discokryptonite
03-22-2009, 09:08 PM
(this old crew)
The nameless assholes that march before me on our way to hell look skeletal in my mind. The flesh eaten away, thin bits of skin hanging off the weak and brittle bone. Our movements shaky, taking us down...down…Away from the warmth of that glorious sun and that bright blue sky into the grey and cold underworld with only the damp chilly blanket of drug use to keep us safe from exposure.
We sit in circles and we laugh but the circular laugh is not the laugh of someone who really has anything worth laughing about. We just laugh and silently we wish we didn’t have to fake it. So we smoke until we laugh.
We complain. We bitch and moan about how goddamn unfair everything is when we possess every quality we need within ourselves already. We could make life worthwhile, something we don’t have to bitch and moan about at every turn. But we love to bitch and moan so we do nothing. We smoke it out of our systems until we laugh.
We make no effort to make any change beyond ‘new place to crash’ ‘new shit to try’ ‘new contacts to score from’. That effort is gone next minute; the shit will erase the effort until the shit runs out again. The effort to score will consume what little reason we still have in our heavily damaged brains. Somehow the brain is still there but not growing, not stimulated, just being misused/underutilized/gradually killed with the shit we smoke until we feel okay enough to laugh about it.
We boast, we brag, we tell stories that could never possibly be true because nobody real is that stupid and none of us mortals are that ridiculously skilled. We tell the tall tales because the truth of our lives is just meaningless and nothing happens anymore… and maybe nothing ever did. We boast and brag and exaggerate what little substance we’ve got until our fried minds cannot tell our identities from our cover stories. So we smoke and we laugh and we feel more ‘alright’ and it’s so much easier to believe those things we say when nothing feels real at all.
We shut out the world. ‘What did reality ever do for me?’ “Ask not what your universe can do for you! Ask what you can do for your universe!” But we cannot not, will not take the step. Never try-never care- but it hurts almost too much, so we just smoke and we try to laugh and we pretend to be content and we stop (or at least we try to stop) the endless flood of emptiness and negativity, if only until we come down too far and had to scramble for more shit. The brain? it dies. And the future? It dies right there with it.
So we keep smoking. To forget that, when we are the skeletons in this physical world, we will have forgotten everything but being weak and brittle boned and heading down, down... Already in the ground we will never see the azure sky overhead again.
Why can’t we just look up?
----------------------------------------
what do you think of it???
The nameless assholes that march before me on our way to hell look skeletal in my mind. The flesh eaten away, thin bits of skin hanging off the weak and brittle bone. Our movements shaky, taking us down...down…Away from the warmth of that glorious sun and that bright blue sky into the grey and cold underworld with only the damp chilly blanket of drug use to keep us safe from exposure.
We sit in circles and we laugh but the circular laugh is not the laugh of someone who really has anything worth laughing about. We just laugh and silently we wish we didn’t have to fake it. So we smoke until we laugh.
We complain. We bitch and moan about how goddamn unfair everything is when we possess every quality we need within ourselves already. We could make life worthwhile, something we don’t have to bitch and moan about at every turn. But we love to bitch and moan so we do nothing. We smoke it out of our systems until we laugh.
We make no effort to make any change beyond ‘new place to crash’ ‘new shit to try’ ‘new contacts to score from’. That effort is gone next minute; the shit will erase the effort until the shit runs out again. The effort to score will consume what little reason we still have in our heavily damaged brains. Somehow the brain is still there but not growing, not stimulated, just being misused/underutilized/gradually killed with the shit we smoke until we feel okay enough to laugh about it.
We boast, we brag, we tell stories that could never possibly be true because nobody real is that stupid and none of us mortals are that ridiculously skilled. We tell the tall tales because the truth of our lives is just meaningless and nothing happens anymore… and maybe nothing ever did. We boast and brag and exaggerate what little substance we’ve got until our fried minds cannot tell our identities from our cover stories. So we smoke and we laugh and we feel more ‘alright’ and it’s so much easier to believe those things we say when nothing feels real at all.
We shut out the world. ‘What did reality ever do for me?’ “Ask not what your universe can do for you! Ask what you can do for your universe!” But we cannot not, will not take the step. Never try-never care- but it hurts almost too much, so we just smoke and we try to laugh and we pretend to be content and we stop (or at least we try to stop) the endless flood of emptiness and negativity, if only until we come down too far and had to scramble for more shit. The brain? it dies. And the future? It dies right there with it.
So we keep smoking. To forget that, when we are the skeletons in this physical world, we will have forgotten everything but being weak and brittle boned and heading down, down... Already in the ground we will never see the azure sky overhead again.
Why can’t we just look up?
----------------------------------------
what do you think of it???