The male announcer's voice was heard loud and clear over the microphone: "Ladies and gentlemen TJ
has left the building." Stage curtains come down, lights slowly come
on, audience scatters away as they carry on multitudes of
simultaneous conversations while TJ is whisked away by an imaginary
crew, in an imaginary private jet plane, getting ready to slam some
NOT imaginary chemicals as well as those imagined too in the slight
chance doing both could take her HIGHER and higher.
After all, thinks TJ to herself, more is never enough, more is always
better, desire is higher, higher is dire, it's a blast to go fast, a
need for speed and limits to not take heed. The rig is up, loaded,
she's tied off as The Doors song with Jim's voice belting out "You
know that it would be untrue. You know that I would be a liar if I
was to say to you girl we couldn't get much HIGHER....."
Rod Sterling appears on a big TV screen saying, "This is your final
warning to get out while you still can if anyone with us is
actually not insane. Those of sound mind that do not take heed, may
find themselves taking a journey permanently into the unstable mind
and a never ending trip into "The Meth Head Zone."
Until next time, try not to associate with artists, musicians,
actors, or even respectable workaholic MDs and criminal defense
attorneys for they may too be partaking of legal and illegal
methamphetamines silently waiting to convert harmless, law abiding
earthlings into subhumanoids or worse yet into a life of forced
debauchery. You could end up a permanent freak forever enslaved to an
alien, unknown galaxy of never ending trips to "The Meth Head Zone."
Rod Sterling's loud freakish laughter is heard and the last
disturbing noise is that of evil, maniacal laughter, silence, then
the paralyzing possibilities of the listener's endless parade of
horrifying nightmares being trapped into a hell called "The Meth Head
Zone."
On the big TV screen, flashing scenes of tweekers everywhere are
shown carpet farming and diligently pursuing their full time
obsessions on curtain patrol in between tokes on the glass dick, and
sliding sharp spikes into their veins until they bleed in order to
attempt to satisfy the never ending hunger of their inner beast,
surrendering to the quiet command, the voice of the beast saying
softly, "Feed me. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me."
If met with refusal by the meth head, then lovely endless pictures of
bliss are randomly shown in an attempt of deceitful, enticement of
all the numerous good trips had and yet to be had in another attempt
to get the user to do that which they love and hate to the very core
of their being, which is to USE. Just a little more. Get together one
more time. Live it up, be wild, be free. After all no one here gets
out alive. Might as well go out with a BANG.
Aware or unaware, on some level, many have uttered prayers to a demi god of some sort at some time, just as the chemicals are mixed with the color red and it's the vitality, or a snip of it that serves as the sacrifice, not the blood itself. A peice of your soul, your life force in exchange for that altered perception, or state of mind sought after since infinity. The law of physics regarding matter, not creating, not destroying, merely changing the molecular levels the result being intoxicants varying from one form to another, delivering a state of intoxication. Some pray to the needle, some to the bottle, some to the capsule, whatever they pray nonetheless.
Oh Goddess of Meth I'm a lush for your rush
Let's go full throttle at full thrust
Proceed to race like a wild stallion born
From a schizophrenic mare on PCP
And sired by a creature from Hades, of demon seed
Goddess of Meth, goddess of dust
Banish forever the curse of mundane
Grant me the privilege of being insane
Protect me from an existence
Of dull and boring persistence
Goddess of meth this I pray
Keep predictability, repetition, and routine astray
Grant me a life of sensation seeking bliss
In the absence of monetary capital, I won't desist
For with you I can travel anywhere at my whim
And be content with poverty, only not so grim
Goddess of meth, of fast and furious highs
I long for heaven, to soar your skies
Of undiscovered magnitudes in colors unseen
And philosophies, talents, traits and things
Dismissed as impossible, unattainable, when sober
What could this mean?
I've tasted a glimpse of your gourmet bakery
The olfactory sensations WHOA
Those new and exciting aural stimulation's
Make me yearn more for your additional tactile creations
Your visuals are so very intense
Your powers of enhancement I am convinced
Life in the flesh hasn't been the same sense
I've experienced the torment and pain
Of a life without vitality, that's routine and mundane
Such a life's only purpose to serve
How glorious and bright by contrast
Like a dull, straight highway, with sudden dangerous curves
Daring and beckoning the driver to go 120 mph fast
Experiencing life to the fullest before she ultimately crashed
A shooting star burning brilliant and flying fast
At 10,000,000 miles high
She goes out in a glorious fury
She'd have it no other way, not to worry
The best way is the fast way
What more is there to say?
The only way to live
To feel alive is to PLAY!
Jim Morrison's ominous soft, rich, voice with that disturbing organ
playing in the background can be heard warning, "This is the end
beautiful friend the end. This is the end my only friend the end. It
hurts to set you free. But you'll never follow me. The end of
laughter and soft lies. The end of things we tried to hide.
