Autobiographical/ Experiments in Writing

Pills & Booze aka Dirty (circa 2003)

All amped up and no place to go feelin as clean as a an old semen seedy blood and drugs motel room out on route 13 where the truckers pick up crack whores for $20 suck and fucks and in my head I’d like to see the footage so simple and low-down and don’t you know speed always makes you horny and pornographic and you become the crazy creepy guy that lives at the end of the block leaving his house only for booze and more pills to fuel self-enforced isolation base temptation annihilation the only human voice in the cell draining from stereo speakers towards face of drowned sensation

And in said state all I’ve had to eat today is a single beer and Jack Daniel’s on ice like the chairman of the board but of course I’m chairman of the bored and you knew that was coming because I’m not particularly bright or witty but do strike a good pose sometimes when I mix with the other inmates and the thing about this prison is that no one makes my meals for me so a mess gets worse and with great disregard for mental and physical health I proceed oh so bravely to the front lines shell-shocked hope blocked deep in trench and the order to go over the top is my alarm clock for work true enemy of the people

So I wanna paint a cross on my door as in plague times to ward off the innocent and clean and provide a useful service to the outside where being happy happens still so sweetly on days of endless hours with perfect wind and life-source sun and looking into each others eyes as holy communion while mine just burn computer radiation hitting again with jittering fingers twitching bloated virus corpse past expiration date chemically preserved to persevere loss of all capacity veracity and craving always

Touched in the head as I am and proclaiming myself hazardous I have one talent left and destroying oneself romantically aint as easy as they make it out to be so I’m even too spent to do that with sufficient indignation and passion sucked dry by the needle and white-coats with scrips

It’s really about having your heart broken and shattered faith and no one reels and hurts more than a true believer when exposed to a behind-the-scenes expose or told to go home after the show is over not having known it was a show in the first place which is why heroin was the logical conclusion returning to womb numbness before the curtains went up

But denied that exit denied another ticket another show (because you can never go home) wander as I do outside in my room downing pills and whiskey with porn and guilt and anxiety and regret and empty of energy and interest not quite human anymore

Venus in Furs (circa 2007)

Still lacking joy pale beauty death-angel sexier by the minute calling my name sultry black veiled red-laced madness pushes me to dance with her not flirtatiously but a wedding dance honeymoon oblivion – Both of us damaged goods (who can do more damage?) but for a short time perfect for each other and we shared blood lust and self-loathing and she sat reading “Howl” (into a tape recorder that I would later dub over pure chaotic psychotic layers of hazy guitar cat-killing sounding feedback) –  and inflicting foreplay “love not given lightly”– “I want you to cut me – make me bleed” I would say and she’d take the razor blade to me drawing blood that dripped down my arm and I wanted to fuck her right there and then the sensation of finally feeling something real was intense me being numb to the world loaded on anti-anxiety meds and painkillers to alleviate dope craving and in submission to her I felt free – then it was her turn – “I want you to burn me – brand me” she would say and I’d take the red hot twisted metal and press it into her skin and it would sizzle leaving bright pink wounds and she wanted to fuck me right there and then the sensation waking her from her heroin stupor and in losing control to me she felt free


 Venus in Furs Take 2 (2008)

Dig the scene – it was me and her –she was gloriously strung out on heroin while I took so many downers I needed a cane to walk without falling over cuz that’s what they game me to eradicate my own habit to the needle and spoon – there we were in candlelight my dear mistress holding a box-cutter blade as I heated bent paperclip in candle flame til red glowing hot “So cut me here” I said pointing to a spot on my arm above the purple-blue track marks cuz life is blood primal essence and I wanted her to take it away draw it out with violent lust in her heart so I’d get off and ready myself to fuck her for hours ripping her black stockings to get to her cunt and she’d get wet waiting for sexual attack on her body and she’d murmur “burn me now” and I’d take the fired metal impress it on her pale delicate junkie flesh till it scarred girl-child and drew her out of opiate numbness in an exhilarating flash of sensation – and we’d both really feel alive bleeding and burned hating ourselves just wanting a taste of the lived moment direct with ritual rites of sacrifice lewd lascivious over the line above and beyond banal boring Ken and Barbie Americana foreplay kissing and cuddling’s been done now it was time for submission thrills domination chills for those for whom most thrill are gone



