….sampling the insanity.

A portion of the memoir thingamajig I’m working on…think Hunter S. Thompson meets the Tasmanian Devil on acid and they go on a road trip…I have no idea how bum alive….
Me at 17…

The first time I had ever warn (my Santa Hat) it off season was in 9th grade….I didn’t want to fall into any of the socially nebulous categories that everyone knows of in high school. I was a rock climber, I was smart, I was weird, and I wanted to do drugs. A Santa Claus hat during the end of Summer into the Fall seemed lie a sufficiently bizarre calling card to elicit the kind of attention that I was hoping to draw.

Turns out I was right, and years later, when I wanted to recall some memory from those individuals who remembered my reputation for dropping acid before school and freaking out in the commons, getting the entire science glass tanked on ethyl chloride while the teacher gave a presentation, robbing the gym locker room, getting suspended and expelled for very mysterious reasons and then disappearing for a year and a half – all I had to do was put it back on. It became my calling card, my cape, and my identity. If I needed to become the villainous madman ready to do anything at any cost – burn the world to the ground for just one more $20 – let’s bring in Santa! It was stupid and youthful….but I thought I looked fucking good.

Realistically, I was a skeleton. Nearing vaporization. At one point I0 was standing 6’2” tall and weighing in at a staggeringly huge 135lbs. of skin and bones. I’m pretty sure if you looked close enough you could see the molasses my thickening blood had morphed into trying desperately to move beneath the paper disguising itself as my outer layers. The hollowed out chunks in what was my skull were no longer recognizable as anything describable as attractive windows to a soul – just aching cut outs to coals of frustration, mindless chattering banter between myself and the seas of demons that I was tormented by constantly by my own actions which invited them in to travel between my buzzing ears. There’s a tattoo that is perched forever on my left shoulder these days. It started during the final days of the longest spin I ever got spun on. It highlights the image of me face in all its weirdly grotesque glory going into the 300+ hour awake mark.

At that point there’s nothing real left in the world. The fabric of existence has been ripped to pieces, and resewn by crystalline fingers into a tapestry of madness that drifts between the cosmos. Ethereal, haunting, overwhelming when it chooses to present a new scene for the viewer to be engulfed in with neither option nor control over their role to play. One moment they may be a super star drug tyrant overseeing the peasant users around them – fools to touch such tools as these that they cannot hope to understand…..the next, huddled underneath the glovebox with a permanent marker jotting down the next sequence of license plate numbers and their related car descriptions (particular attention to be noted to the gold Volvo which is always third in line at each intersection) which form the state wide task force that has been deployed to hunt you down after the systematically arrest each of your friends and turn them against you.

The tattoo shows the lewd, cheek partially raised, only one sided grin that became a permanent fixture on my face for several weeks. There was something that was both somewhat charming – think everyone’s favorite super villain from Batman – and terribly off putting. There was no rhyme or reason to why I was “smiling”. Nothing phased me, or it. The situations that were plaguing my now nearly homeless existence; the impending and quickly approaching doom that I seemed determined to drive myself to by ingesting enormous quantities of ice all at once – to that extend that even when the dealers or our funds would dry up for a day or two, I could ride the high for the intervening time without coming down even a touch. Even when I was passed along right after the initial outline was laid in by the artist (also a middle man to my dealer who was trying to knock me out with sleeping pills unsuccessfully to get me out of my psychosis since I was freaking people out) to a black man who worked at Starbucks with less polite sexual intentions towards my nubile young body….couldn’t let the smile waver.

I really can’t even remember that much of what happened, nor if something did. Though I have to assume since I’d been awake for well over the 450+ hour mark by the time I got to the basement with its strange purple feathery covered couch and mood lighting and all I had eyes for was the pipe – who knows what I would have been willing to do. I can recall dancing for him with no shirt on. Many, many, many plants upstairs. Lining the kitchen counters. And he had a fascination, bordering on obsession, with ensuring that I only used the blue part of the lighter flame to hit the pipe. It had something to do with it being the neutral part – but it doesn’t make sense to me in retrospect. Didn’t matter then, I just know he had almost a ball of some truly superb crystal, and even typing about it now I can feel my heart accelerating and my eyes start to cross dreamily.

How oddly sick isn’t it? In a recollection of potentially being raped over drugs by someone I didn’t know in their basement – where I believe I can account for being locked for nearly 3-days since I didn’t make it to detox until the 28th day of being awake, which I went to almost directly from there. But that aside – despite the fact of what is happening during the recollection – it actually inspires a desire in me to go get high on the exact same substance precipitated the event in the first place.

Being an addict sucks, it really does. You want the things that kill you worse than the things that save you. It’s like the survival instinct we’re supposed to be born with was installed backwards and then given some extra juice.

“We fucked up the orientation Ted, may as well make it run fast and aggressive eh?”
Love to hear your thoughts!

Sinner

Direct and honest…the streets are not friendly to any, and the sinner inside is given free reign to cut loose.

