, dripped and refluxed in drain cleaner. The good bits - distileld, seperated and purified. Dealt with correctly. Strap on your gas mask, here comes the fun bit. Greeny-yellow haze flows through aquarium tubing into the bottom of the reaction vessel. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling. Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, pouring it into the buchner funnel and starting the vacuum, rinsing the last little residue out with ice-cold anhydrous acetone. Then a few hours in the dessicator to bring it all back to needle-like white shards, long slender crystals that threaten to impale sanity and spear conciousness on a point of white-hot phenethylamine bliss. Good mescaline comes on slow. The first hour iss all waiting. Halfway through the second hour you start cursing the creep that burned you. Then... Zang! The kaleidoscope drills into my mind.

Trigonometric precision in chaos. Mescaline is wonderful for the mathematically inclined mind. Patterns emerge from signal noise. Hydraulics drive long, slow equations deep into your brain. A blank white wall becomes an exercise in destructive addition - Topology is poetry, and sledgehammers are fountain pens. Hour four. Now we see the violence inherent in the system. Brilliant lances of truth abuse your occipital lobe as complicated receptor ligands give up their trapped prey, like a spider interrupted in the middle of vorophilic coitus in exchange for a little mental stability. Serotonin floods and dopamine pulses. Blood hammers. Pulse races. Cars crash and sanity flusters. The world warps and betrays its true nature. The clearly defined patterns and equations of the third hour are overwhelmed by the fear created by aztec gods, great swooping reptilian birds with spiralling fire for eyes and great spiked iron dicks. Men and bears rape girls and bats, and a holy trifecta of neurotransmitters swell the brain. Increased intracranial pressure leads to fever. Fever brings a cold sweat. The sensation of liquid wrapping the body evokes memories of childbirth. A grave rolling nausea grips the bowels with pliers and twists and yanks with every fetid-breathed step you take towards the gutter, the bathroom, or the corner of your cell.

Eventually you feel yourself overcome. This ancient south american devil drug, holy flesh of the cactus gods and synthetic residue of a thousand milled trees. First of the chemical love story, and last to be understood. The birds, bane of prometheus and quetzacoatl continue to pluck and hunt. They circle overhead, and when they get brave enough, they drive into your body long talons and wickedly hooked beaks. Acidic tongues lash the wounds, rasp at your exposed skin as the clothes are torn from your body. They loathe the smell of marijuana, so burning cannabis incense or a nice fat blunt will keep them away, for a while at least. But either way the damage has been done, and you will puke maggots for hours while the eggs they laid under your skin fester and boil. They burst and with them comes sobriety - Cold albumin clings to your hair, cerebro-spinal fluid leaks from your pores and your bones tingle and creak while sanity slowly climbs out of the hole it was hiding in as the birds subside, beaten for another day.

Sorry officer, I thought that pigeon was an ancient mexican demon bird. No, I will not stop eating it's insides. Otherwise it will get me. Those businessmen are watching from their cafe ow fuck no piss off

1 comment:

President Smoosh said...

"swooping reptilian birds with spiraling fire for eyes and great spiked iron dicks." . . .Wow.

My question is: were you able to write all this WHILE tripping? Because I used to try, but then the next day I just could not understand my verbage. It wasn't as clear as you have things here. I can understand what you wrote almost completely - minus the intensity of any emotional feelings you might have had during the trip. . . So did you remember this stuff and write it the next day, or are you practiced at accurately conveying your feelings on mescaline? If so, you are one talented mother-fucker, for just having enough prescence of mind to use the English language masterfully while tripping-balls to tell a tale of mathematical equations, Aztec Gods, and iron-dicked reptilian birds. Or are the birds the Aztec Gods?? . . . . . Great fucking job!