Drearily Sane Sutra

"If you hate the taste of wine, why do you drink it till you're blind?" - Bright Eyes

My girl is working off her hangover
while I write off my headache
and the strive to betterment
feels natural and nasty

the shakes can be reduced
to the ballistics on the spasm
of this bundle of nerves

chemical reduction falls short
and electrons laugh as they
bind my four-dimensional thoughts
bundle humming the sonic sum waveform
chiseled into my system, THE system
laying out life's path as the paisley peaks
play out a nervous ringtone for the
four billionth untapped variation on the
music of the spheres, ringing the undone
unsung song because i can, because i must
because what else is there to do when you're
trapped in sartre's trip through mescalito's bowels,
trapped in the tract of aesthetic digestion
for the sake of, for the sake of, for the sake of
sake, and japanese spirits, and anime porn, and
the orifice woman who let, who let, who let her
hormones flow, discovered sexual secrets i'll never know, O,
at an age where i was still obsessed with psychedelics
and it's dizzying to think that gentlemen younger than me
in their gentlemen's clubs got their rocks off with sexual enslavement
but i don't care enough to play the devil.

Horribly fascinating to think though
that if this sutra kept going, crossed over into life
I would be cast as the devil cause
you can't be God forever but
you can play the game of holding out, standoff
in the cosmic crossfire flanging fever dreams.
I've still got my poker face on, i'm holding on
to something, i don't know what, what looks to me
like a royal flush, but reality says
the suit doesn't match.

Zastrozzi makes more sense to me every day and I identify with him because I'm sick.
I must commit evil to be well, pain is medicine, tragedy is health
where is victor, I will cut him into thirty-two pieces of equal size.

And all these years i've been making
a massive metaphysical mistake
thinking of infinity
as ALL
not the infinite
which makes all the difference in the world.

Mon deiu, the figure eight is just a figure of speech.

Hari krishna, hari hari
drop out, be in ~

I'm not an astrologer but I know the Age of Aquarius is over. The dawn is dead. This is the five thousandth mighty iteration of the fall of Rome. Wizards and Wise Women positioning themselves, rooks and kings castling, players planning mad moves as the bubbles drift by, the housing bubble, the boy in the bubble, the boy king.

It still feels like the last line. I should contrive a junkpile of lexical intent and claim it's a detelescoped summation of human history and myth. I should obfuscate to avoid direct drug metaphors. If I was a writer of Joyce's stature, I would imbed a mini-story in this paragraph that would say everything worth saying about the implications of chemical intoxicants without mentioning any substances but rather embodying their contours in context and subtext, characterized, anthropomorphized, stylistically tailored to perfection and fractally resonating through the rest of this writing. But I'm not, so I'll just lop off the line at LINE, since a reference to coke would make me puke.

John Lennon said, with great conviction it would seem, that GENIUS is PAIN. But he wasn't talking about the pain ostensible mediocrities deal with on a daily basis, since when you're a member of a supergroup with a legion of admirers, there are a wealth of options for blocking out conventional pain. No, I know what he was talking about, even though I am, ostensibly I tell you, ostensibly, one of the ostensible mediocrities, even as the stink of psychedelic shit caking the walls of mescalito's bowels has me gagging more than loling. Lennon was talking about the pain of the creator, the goddamned god, having to go on, the web that god gets into, and on the seventh day, He let the lilliputians devour Him slowly.

Even the geniuses are laughably, pitifully limited. Rock stars play their role like everyone else. I jumped into the middle of a Cobain bio today (the chapter was called: "wasted") and felt right at home. It's nice to have someone play the role of rock martyr for you - so you don't have to do it yourself. Kurt was right in his intuition, it was funner to watch him than to be him.

There are many ways to hollow out. There is genius and there is asceticism. They aren't mutually exclusive, but the archetypes I associate with them are.

Now I fiend for innocence, the novelty of novelty. That and tranquility. Innocent novelty, the desire for retrograde, is my upper - peace is my downer. Linearality feels so stomach-churningly profound and terrible. I want to go back. I know how pompous I sound as I say this. There's so much I haven't done, so much I don't know. But I don't know how to write my novel now, because I've sloughed off so many paradigms like snake skins. I might have to treat it as fantasy and not the reality it once was for me. Its dendrites have vapourized in the blast furnace of my brain. But get away from me with that drill, just because I boosted my production of serotonin with dodgy frankenstein molecules and set my neurons firing in maddening chain reactions doesn't mean I'm into trepanation. Not yet anyway. The devil has never been obvious to me, and I never trusted those cross-wearing ghostbusters.

Bright Eyes is singing about a "yellow bird" now, and I think he's sounding like an idiot, but intellect is strong enough to insist that despite my emotional flinch, one day I will fully appreciate the symbolism.

Ah my flawed goddess - she is a check on my mental illness - she herself is ill but we reflect each other, we compliment in sickness and health. Maybe one day we will be shamanic healers, accreditation from the spirits and not the alcoholic ones.

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