THIS.....IS.....THE....ENNNDDDDDDD..."
has left the building." Stage curtains come down, lights slowly come
on, audience scatters away as they carry on multitudes of
simultaneous conversations while TJ is whisked away by an imaginary
crew, in an imaginary private jet plane, getting ready to slam some
NOT imaginary chemicals as well as those imagined too in the slight
chance doing both could take her HIGHER and higher.
After all, thinks TJ to herself, more is never enough, more is always
better, desire is higher, higher is dire, it's a blast to go fast, a
need for speed and limits to not take heed. The rig is up, loaded,
she's tied off as The Doors song with Jim's voice belting out "You
know that it would be untrue. You know that I would be a liar if I
was to say to you girl we couldn't get much HIGHER....."
Rod Sterling appears on a big TV screen saying, "This is your final
warning to get out while you still can if anyone with us is
actually not insane. Those of sound mind that do not take heed, may
find themselves taking a journey permanently into the unstable mind
and a never ending trip into "The Meth Head Zone."
Until next time, try not to associate with artists, musicians,
actors, or even respectable workaholic MDs and criminal defense
attorneys for they may too be partaking of legal and illegal
methamphetamines silently waiting to convert harmless, law abiding
earthlings into subhumanoids or worse yet into a life of forced
debauchery. You could end up a permanent freak forever enslaved to an
alien, unknown galaxy of never ending trips to "The Meth Head Zone."
Rod Sterling's loud freakish laughter is heard and the last
disturbing noise is that of evil, maniacal laughter, silence, then
the paralyzing possibilities of the listener's endless parade of
horrifying nightmares being trapped into a hell called "The Meth Head
Zone."
On the big TV screen, flashing scenes of tweekers everywhere are
shown carpet farming and diligently pursuing their full time
obsessions on curtain patrol in between tokes on the glass dick, and
sliding sharp spikes into their veins until they bleed in order to
attempt to satisfy the never ending hunger of their inner beast,
surrendering to the quiet command, the voice of the beast saying
softly, "Feed me. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me."
If met with refusal by the meth head, then lovely endless pictures of
bliss are randomly shown in an attempt of deceitful, enticement of
all the numerous good trips had and yet to be had in another attempt
to get the user to do that which they love and hate to the very core
of their being, which is to USE. Just a little more. Get together one
more time. Live it up, be wild, be free. After all no one here gets
out alive. Might as well go out with a BANG.
Aware or unaware, on some level, many have uttered prayers to a demi god of some sort at some time, just as the chemicals are mixed with the color red and it's the vitality, or a snip of it that serves as the sacrifice, not the blood itself. A peice of your soul, your life force in exchange for that altered perception, or state of mind sought after since infinity. The law of physics regarding matter, not creating, not destroying, merely changing the molecular levels the result being intoxicants varying from one form to another, delivering a state of intoxication. Some pray to the needle, some to the bottle, some to the capsule, whatever they pray nonetheless.
Oh Goddess of Meth I'm a lush for your rush
Let's go full throttle at full thrust
Proceed to race like a wild stallion born
From a schizophrenic mare on PCP
And sired by a creature from Hades, of demon seed
Goddess of Meth, goddess of dust
Banish forever the curse of mundane
Grant me the privilege of being insane
Protect me from an existence
Of dull and boring persistence
Goddess of meth this I pray
Keep predictability, repetition, and routine astray
Grant me a life of sensation seeking bliss
In the absence of monetary capital, I won't desist
For with you I can travel anywhere at my whim
And be content with poverty, only not so grim
Goddess of meth, of fast and furious highs
I long for heaven, to soar your skies
Of undiscovered magnitudes in colors unseen
And philosophies, talents, traits and things
Dismissed as impossible, unattainable, when sober
What could this mean?
I've tasted a glimpse of your gourmet bakery
The olfactory sensations WHOA
Those new and exciting aural stimulation's
Make me yearn more for your additional tactile creations
Your visuals are so very intense
Your powers of enhancement I am convinced
Life in the flesh hasn't been the same sense
I've experienced the torment and pain
Of a life without vitality, that's routine and mundane
Such a life's only purpose to serve
How glorious and bright by contrast
Like a dull, straight highway, with sudden dangerous curves
Daring and beckoning the driver to go 120 mph fast
Experiencing life to the fullest before she ultimately crashed
A shooting star burning brilliant and flying fast
At 10,000,000 miles high
She goes out in a glorious fury
She'd have it no other way, not to worry
The best way is the fast way
What more is there to say?
The only way to live
To feel alive is to PLAY!
Jim Morrison's ominous soft, rich, voice with that disturbing organ
playing in the background can be heard warning, "This is the end
beautiful friend the end. This is the end my only friend the end. It
hurts to set you free. But you'll never follow me. The end of
laughter and soft lies. The end of things we tried to hide.
THIS.....IS.....THE....ENNNDDDDDDD..."
I never really know what anyone else will think, but my mind is constantly showing me mental pictures of all sorts I sometimes feel compelled to write down, so thanks again.