Drugs, drugs, drugs, i want some drugs and it to be thursday, i want Svet here and something, anything to smoke. i wish i had a reason to take a stimulant, i seem to find needs only for things i can't have:


To Tell You the Truth

When everything potentially shiny
seems covered in slowly advancing
phantom fungus,
and you can imagine shadows everywhere,
then you’re
far enough
for the shriek
of sheet metal tearing
to be drowned out
in the white
noise
of every
particle in the room
vibrating violently,
shaking the sound around them.

and

Sometime around nine
my optic nerves
became dried out,
over stretched
rubber bands
melted to my retinas,
the eyeballs sagging in their sockets.

To tell you the truth,
PCP is so
two thousand and three.
There’s something both
visceral and industrial
about it.

I guess

Appropriation’s a bitch,
especially when what’s appropriated
is man’s dominion over beast
as a means of debasing
ourselves
whilst maintaining total control.