R.I.P. Lester (December 13, 1948 - April 30, 1982) and Hunter (July 18, 1937 - February 20, 2005). We need more of you to regain our excuses to ride the colors of pinwheels.
This is non-fiction, a cautionary tale.
Two junkies in a symbiotic relationship, hooked on each other, hooked on meth and pain killers and other vices yet to be named. Their gateway, each other. Stuck lil' guinea piggies. Their names only muttered to mask the track marks, "Jack and Jill."
They went up the hill, fetching from the sources pails of acid -- joints being passed around while walking up the steep, grassy knoll. They have plans to ensure their delinquencies and masterful inadequacies.
Everything seemed mechanical, detached, sleepy; fluorescent eating away at the buzz. A country that survived Stalin could survive a little dope.
Every taste
Every specter
Every nectar
Every spectacle
Every little ounce of breath -- its the drugs that do the talking. The shakes and molehills, dilated pupils, service part worshippers, the left living in a hot sardine tin can... there's one rule: no one can fall in love. It ruins business, and distracts the patrons and saints and hogwashed brown nosers.
Its the drugs. It always was. And you want, you need, it all. Do you even read stats at all? Or are you too busy being butt fucked by well hung towers of religious enterprise? Either way kiddo, you choose a side.
They came tumbling down. And its often debated. Keep the engineer, feed him burgers and fries -- or if in England -- bangers and mash. Oh did you forget the words that you scraped? Sweet, sweet downfall and doom and gloom and cheery melodies of "you wouldn't know it." They came tumbling down.
Which was expected, if I should say so myself.
Either way kiddo, you choose a side.
This is non-fiction, a cautionary tale.
Two junkies in a symbiotic relationship, hooked on each other, hooked on meth and pain killers and other vices yet to be named. Their gateway, each other. Stuck lil' guinea piggies. Their names only muttered to mask the track marks, "Jack and Jill."
They went up the hill, fetching from the sources pails of acid -- joints being passed around while walking up the steep, grassy knoll. They have plans to ensure their delinquencies and masterful inadequacies.
Everything seemed mechanical, detached, sleepy; fluorescent eating away at the buzz. A country that survived Stalin could survive a little dope.
Every taste
Every specter
Every nectar
Every spectacle
Every little ounce of breath -- its the drugs that do the talking. The shakes and molehills, dilated pupils, service part worshippers, the left living in a hot sardine tin can... there's one rule: no one can fall in love. It ruins business, and distracts the patrons and saints and hogwashed brown nosers.
Its the drugs. It always was. And you want, you need, it all. Do you even read stats at all? Or are you too busy being butt fucked by well hung towers of religious enterprise? Either way kiddo, you choose a side.
They came tumbling down. And its often debated. Keep the engineer, feed him burgers and fries -- or if in England -- bangers and mash. Oh did you forget the words that you scraped? Sweet, sweet downfall and doom and gloom and cheery melodies of "you wouldn't know it." They came tumbling down.
Which was expected, if I should say so myself.
Either way kiddo, you choose a side.
.070508.
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