Rave-Up (2008 based on events in 1999)

Ecstasy psychocandy making me tremble eyes unable to focus but feeling filled with love for everything which I’m in unity with and the driving drums propel me heart and mind into this world without absolutes screaming freedom and words in a viscous air of utter mindless drug intoxication feedback noises and amplifiers at their limits of loudness feeding me music straight up a mainline ears unnecessary – all is love wanting to feel and touch that girl dancing til dawn like some amphetamine angel beat-chic from 1955 and 2055 whose tounge-kiss would clear my slate of all hatred I’ve felt towards life her with her bleach-blonde hair in pig-tails and spike-heeled boots moving so liquid fluid as if air really was viscous water – did I mention the club lights phosphorescent glow sticks day-glow accessories adorning all and these images all leaving trails and impressions so that nothing’s wrong anymore and I – ever so buckled over from taking way too many pills like I always do – pass through another night yet out of my mind and just hum and vibrate watching the girl and the crazy scene of youth gone mad all around in tribal dancing gyrating jumping embracing strangers as new consciousness grips and opens up all possibilities all around



Ecstasy Dream #3 (date unknown)

Visions of heavenly angels tingling like when I hear Beethoven’s 9th

Redeeming seducing in the gut spinning head all neurons in rhythm with the song

Universal and innocent – self-loving/selfless

And her face made up appealing to evolution desires and fondness for such displays

So happy then her hands rubbing my back as she sang softly into my ear

Proclaiming her undying love – me gifted with this precious devotion

– All this in a melody



For A.G. (circa 2005)

Pure saintly marijuana rantings

Scribbled journals of dream despair

nightmare memories disgorged

Hallucinating angel blues

Smoking midnight haze of neon street consciousness

Cigarettes, Benzedrine, radiant madman

Suicidal sex dramas

obscene secret vibrations

sordid moans and shrieks

Bellevue psychotherapy

intoxication eyes

Blown sanity battered bleak lonely alchemy



Scoring (circa 1997)

