8 Apr 2007

Damp Sailor's Sarcastic Template

"just... as you need it," he says, after crushing up the green pill under the credit card, instructing me not to rail up the whole second hit right away. he taught me this, like he taught me other things, a secret handshake, making sure i can do it right, so i don't get my ass beat. as i need it. no, he's right. the buzz is still strong. no need just yet. the problem is, what feels so righteous to play and say, and sounds so synesthetically perfect in the moment that creates it, dies quickly, leaving the purest wrong in its wake, like a paint-by-numbers sarcastic template. but that's for the aftermath, an abstraction so far over the horizon, i can't imagine. cause time is dilated when there are no worries, and you're flowing with more happy juice than any brain ever experienced at once until the advent of mescaline-derived synthetic phenethylamines. gulliver traveled with me, up the snow, not used to hills, yukon-boy, a year younger than me, already having written two novels more than me.

federico moulista is hunting for zombies. he has just taken up smoking. it makes sense, tonight. he has found himself some comrades. myself among them. all we need is some girls. yes, here in this absurd room. that would be perfect. the union. a quixotic quest in hypothetical lobes of heiroglyphical dens. just as i need it. but this thing doesn't fix everything. it's not got the force of something that needs to be said, that driving idiom thing. hopefully, the word "ego" isn't important anymore, ergo, whatever. it's not that those lofty juvenile pursuits were worthless, naive and stupid, it's just that they were more than i could be arsed to deal with, come to grips with, and actually trying to do that would look so uncynical and out of step with the function of society, so cartoonish, i'd end up in some primary colored ward of the loony bin and decent men would never so much as speak my name, because i haven't got much of a grip on anything, nor a grasp, and would rather i saved my strength to ornate the fineries. yeah, whatever pool-scraping that implies. it's a savory purple night-day on the cracked aqua concrete of the empty pool, balmysoul starshine through the sunfield, a kingly jungle of cosmic rays. it's been leagues, aeons since hallucinations, i welcome them with open arms:

after a cascade of fractals in the foam of rivers
i'm greeted by the vivid visage of a face, he's the guy
who sketched me a man in a chair
signed it
while i reeled from his weed
while i tried to eat his wife's indian food
prawns, never before, when in the
transcaucasian orchestra, he heard the pocket
as keith jarrett played. fell with me into the groove, i was so happy to have a fellow there with me, the fellowship of the groove, and it was his hydroponic edmonstone grass i'd smoked just minutes earlier, this new and improved laboratory study of a day, man alive, there are men alive in here, nobody knows how or why we keep going, maybe it's because he's hitting the piano at those intervals primed to make me feel like a dolphin being fucked by a unicorn.

federico snaps me out of my self-regarding trance. he wants to watch amadeus. i tell him no, fuck that, it's a great movie, but let's stay here and hunt zombies. it's better i tell you. and i don't even need reserves yet, anyone can plainly see, i’m flying above any sort of care anyone could ever imagine. wastoids, wasting time.

he heard the pocket. nevermind what it means. nevermind what it was. let's feel what it ought to be. the valley. stretching from one horizon to another. the ground feels high, like we're closer to heaven. it's so hot in the day. so cold at night. one girl honestly said she's on cloud nine. i believed her. i also believed the other one, who could be her counterpart, literally, or figuratively, when the dew is demonic, damp is the devil, a tremor in every extremity, a shiver in every fiber, no corner to hide to, it's all out in the open, the peripheral sounds, a drip drip of dementia and disease, all for the worse, the same person, in the dregs of morning, when other staggers are coming up, getting up, finding their own pleasure centers, when she said this is the time... the time when she feels gross. i was horribly in tune with that statement, disgustingly empathetic, striding in particular to parallel... and now, beholding this soft-spoken scream-slur in extreme third person, being months and months later, i see the erosion of values and things and scenes as being sublimely fucked up.

upgrade my gray matter. it won't be better than yours, don't worry. it can't be. i just want to whiten it with baking soda. i want high definition perception, if possible, just plug it in. headaches chase me through porter filters. bully for those stout bastards, i'm going to stave them off with naproxen, just to be specific.

it was one of those dreams that keep me coming back to sleep. the ghost in the next room got up from his professional slumber, morphed his torso upwards to my nomadic bunk, decades in the making, fifty feet high, in a little plywood corner, with my mates sleeping and wandering around and getting them selves into trouble, and ladled me some nectar, enriched with pure heroin, it was more than enough. i said i'd be a crack whore for the number 23, i'd run his numerology racket, i'd be a minion, a peon in the pyramid - just fill that empty gel cap again, drop it into my mouth, i'll do the rest. so it felt really good, and being drugged in a dream makes me lucid, because it's dealing with consciousness, so everything's meta. so i realized i was dreaming, and the dream paralysis became analog to a placid sedation, which ran through the currency exchange and allowed endorphin surplus, pro pelling me into one of those skiing dreams i love so much, where i'm whipping down diamond drill, an epic trick, a black diamond curving out beyond the blast, weaving musically through moguls, slamming stubborn slumps of snow, commanding contours, who's your daddy, comman-fucking-deering, allocating my weight precisely, allowing a twist the other way for a payday paydirt - yes, i'd call it a reverie.

reality
though
is fueled by toxins
take that as whatever jig you want
take it to the gaping lotus experience
decapitate it in a gapper
that would work, i'm sure
might even heal over certain freedom wounds i've won, by failing every test, every game
obeying every law, unwittingly.

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