Furnace
Ex-Bluelighter
My life is a gongshow.
Madness thinly veiled as an excuse
To make a story out of the night's adventures.
Sure, I'll eat a handful of mushrooms
And call it "researching for my newest story".
Sometimes I feel like a fraud or a cheat.
Ripping off stories already told
Back when drugs were more dangerous and had names like
Bennies and blottos and were available in a tube.
Now, the only tube I squeeze out is my toothpaste
Or some lube (that is if I'm lucky to have my charming powers on for the night)
It's all a facade where I quote The Tragically Hip,
it would seem to me I remember every single fucking thing I know.
But it's hard when you're told that every story has already been told.
The Lion King is pretty much Hamlet.
Very Bad Things is a twisted version of Macbeth.
And Shakespeare stole all his stories from ancient tales told to him
When he was just a weeeeee lad.
I want to write a great smack novel, but without the fear of becoming a junky
In order to feel what my characters feel.
I don't want to write the greatest mdma story ever told,
Strictly using the few times I've been truly happy on the drug.
A weed story would just get boring and lame after 10 minutes (see Half Baked)
Everything's already been said, and those who have said them aren't dead.
So I wait for my muses to die off, one by one,
Pancreatic cancer, overdoses, and murders are on their menus.
And I'm their waiter, praying for a good tip or two.
"Sure, you've been looking at your deadly speedball for 15 minutes now...
Are you sure you'll be able to finish it? I can pack that in a doggy bag for you..."
"Get away from me, you culinary swine! You're just waiting for me to keel over
And grab my aviator glasses and fishing hat from my cold bloated body!"
Where’s my inspirational flash of insight
That turns my life into a series of ugly Casanova stories
Where the plain looking big dude gets all the attention
And all of the love of those who know him?
Where's the humor in eating 3 grams of mushrooms at a funeral?
Where can I write a story about someone, who's a good person,
But is selfish enough to do some psychedelics
While he watches his kindergarten teacher getting cremated?
Where's the story in that?
Where's the point in this?
Where is my muse?
Madness thinly veiled as an excuse
To make a story out of the night's adventures.
Sure, I'll eat a handful of mushrooms
And call it "researching for my newest story".
Sometimes I feel like a fraud or a cheat.
Ripping off stories already told
Back when drugs were more dangerous and had names like
Bennies and blottos and were available in a tube.
Now, the only tube I squeeze out is my toothpaste
Or some lube (that is if I'm lucky to have my charming powers on for the night)
It's all a facade where I quote The Tragically Hip,
it would seem to me I remember every single fucking thing I know.
But it's hard when you're told that every story has already been told.
The Lion King is pretty much Hamlet.
Very Bad Things is a twisted version of Macbeth.
And Shakespeare stole all his stories from ancient tales told to him
When he was just a weeeeee lad.
I want to write a great smack novel, but without the fear of becoming a junky
In order to feel what my characters feel.
I don't want to write the greatest mdma story ever told,
Strictly using the few times I've been truly happy on the drug.
A weed story would just get boring and lame after 10 minutes (see Half Baked)
Everything's already been said, and those who have said them aren't dead.
So I wait for my muses to die off, one by one,
Pancreatic cancer, overdoses, and murders are on their menus.
And I'm their waiter, praying for a good tip or two.
"Sure, you've been looking at your deadly speedball for 15 minutes now...
Are you sure you'll be able to finish it? I can pack that in a doggy bag for you..."
"Get away from me, you culinary swine! You're just waiting for me to keel over
And grab my aviator glasses and fishing hat from my cold bloated body!"
Where’s my inspirational flash of insight
That turns my life into a series of ugly Casanova stories
Where the plain looking big dude gets all the attention
And all of the love of those who know him?
Where's the humor in eating 3 grams of mushrooms at a funeral?
Where can I write a story about someone, who's a good person,
But is selfish enough to do some psychedelics
While he watches his kindergarten teacher getting cremated?
Where's the story in that?
Where's the point in this?
Where is my muse?
