Some shit I wrote on drugs two years ago

Time has passed. Thoughts and paradigms have been entombed beneath new layers of crystalline conceptual structures. Still, what is already known and what much be known should always be expressed succinctly. What must be done is performed not through script but through the fist which grasps the blade, held low.

I am no more. That haphazard amalgate of ill-fitted parts and tawdry relics saved like dirt under fingernaills — I stretched it out before me like a winged appendage — and cut. Hacking bespeaks unstill intent. Surgeons slice their mark with efficient movement and thus they preserve life. Nature abhors sloppy craftmanship.

A raven sits on a fencepost. Between you lies a field of wheat, painted white by the falling snow. You feel warm despite winter’s grasp. Beginning to walk, you feel a cold hand pull on your heel. You fall, and weakly rise back to your feet. One more step and the world warps and twists around you. You fall again and after this there is only the black.

Crushed like pale hands shielding paler face from the falling ceiling of a collapsing cavern. Torn like an atom in an atom bomb. An amnesiac with sweating hand writing in a book before sleep.

Look through the porthole. From where you were it looked so small, like you would barely be able to press your face against it. As you neared it grew. Soon stark stars sat around you rather than above, soon the outer edge of that ouroburos was lost into the night. Don’t look down, for only the abyss will greet you. Lay to rest on that narrow porthole edge, a curve reduced to a flat line. Let your feet dangle over the edge while you watch the moon transverse the sky. Feel your other eye begin to open.

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~ by ethmgallagher on April 19, 2010.

One Response to “Some shit I wrote on drugs two years ago”

  1. […] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Raoul Zappacosta. Raoul Zappacosta said: psychedelic-induced prose http://tinyurl.com/y5quubo […]

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