Coke Whore Hippie

Ripped fishnets, short dress; frayed denim, pretty mess. Rock n’ roll soul in her fucked up fantasy; rhyming dirty words, singing sad songs of tragedy. Rebel rebel, spirit of black. Cocaine heart with a hollywood past. Fucking dirty whores in the back seats of cars; flirting with the boys taking shots at the bar. Strung-out junkie was chasing the high, delusion laced up and down her spine. Sold her soul to sin, lust, and desire. Snorting any powder that was claimed to get her higher. There was a riot in her heart, smudged makeup on her eyes; losing light in the dark, leather harness on her thighs. She was devoted to freedom, an obsession to roam. No compass on the map, the stars became her home. Rage flooded through her veins, a poet of sadness. She tried to mask her pain, an illusion of madness. Pierced the needle in her…

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wanna go hardcore-

do parkour with rhyme schemes on the dance floor leaving footprints on the ceiling walking on hands- playin- with meaning…

Source: wanna go hardcore-

Recovery Flow – 1st Spoken Word

Depths – Spoken Word, Addict Recovery Flow

(1st attempt at spoken word….written version below. Please stick past the 1:00 mark as it hits a much better rhythm and pulls together everything)

Go deep.

Depth.

Because you and I have depth.

No shallow pieces of paper whipping in the wind here.

We’re fucking mountains with roots buried in lava.

Dig deep.

Through chunks of earth.

Through underground lakes.

You and I are living statues giving statements.

Cut through miles of meat.

Let out rivers of blood.

Depth.

No 2D, weak minded, single sided bullshit here.

Find the spinning core of pressurized EVERYTHING that powers our furnace.

I’m not powered by the drive for one thing.

I’m an addict.

I’m a fucking hero.

I’m a lunatic.

I’m a fanatic.

I’m an extremist.

I’m a fatalist.

I’m a romantic.

I’m passion given wings and no name.

I run on need.

I’ve been asked what makes me tick.

Why do I do it again?

Why am I so fucking sick?

Because I live on fear,

On love, on hope, on greed, on determination, on demands, on need, on want, on confusion, on chaos, on misery, on joy, on pleasure, on excess, on more.

I live on intensity.

I breathe it.

The world spits straight fire down my throat so hot that all I can beg for is a drink to put it out,

And a shot to start the burn again.

Go deep.

Find depth.

I’m not bored.

I’m scared that the moment it stops, I’ll be less interesting to myself.

That the world won’t have a reason for me to be around.

I’ll be normal.

And I don’t understand that word.

This is the only norm I know.

The unusual.

The strange.

If I didn’t have this excuse, what would I be?

What would I call myself?

What excuse could I hide behind?

How could I explain the things I’ve done?

How would I explain my failures?

What if I didn’t fail?

What if it didn’t have to be so intense it hurt?

Even if it feels so good.

Love wouldn’t have to be so intense that it overwhelmed.

Passion so hot that nothing would ever live up to it again.

Confusion so baffling I couldn’t see a road out.

Joy so large that no laughter would fill it.

Chaos so overwhelming that the world would fall to pieces.

Pleasure so satisfying that nothing would ever be enough to replace it.

Past the screaming need for everything in spades.

For each emotion to be etched into me until I’m raw.

Way, way the fuck down there.

Beneath the lowest layers of urgency.

There is peace.

There is a quiet place that I can call part of me.

Part of the landscape of my soul.

Proof that I wasn’t always an adventurer.

Once, I was calm waters welcome moonlight to bathe across me.

I was a home where the word gentle wasn’t a foreign concept.

Where there was no race for adrenaline.

And that was okay.

All I have to do is take a breath and let myself submerge far enough to find it.

Go into the dark.

Into the deep.

Into the depths.

a Muse (Prologue)

unbolt me

Урок 28 - The Muse (by Gloom82) Another masterpiece by Anton Semenov. Do you like? No?! Damn him… go away!!

– Write!

Cold water flows down my face and I open my eyes. Damn him! Again… My nose inhales fusty air and I understand that this nightmare isn’t just a delirium. It’s real… I take up the wet pen. I write ‘fuck you’ carefully in the moist writing-book. Letters are dancing and I close my eyes, but I can’t close my ears.

– She will write. She can. She’s trying to rebel but I can force her.

…give me the strength to speak and to be silent
give me the strength to be a lamb and a tyrant…

Some might suppose that this is my paradise. I would agree if it were not for one zesty detail… What would you name the paradise that you can’t leave? I call it a gaol. Do you…

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Katrina – Lost Daughter

(background info)

Katrina is the daughter of a young lady who was essentially my counterpart – plus breasts. Owing to some poorly relayed information and a protective need following the 6-year old girl’s admittance to counseling because she thought “that good guy (me) was going to die…” – left the mom backed into a corner. I was told never to call or contact her again, though I didn’t find this out until after writing and sending this as a letter.

Kat is the girl who moves with feline grace,

A Cheshire flashing grins all over the place.

Rina is the girl who thinks like a firecracker,

Sharp as a tack, brain to match, thought cracking master.

So when Kat disappears, lithe as a rope.

Her partner has time for mischief while both elope.

They’ll lay out their traps for mommy to find,

Materializing from thin air defying space and time.

And, occasionally mommy may crack a tooth,

To which she bellows, “Watch out, they’re on the loose!”

When their forces combine, surely a hurricane whistles,

Smashing and crashing like a runaway missile.

Theirs isn’t a rhythm, though they have a reason.

For they are a weather event with no established season.

Rain gummy bear gifts will the storm throughout Spring,

Summer has July 4th, so we know what that means.

Leaves Fall heavily into sacks until carefully deconstructed,

Then snow tries to trap them inside with all the strength it can muster.

Though their actions are sometimes bizarre,

Kat and Rina will surely go far.

For they are glowing beauties with insides to match,

The troubles they get in are because sometimes we all crash.

Mistakes can be made, and will eventually fade.

Everyone works to be better,

Life in reverse is all based on what you gave.

Still thinking of you kiddo…

 

*nearly a year later and still no contact.