2012-09-23
2012-08-11
Final Fix
I try to unravel the magic of my dope devotion and my from time to time twitching coke habit.
I mean in the last 2 years it wasn't that anomalous, I didn't blast off like a rocket ship every fucking day, besides my new found love for psychedelia, I hold my raggedy rudder kind of upright.
I also seize when I aim to misbehave and try to not ensure into abomination.
Still there are moments where my endeavour ends up in myself doin' whatever I can lay my hands on.
I can't decide if I want more, or none at all. I mean one day I killed my coke habit, I went into a bar and drank 8 whisky on the rocks, a good lush kick. I was cured.
But when you cut off, your inner clock runs down and stops. All you can do is hang on and wait. A junkie has no escape from external time, no place to go, he can only wait.
With waiting comes the pain. The hunger.
For me it was always possible to detach myself from pain - so I experienced pain as neutral excitation. From the hunger though there seems to be no escape. The hunger is the reverse side of the kick. I ran on coke time and coke metabolism. I was a subject to dope climate. I was warmed and chilled by drugs. The kick is living under dope conditions. You cannot escape from the hunger any more than you can escape from the kick after a shot or snort.
And dope will find you.
It's like a membership in a unique club, and for this membership you give up everything else in the world.
I mean I'm a young hipster lacking energy and spontaneous enjoyment of life. The mention of dope will galvanize me like a shot of polish speed I will jump around and say, "Too much, man! Let's pick up! Let's get loaded."
Now doin' whatever is an odd touch of old excitement like meeting someone you used to go to bed with and suddenly the excitement is there and you both know that you are going to go to bed again.
Pure kick.
Straight up, a mechanical lift that starts leaving you as soon as you feel it. 10 minutes and you want another one. You can't stop shooting. You try to level it with smokes, alcohol or whatever you can find, smooth out the rough edges. There is no tolerance, and not much margin between a regular and a toxic dose. Several times I got too much, my vision went black and my heart began turning over. But thats the thing with dope, if I have it in the house, I will shoot it until all is gone. The very first kick creates an urgent desire for another shot to maintain the high.
But I'm no player any more.
Even when I was diggin' the scene, it was unreal and flat and pointless, as though I had forced my way into someones else's dream, the drunk wandering out on to the stage.
And I was unreal to the others, the stranger from another country. A curiosity. Always looked upon with puzzled disgust.
There was no hate in the room, though. Perhaps they would have hated me if I had been closer to them.
So people asked me "Why do you feel that you need narcotics?"
When you hear this question you can be sure that the person who asks it knows nothing about drugs.
For me there was always neither past nor future, only death.
Death is absence of life. Wherever life withdraws, death and rot move in.
You food rots before you can get it home. Milk sours before you can finish your meal.
With death I was always accompanied by horror. A crustacean disease forming inside me from the beginning.
Hieroglyphic to others, clear and daunting to me. And with Terror comes Weakness and Turbulence.
Too weak to get out of bed. No chance to lie still. A Sickness, which makes any conceivable line of action or inaction seeming intolerable.
A man might die simply because he could not stand to stay in his body.
In point of fact I will be always branded beast at every feast - before I ever became a man.
Final fix.
Kick is seeing things from a special angle. Kick is momentary freedom from the claims of the ageing, cautious, nagging, frightened flesh. Maybe I will find in life what I was looking for in drugs. Death may be the final fix.
I mean in the last 2 years it wasn't that anomalous, I didn't blast off like a rocket ship every fucking day, besides my new found love for psychedelia, I hold my raggedy rudder kind of upright.
I also seize when I aim to misbehave and try to not ensure into abomination.
Still there are moments where my endeavour ends up in myself doin' whatever I can lay my hands on.
I can't decide if I want more, or none at all. I mean one day I killed my coke habit, I went into a bar and drank 8 whisky on the rocks, a good lush kick. I was cured.
But when you cut off, your inner clock runs down and stops. All you can do is hang on and wait. A junkie has no escape from external time, no place to go, he can only wait.
With waiting comes the pain. The hunger.
For me it was always possible to detach myself from pain - so I experienced pain as neutral excitation. From the hunger though there seems to be no escape. The hunger is the reverse side of the kick. I ran on coke time and coke metabolism. I was a subject to dope climate. I was warmed and chilled by drugs. The kick is living under dope conditions. You cannot escape from the hunger any more than you can escape from the kick after a shot or snort.
And dope will find you.
It's like a membership in a unique club, and for this membership you give up everything else in the world.
I mean I'm a young hipster lacking energy and spontaneous enjoyment of life. The mention of dope will galvanize me like a shot of polish speed I will jump around and say, "Too much, man! Let's pick up! Let's get loaded."
Now doin' whatever is an odd touch of old excitement like meeting someone you used to go to bed with and suddenly the excitement is there and you both know that you are going to go to bed again.
Pure kick.
Straight up, a mechanical lift that starts leaving you as soon as you feel it. 10 minutes and you want another one. You can't stop shooting. You try to level it with smokes, alcohol or whatever you can find, smooth out the rough edges. There is no tolerance, and not much margin between a regular and a toxic dose. Several times I got too much, my vision went black and my heart began turning over. But thats the thing with dope, if I have it in the house, I will shoot it until all is gone. The very first kick creates an urgent desire for another shot to maintain the high.
But I'm no player any more.
Even when I was diggin' the scene, it was unreal and flat and pointless, as though I had forced my way into someones else's dream, the drunk wandering out on to the stage.
And I was unreal to the others, the stranger from another country. A curiosity. Always looked upon with puzzled disgust.
There was no hate in the room, though. Perhaps they would have hated me if I had been closer to them.
