Tuesday, December 22, 2009


Are you hungry?
Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?

Step into the parlour, children - Line right up, eyeball the weird and wonderful dope fiends for only a fistful of dollars and the risk of your sanity. They're caged with bars, skinny white rails that bind like holy salt on a monastery floor.

You want to play the game - because it's a game to you people. Funtime friday, hit the couch and babble. Drop a tab or five, pass out before sun up and burn out before eighteen.

Are you sweet?
Are you fresh?
Are you strung up by the wrists?
We want the young blood!

I can smell fresh dollars in your bones, boy. I know why you're here. Morbid curiousity, and a fatalistic desire to stand out in a sullen parade of septum piercings and dynamite bangs. We are your Hell's Angel, wiry and tired with bitter, electric tongues. We sit and we smoke in a strange nuptial hymn of the hivemind, constantly prowling for another square scalp to add to our collection - They line our beds and we cling to them for warmth, every scrap of memory of those times we faced down with high society and came away, smelling of ganja, sweat and triumph.

You long to trace every jackboot scar on my spine with your lips, and revel in every night I spend sobbing myself to sleep, flashed and trapped in the memories of mind-riots past.

God, those were the days. You'd wake up in the morning, pick at the scabs your clawed raw the night before and infect yourself with something good and contagious then go out and spit on cops and bus drivers till the seconal kicked in.

Shit, was that me just saying that? None of that shit is me. Don't listen to this raving madman, he's an alien here - The big bad pusher man, in your scene, RUINING your party by 'commercialising'... some months after, mind you, we all started paying twenty bucks at the door apiece to dance on public, ungated property.

Are you fracturing?
Are you torn at the seams?
Would you do anything?
Fleabitten, motheaten?

You don't want a part of this. The rivets are splitting and spokes fraying - Somewhere I can smell insulation cooking off, a pungent brown smell. I'm sure one of the pistons rings is cracked and the boiler leaks steam. Anyday now the MOSFETs will start popping like cherry bombs and this whole transmetal riot machine will come crashing to a hard, knifing over an abutment and gearing great tracts of tarmac up like a gathered rug on the floorboards as your secret lover beats a hasty retreat out the back.

The numbers are piling up - and someday soon it's gonna blow. we're on a doomed helltrain and my fingers are burning.

We suck young blood
We suck young blood

with all the maternal spirit and warmth of a woodchipper we eagerly welcome the newcomers - line up, pay the man and roll in the dirt pretending to be enlightened. sucking that inky media dollar, fondling that glass tit.

Won’t let them creep in on me
Won’t let the nervous bury me
Our veins are thin
Our rivers poisoned

that's the only answer you ever find at the bottom of a trip, at the end of your wits.

there are no answers

all you have are more questions

like when the hell will this soldier have the peace of mind to sleep at night

without a mouthful of reds and gin?

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