May 2019
When you’ve taken too much mescaline, but stop and think maybe just a little bit more.
Too much info he says.
Too little time.
Too many lines to look over.
Why so much tobacco he says.
Why can’t you stay with us forever they think, feel, and express through all the other emotions.
How bout ya ******* and leave me to my coffee I say.
It’s 3:25 in the morning. I’ve been up to finish a piece about the new development of the “NEXT” atom bomb. The process is heavy but, with the strict drug regimen to give me the somewhat energy to keep my brain kicking I think I can finish it.
Why can’t I just live for once.
Questions.
Questions that cannot be saved for the genocide they take place in.
Overused and over ridden for lost hopes and chances to become anew.
But when you take 5 times too much of peyote, and you start tasting the color yellow.
You then start to think if you'll ever get out.
If you'll ever find the cure for the satanic mess that's occurring on the inside.
Inside the abomination that has crept up the back streets of synapses.
Utterly grooving to the sound of “Like A Rolling Stone” By Bob Dylan.
Sidewalk.
Overpass.
Flag.
Café.
Drink.
This drink sits badly.
Acid.
Flying over melting mountains.
Shimmer.
Swimming through suburbs of death.
Garrett Johnson.
Too much info he says.
Too little time.
Too many lines to look over.
Why so much tobacco he says.
Why can’t you stay with us forever they think, feel, and express through all the other emotions.
How bout ya ******* and leave me to my coffee I say.
It’s 3:25 in the morning. I’ve been up to finish a piece about the new development of the “NEXT” atom bomb. The process is heavy but, with the strict drug regimen to give me the somewhat energy to keep my brain kicking I think I can finish it.
Why can’t I just live for once.
Questions.
Questions that cannot be saved for the genocide they take place in.
Overused and over ridden for lost hopes and chances to become anew.
But when you take 5 times too much of peyote, and you start tasting the color yellow.
You then start to think if you'll ever get out.
If you'll ever find the cure for the satanic mess that's occurring on the inside.
Inside the abomination that has crept up the back streets of synapses.
Utterly grooving to the sound of “Like A Rolling Stone” By Bob Dylan.
Sidewalk.
Overpass.
Flag.
Café.
Drink.
This drink sits badly.
Acid.
Flying over melting mountains.
Shimmer.
Swimming through suburbs of death.
Garrett Johnson.
