EntrenchdMentalist
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jun 3, 2006
- Messages
- 106
Hi all,
This is my first post on Bluelight in over 5 years, the first using this username, and my first in the words forum. I was told about this forum by Wordy and I thought I'd stick my head in and there's some cool stuff here 8)
I thought since it's bluelight and all that my first posted should be oozing with drug-talk, so this is a piece I wrote in October last year the day after a particularly enjoyable K-trip. I'm not really a drug writer per se, just a writer, pimping my prose for all it's worth
My future pieces will be a bit more diverse.
ENJOY!
Ket-chump
Roll up, roll up. Get in line to pack your trunk. Prepare to ride the gravy-plane over the plains of pain, dissociate from your state of blind. Get on the back of the one and only billion trick pony. Settling in to the visual din din. From left to right in the middle of the night, we're doing the glance dance. Step through my pupil and back through your own, mark off the sacred zone that forms between three domes. The feedback is triplicate when you've got the fate of your mate wrapped up in a birth date. Arrivals are down but departures are through the roof, which now that you mention it seems a lot closer than the floor did before. Don't get me started on the walls, they lead to the stares. I don't like to bandy about terms like pan-dimensionality unless it's quite the right sliver of light that I see in the angles between the broken hollow sublime rectangles of reality soup served ice cold with a mouldy bread roll made of mild mannered mind wallop. Sorry about that, old chap. You're bound to miss a few and get back to the sidetrack, Jack. Hit the road, try not to explode, then surreptitiously check your dacks for cack. What once remains can leave wild graphic stains, but for now lets get back to the brains. Quantum cancellation of the kaleidoscopic quagmire. I've seen longer nanoseconds on a broken record-cord-cord-cord-cord. Scratch that. My left eye scopes a sample scene, skewered on the golden spleen of splenty. Moment follows moment, with but a moment in between, dancing round the silky sheen of reality and right into the comfort zone which is a bit like a time zone but less linear and more minute. This sort of thing is all held together by powdered string. Granular mentality gave way to specks of spacetime which apply liberally to the fabric of face in your place, London. Madrid: don't forget, kid. It's your destiny for the rest of me. Memories of times past from the blast of the blue black oblivion of half-arsed attempts to get sideways and making it, just. Only a quarter turn of the head required, if desired, to bare witness to the familiar sights and sounds of the last episode of this giggles-and-shit-ness. We three kings of metaculture, flying with the ketavulture, drinking from the spring of time and re-living our finest momentary unsanities. Don't try too hard, you might actually achieve something out of nothing but thin air and guided mind missiles. Everyone's along for the slide, or are they? Either way. As long as I got my team of crack troops behind me, leading me blindly through the sides of the night sky, then things'll be so chumpy you could carve a right old chunk out of the middle of the room and replace it with the words of nerds and arrange them in some kind of regular, repetitive call and response to a crisis of consciousness.
Unconcerned about the regular forms of communication, new syllables drip from the lips of the hip young things that share this trip, bouncing off your eardrums and into the confusion centres of the well oiled but ultimately flawed brain and cause you to complain of the lack of validity amongst the valid and then there's the omnipresent overload of reality in the whole surreal deal until you squeal. Who said that? There it is again, that angelic voice of the pure unadulterated gibbering of dribblish. From the mouths of grabes chid the quunting tringle mizzle chizzle, you dizzle? Thought so; clever lot, this trio of tranq-skanks. We cure what snails ya. Don't mess with us, you'll get awesomed to the ultra-stumpy. No legs, not so jumpy now that it's wearing off, tearing off shreds of deja vu confetti that blow away on a current of airborne mind jizz. You missed a spot. Standing, then walking. Baby steps off the platform and into the platfunction of attitude junction. Get my breath back off that runaway crane before I have to break out the emergency supplies of sharp replies. In the not so distance, comes shimmering a door. The door is a portal, the portal a 'chute. Landing safely, but don't forget the sneaky second wind; it's likely to blow you sky high on the sly. Ya dig?
DEDICATED TO BEN AND ERIS, WHO ARE GOOD MEN TO HAVE IN A TIGHT KITCHEN. IF YOU READ TOO MUCH INTO THIS, YOU'RE ALMOST THERE.
