Mr-Tambourine-Man
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2009
- Messages
- 131
Motel-Mildew-Methamphetamine Blues
By John Scott Holman
Be still and listen, for the night has grown its teeth. The medicine man is late and the subterranean, drainpipe children gnaw off their yellow fingernails in anticipation. They peek through the shutters, these film-noir vampires, in a three a.m. motel room. Chemical sweat. Fear and trembling. Manic desire.
Finally, a ghostlike shuffling of feet outside the door -- the dope man. He creeps in like a dirty dishwater shadow. Pockets the cash with thin blue fingers before reluctantly relinquishing the drugs. Then he is gone, blowing down the alley, just a trenchcoat tumbleweed.
Hurry, bolt the door! Get high, get spun, get elevated. Smoke it, snort it, shoot it -- BAM! Send a crackling amphetamine telegram straight to the brain. Now the fiends have refueled and the mad carnivals whirl again within their ashtray eyes.
Pacing, twitching, tweaking. Thoughts like flying bullets. Lights, bells, whistles! A percolating chemical penny arcade. Sweet glow in the dark Jesus, go, go, go, GO!
Flicker...
Flicker...
Fade away...
Silence. The night has lost its rotten teeth. Now a throbbing nightmare drifts into this motel tomb on gentle rays or morning sunlight. Outside the birds sing a chipper tune, a shattering requiem to a dead chemical paradise.
By John Scott Holman
Be still and listen, for the night has grown its teeth. The medicine man is late and the subterranean, drainpipe children gnaw off their yellow fingernails in anticipation. They peek through the shutters, these film-noir vampires, in a three a.m. motel room. Chemical sweat. Fear and trembling. Manic desire.
Finally, a ghostlike shuffling of feet outside the door -- the dope man. He creeps in like a dirty dishwater shadow. Pockets the cash with thin blue fingers before reluctantly relinquishing the drugs. Then he is gone, blowing down the alley, just a trenchcoat tumbleweed.
Hurry, bolt the door! Get high, get spun, get elevated. Smoke it, snort it, shoot it -- BAM! Send a crackling amphetamine telegram straight to the brain. Now the fiends have refueled and the mad carnivals whirl again within their ashtray eyes.
Pacing, twitching, tweaking. Thoughts like flying bullets. Lights, bells, whistles! A percolating chemical penny arcade. Sweet glow in the dark Jesus, go, go, go, GO!
Flicker...
Flicker...
Fade away...
Silence. The night has lost its rotten teeth. Now a throbbing nightmare drifts into this motel tomb on gentle rays or morning sunlight. Outside the birds sing a chipper tune, a shattering requiem to a dead chemical paradise.