Any junkie will tell ya that going to score is a rush in & of itself – so driven with need & empty aching dope-sick body realizing that the pain can just end in a heartbeat if the score goes down like it should, ideally smooth & solid, hands exchanging money & manna from above in quick hassle-free way…
…but you always know it aint gonna happen just like that & that’s where the rush comes from – avoiding getting beat down ripped-off by wanna-be thugs & real ones shady cool professional purveyors of shit quality or quantity ready like pissed off pit bulls to jump you – it’s steering clear of obstacles & hazards like an athlete & trying to deal only & whenever possible with pushers who believe in doing good old fashioned business, good for keeping loyal customers
…and the rush continues blazing through traffic counting money looking for the best corners of dealers like one’s with lookouts and even new works for an extra $2 from a homeless man (O! God! WE’VE GOTTA GET NEW NEEDLES while we’re up here – count the money again!) tearing through burned out boarded up derelict neighborhoods dodging any dealer rivalries & grudges that later tonight ends with a gunshot crackling loud through somebody’s body & the blasted bodega window he stood in front of just a mere moment ago
– don’t get caught up in any of the numerous traps and tricks of the junkie obstacle course including, of course the police they can never be ignored so eyes peeled drive as normal as possible and don’t look too obviously out of place like having out of state plates in a “high drug area” they’ll tag ya for that so fast you wont even be able to pull the needle out of your arm before the red white lights & siren instantly kill you cuz you’re a dead man without dope in yer system & coppers don’t really let ya have yer fix before taking ya in for the typical authoritarian bullshit drug war speech or the demeaning “you should get help kid” speech so yeah, there’s a lot to making a score go down right but there’s a lot more out there fixin to make yer life miserable today just because he can, they can, hell, fate can – my car broke down in a shady part of Philly overheating & I was only a few blocks away from my medicine which I was startin to need getting the first twinges & bone-aches muscle spasms hot & cold flashes & just not being mentally all put together, but without any real car knowledge I fixed what was wrong like someone else was doing it through me, the dope drive making its presence known by granting me just enough cool to chill & rig a temporary fix that got me those extra blocks where I was now known by name & tried to deal with the same guys every time & one time it was hot with cops everywhere frisking the usual suspects & taking notes on the cars that were driving by the corner they were taking down that day, pure chaos was breaking out between several police officers in cars some on foot & the dozen or so dealers they were trying to question in such a fucked up not-very thought out manner as soon as they’d settle a few dealers into leaning onto their cars the dealers waiting to get questioned were still selling literally 10 feet behind this substantial police presence…
… I got sucked into this mess, my dealer yelling at me to move my car back so the cops wouldn’t spot me in the rear-views he scrambled quickly to my car still yelling “It’s HOT Ya gotta get the fuck outta here so gimme yer money quick boy & get the fuck outta here he says again – I stashed the smack down my long-johns did some illegal backing up & an illegal u-turn but I made it out with the goods & the rush flowed through me I was gonna get out alive & with my medicine (cuz that’s what junk becomes to a junkie) & during the whole thing Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult was jamming on my radio which seemed appropriate but did a serious number on my nerves – still had to get outta the neighborhood which I so obviously didn’t fit in to now the rush switches from an anxiety-craving-driven one to a rush of soon-to-be- had total relief & never underestimate how much of a high it can be breaking the law & risking your own life limb & liberty in the sole pursuit of the ONE thing that’ll take away every care in the world & make you feel like warm & loose & itchy & heavenly & now the last hurdle to jump was to fix up in the car while driving 60mph down the highway through traffic – it’s tricky but it can be done if you think it through – first have all yer gear ready to go have bags of dope already open a bottle of water, have at least one good vein & ya roll up yer tight shirt sleeve (shirts especially worn for their ability to function properly) like a tourniquet nestle the spoon gently in the folds of your jeans on your lap mix the dope & water & you keep driving with one hand keeping one eye on the road one on the spoon, you switch to using your knees to steer so you can heat the spoon which you do with the precision of a brain surgeon gently taking the wheel with one hand again now, you just need to find that good vein & shoot the instant nirvana into yer awaiting system then the rush of scoring & the smack rush both hit you full force & you nod off a little, so ya slow down to 50mph maintain yer high with music loud & just zone out on the rode the whole way home.
Footnote to Scoring: A man in a truck much higher than my car looked into my car and saw me shooting up. He proceeded to chase me at speeds upwards of 70mph for several miles bobbing and weaving through traffic until I drove straight just about 20 yards from an exit ramp. I jerked the steering wheel hard to the right cutting across gravel and grass and took the exit so fast he couldn’t follow me anymore. This was one of the few times I’ve had a buzz that good killed so quickly.

 For William S. Burroughs (circa 2003)

 Junkies feeding habits disorder disease of boiling delirium – explosive bestial masturbation and the addicts spurt phosphorescent orgasm of electric smoke white chlorine schizophrenic blood kick, strangulation assault – hypnotize hungry machine, wounded pushers, spectral sheep


Under Medical Supervision (circa 2003)

It’s all about pills you see (methadone is soo last year…) I have a condition personal rendition story so sad what are we going to do with the boy? His minds broken ya know ever since the heroin he takes no comfort or pleasure in life having achieved the highest high which takes ya to the line between life and death but it was too much dreamland intoxicating morpheus morphine glorious annihilation with a needle trance his chance at feeling finally comfortable and free of pesky existential questions taken seriously while people just 9 to 5 and don’t bother well he fucked himself up good clinically speaking and everything after dope became mere shadows without color or texture so it’s pills now and psychotherapy but isn’t smack the perfect commodity and therefore the holiest thing produced by capitalism isn’t it the ultimate consumable in a world of consumption?


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