This is my first post on Bluelight in over 5 years, the first using this username, and my first in the words forum. I was told about this forum by Wordy and I thought I'd stick my head in and there's some cool stuff here 8)
I thought since it's bluelight and all that my first posted should be oozing with drug-talk, so this is a piece I wrote in October last year the day after a particularly enjoyable K-trip. I'm not really a drug writer per se, just a writer, pimping my prose for all it's worth
My future pieces will be a bit more diverse.ENJOY!
Ket-chump
Roll up, roll up. Get in line to pack your trunk. Prepare to ride the gravy-plane over the plains of pain, dissociate from your state of blind. Get on the back of the one and only billion trick pony. Settling in to the visual din din. From left to right in the middle of the night, we're doing the glance dance. Step through my pupil and back through your own, mark off the sacred zone that forms between three domes. The feedback is triplicate when you've got the fate of your mate wrapped up in a birth date. Arrivals are down but departures are through the roof, which now that you mention it seems a lot closer than the floor did before. Don't get me started on the walls, they lead to the stares. I don't like to bandy about terms like pan-dimensionality unless it's quite the right sliver of light that I see in the angles between the broken hollow sublime rectangles of reality soup served ice cold with a mouldy bread roll made of mild mannered mind wallop. Sorry about that, old chap. You're bound to miss a few and get back to the sidetrack, Jack. Hit the road, try not to explode, then surreptitiously check your dacks for cack. What once remains can leave wild graphic stains, but for now lets get back to the brains. Quantum cancellation of the kaleidoscopic quagmire. I've seen longer nanoseconds on a broken record-cord-cord-cord-cord. Scratch that. My left eye scopes a sample scene, skewered on the golden spleen of splenty. Moment follows moment, with but a moment in between, dancing round the silky sheen of reality and right into the comfort zone which is a bit like a time zone but less linear and more minute. This sort of thing is all held together by powdered string. Granular mentality gave way to specks of spacetime which apply liberally to the fabric of face in your place, London. Madrid: don't forget, kid. It's your destiny for the rest of me. Memories of times past from the blast of the blue black oblivion of half-arsed attempts to get sideways and making it, just. Only a quarter turn of the head required, if desired, to bare witness to the familiar sights and sounds of the last episode of this giggles-and-shit-ness. We three kings of metaculture, flying with the ketavulture, drinking from the spring of time and re-living our finest momentary unsanities. Don't try too hard, you might actually achieve something out of nothing but thin air and guided mind missiles. Everyone's along for the slide, or are they? Either way. As long as I got my team of crack troops behind me, leading me blindly through the sides of the night sky, then things'll be so chumpy you could carve a right old chunk out of the middle of the room and replace it with the words of nerds and arrange them in some kind of regular, repetitive call and response to a crisis of consciousness.
Unconcerned about the regular forms of communication, new syllables drip from the lips of the hip young things that share this trip, bouncing off your eardrums and into the confusion centres of the well oiled but ultimately flawed brain and cause you to complain of the lack of validity amongst the valid and then there's the omnipresent overload of reality in the whole surreal deal until you squeal. Who said that? There it is again, that angelic voice of the pure unadulterated gibbering of dribblish. From the mouths of grabes chid the quunting tringle mizzle chizzle, you dizzle? Thought so; clever lot, this trio of tranq-skanks. We cure what snails ya. Don't mess with us, you'll get awesomed to the ultra-stumpy. No legs, not so jumpy now that it's wearing off, tearing off shreds of deja vu confetti that blow away on a current of airborne mind jizz. You missed a spot. Standing, then walking. Baby steps off the platform and into the platfunction of attitude junction. Get my breath back off that runaway crane before I have to break out the emergency supplies of sharp replies. In the not so distance, comes shimmering a door. The door is a portal, the portal a 'chute. Landing safely, but don't forget the sneaky second wind; it's likely to blow you sky high on the sly. Ya dig?
DEDICATED TO BEN AND ERIS, WHO ARE GOOD MEN TO HAVE IN A TIGHT KITCHEN. IF YOU READ TOO MUCH INTO THIS, YOU'RE ALMOST THERE.
