Tracing your own crime scene...p.s you did it.
It’s pretty clear to turn tail and run.
When you’re on top of the world like Al Jolson.
And then crash like Syd Barrett.
Yelling at the clone on the wall.
“******* SWINE...HOW COULD YOU!?”.
IDiot.
The tub water has drowned the floor.
You’re long gone with golden hair.
Taking all the acid tabs, mescaline, ether, bloodleaf letters, and the small bottle of goldbond lotion.
“How dare you” I ask.
Coursing with enraged grief.
I feel it; the intense measure if deterioration.
Taking its time skipping along side the sounds of Octopus by the man himself.
All while you melt into the typewriter’s ink.
Unable to walk as you would fall into the infinite muck.
“How do you leave” you ask.
“HANG IN THERE!” I yell.
Why I am I yelling.
I didn’t think this was a side effect.
I can hear just fine.
“****! Who turned off the lights!?”.
“Buddy! You gotta leave now” someone behind me gracefully said.
“What do mean, I just got here!”.
“Feller, you’ve been here for about five hours now, and I think it’s best if you went home”.
MY GOD!.
How long was I in that terribly fascinating state.
What had gone on was to be decided by for the entire variety of the heavy drugs that were seducing the situation.
Why didn’t they kick me out in the first ten minutes I was there.
There must of been a slow start...Then sped up near the end.
But how the hell would I know.
I was told I had been there for five hours and counting.
When I thought I had just sat down from taking a ****.
“Jerry, How are you?”. I asked.
.
.
.
“That’s for you to decide, man”
Garrett Johnson.