So people asked me "Why do you feel that you need narcotics?"
When you hear this question you can be sure that the person who asks it knows nothing about drugs.
For me there was always neither past nor future, only death.
Death is absence of life. Wherever life withdraws, death and rot move in.
You food rots before you can get it home. Milk sours before you can finish your meal.
With death I was always accompanied by horror. A crustacean disease forming inside me from the beginning.
Hieroglyphic to others, clear and daunting to me. And with Terror comes Weakness and Turbulence.
Too weak to get out of bed. No chance to lie still. A Sickness, which makes any conceivable line of action or inaction seeming intolerable.
A man might die simply because he could not stand to stay in his body.
In point of fact I will be always branded beast at every feast - before I ever became a man.
Final fix.
Kick is seeing things from a special angle. Kick is momentary freedom from the claims of the ageing, cautious, nagging, frightened flesh. Maybe I will find in life what I was looking for in drugs. Death may be the final fix.
devoutly subject
we pay our screens
with the blood of our ancestors
truth shattering love
lies fuelled hate
nights of unconsciousness
days of sorrow and numbness
a long goodbye
a greeting one of its kind
pain of raped children
infirm sphincters
fallen pedigree
the meddle of death
courteous fate
seize me
and i will devoutly subject
with the blood of our ancestors
truth shattering love
lies fuelled hate
nights of unconsciousness
days of sorrow and numbness
a long goodbye
a greeting one of its kind
pain of raped children
infirm sphincters
fallen pedigree
the meddle of death
courteous fate
seize me
and i will devoutly subject
2012-07-02
unhealthy paranoia
unhealthy murderous paranoia
starts kicking in
as i try hard - to manage the stairs
down to the subway station
people are alive and kicking
and me
just a wicked, wired and weird
image of myself
run through the jungle
blasts in my inner ear
thinking makes me dizzy
standing makes me confused
again i pushed myself
to the fringe of my mind
searching for something
a moment of enlightenment and affiliation
humans
always look strange
when you off your tits
at 8 o'clock in the morning
on acid, mdma and
a pinch of columbian marching powder
i try - in vain
not to loose half of my shit
i unnecessarily carry around with me
self-imposed clumsiness
excess luggage of life
sure for the hep cat's eye
i'm entertaining to watch
but for the 'normal' citizen
i have to be a deviant vermin
the acid leaves me for a fallacious shake
and i notice that i'm coked out of my gourd
imbued with noxious sweat
i plan, plot and scheme
how to hold myself in an upright and cool position
way too much trouble
a confounding burden
and 100 per cent diametral to what i need right now
i pretentiously make myself comfortable on the ground
oh what a shlimazl - i say to myself
and start singing elegies by the doors and waka flocka flame
and as i'm regaled by the gorgeous moving floor
and the abhorred, distorted grimaces
i think - it's mandatory to never accept the tedium
always be up for unwise shenanigans
hopelessly search for the fastidiousness
cause like i said before
these are disastrous times
and one day in elysium is worth the abyss
my subway arrives
and my adventure continues
starts kicking in
as i try hard - to manage the stairs
down to the subway station
people are alive and kicking
and me
just a wicked, wired and weird
image of myself
run through the jungle
blasts in my inner ear
thinking makes me dizzy
standing makes me confused
again i pushed myself
to the fringe of my mind
searching for something
a moment of enlightenment and affiliation
humans
always look strange
when you off your tits
at 8 o'clock in the morning
on acid, mdma and
a pinch of columbian marching powder
i try - in vain
not to loose half of my shit
i unnecessarily carry around with me
self-imposed clumsiness
excess luggage of life
sure for the hep cat's eye
i'm entertaining to watch
but for the 'normal' citizen
i have to be a deviant vermin
the acid leaves me for a fallacious shake
and i notice that i'm coked out of my gourd
imbued with noxious sweat
i plan, plot and scheme
how to hold myself in an upright and cool position
way too much trouble
a confounding burden
and 100 per cent diametral to what i need right now
i pretentiously make myself comfortable on the ground
oh what a shlimazl - i say to myself
and start singing elegies by the doors and waka flocka flame
and as i'm regaled by the gorgeous moving floor
and the abhorred, distorted grimaces
i think - it's mandatory to never accept the tedium
always be up for unwise shenanigans
hopelessly search for the fastidiousness
cause like i said before
these are disastrous times
and one day in elysium is worth the abyss
my subway arrives
and my adventure continues
2012-06-28
paid job
i know a lot more about the dominion war than about making a living, getting my shit together or finding and keeping a real paid job
2012-06-06
Lewis Hyde
“Most artists are brought to their vocation when their own nascent gifts
are awakened by the work of a master. That is to say, most artists are
converted to art by art itself. Finding one’s voice isn’t just an
emptying and purifying oneself of the words of others but an adopting
and embracing of filiations, communities, and discourses. Inspiration
could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced.
Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out
of void but out of chaos.” - Lewis Hyde
2012-06-05
2012-06-02
ecstasy and existence
i want you only for my purpose
for my appetite and craving
your function is to abide
my demand
and
desire
want to tie you up
to unmovable matter
and lock the room
as much as i want to be your dog
i want you
to be my slave
your frail, submissive body
your limited movements
my prey
my sacrifice
for nature
being a beast
for ecstasy
and existence
for my appetite and craving
your function is to abide
my demand
and
desire
want to tie you up
to unmovable matter
and lock the room
as much as i want to be your dog
i want you
to be my slave
your frail, submissive body
your limited movements
my prey
my sacrifice
for nature
being a beast
for ecstasy
and existence
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