the eve of the great German devil’s birth
the dawn of a Russian death
I don’t care what you’ve heard its worth
spawn of lust and wealth
these fawns are under a spell
too fucked up too tell
yes, you by the rusted well
c’mon, cuss and yell
why do i always stray
for what they say about May
even as I’m consumed
By the tune of June
some hours
our ours of doom
Some powers cant exhume
The flower that never blooms
Needs his showers from a spoon
Come love and lose
From the towers or the tombs
Devoured in the womb
Cower, grin, then woo
These facts seem
Plaques, greed
tax me
Take me to the city
Make em see I’m pretty
It’ll be Italy
Silly me
I’m kidding, see
Be rid of me
Pity me

My shots black like the kettle is

serpents lurking for the hell of it

cursed by the smell of this
slurping this detergent
disbursed behind the curtain
seems perfectly pertinent
with the courage of a sturgeon
A hermit who is cursing
at this surgeon who is purging
Lewd and nude merchants
losing what they purchase
Alert the perky nurses
Its urgent that they surface quick
I just fucking took
A burning, murky purple piss
An irking mist of perfectness
Twerking germans and suburban kids
Turning into quirky Mermaids with no purpose
Earn the turf of earth’s curvy twins
Determined to be birthing sins
Whether its his sermons or his hymns
Or the burdens of the slit wrists
Reoccurring is the fury or the flurry of furry kittens
Blurry is the vision of a supposed dirty virgin killer
The jury of his wisdom is a sturdy early verdict
Burning down a murderous system
Determining your worries or wishes
Give six pence to my six sense
Living in wicked picket fences
Liquid tension from rigid henchmen
She sees me dick as rent
from the middle of a Liberal fest
Living in polished trenches
Singing riddles with college freshman
While Im digging up politicians
Addiction Bigger than God and his son
His liver is just rotten tissue
So stop this riddler with plots to thrill you
Its a sonnet of the forgotten singer
With a lot of toxic issues










mODern family

Mama ain’t around
Daddy says his stomach’s sick
He says its not the flu
You’d think he’d had enough of this
The fuck with it
Maybe just a couple pricks
Another fuckin druggy fixed
In a single sad week
He’s back to abundances
A snake type subtleness
Or tank like suddenness
The trouble is
A bunch of shit
cunning as ugly kids
You cant capture mist
With a fractured fist
Or a rapture wish
you baptist bitch
Itll take more than a slice of life, to
Map out his
with an accurateness
A little pissed at my compass
I picked up from Chris Columbus
Shit luck assumptions
From a quick witted runt kid
Shrink wrapped in the center
Sniff prozac for your temper
Blink fast but cant remember
Drink a glass of past adventures
Damn campfire stories
Band inspired orgies
The Gods fucked up the odds
Who wants a vampire in his forties
If you’re gonna parley
How far the star stays
Play the darn game
Till the arches start to fade
Start the barns ablaze and
Get your compartment barf bags
Tear the cartilage savagely
from a new age partridge family
Get the heartless parts filleted
Im like a carcass in the shade
Watch me vomit up comets
as we’re Nodding out cosmic
I view the gore, which you adore, and
Its seems sound that I am godless
Maple trees with yellow ribbons
Cant save raped babies
Or the selling of children
A nihilist with a vile heist
Smile dykes
While I dial christ
He smiles like
He’s high on ice
Put that Jew on trial twice
Leave the spiral idols spliced
Wish these rats would scatter
Like these fucking viral mice
Moments of silence
Don’t make time stop
Components of violence
Float up in a pine box
you think a widowed old hag
forced to be single, cold and stag
gives a flying fuck
about a dingy folded flag
Con her with some speech of honor
Now her life is Bingo on the rag
I could go on for a 20 second breath
About the fun of restless sex
And it still wouldn’t rest against
or test the depths of
The death and stress of the testaments
Banish me
From the lavish leagues
This odd insanity
Is just our modern family
goblins of the greed
noggins full of weed
hunting for the money tree
robbing all the sod and seeds
steer this like a beer bitch
into where the weird fits
a place where a parents worst fear is
needles and queer kids
andrew jacksons ear
rolled up on this mirror
couldn’t want to hear
or comprehend the sense
when I changed my locks at 10
It was “quick, change the locks again”
bet you never woulda guessed it would end
with restraints
And tanked oxygen
Thank the skank doc again
For the date rape and proper sin
we lost our hopes and dreams
watching washed out dope fiends
shooting up their washes
and talking about what wont be
go ahead and quote me facts
go for gold, coke and smack
once he’s become some old hack
throw his fucking poster back
Ill toast to that
& Roast your ass
this dude is nuts
when he’s shooting junk
an ocean sized dose
but the potion’s totally black
Slaughter your daughter
Now Im the martyr that brought her
A despicable hypocrite
Whose now a junky starter
Its like I’ve filled her with lies
Built her up with pride
Little time until demise
Now a killer in disguise


Image  —  Posted: May 20, 2014 in Anarchy, Current Journal, Pixxx
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Astrology, and all of its ambitious spinoff’s are the spiritual equivalent of trying to get drunk on NA beer, or injecting junk after taking a dose of Suboxone; Its the unplanned orgy that never leads to a climax, or the re-watching of the series finale of The Sopranos. Each anecdote which gets consumed, pondered, then as fast as the last gasp of a 1942 Jew without a gas mask, dies and decays in vain. And so the merciless merry-go-round repeats and rekindles itself, all for the fuck-show and gusto that resonates in being in the beginning of things. Cheers to all those experiencing the wonderful wanderlust that are beginnings, happening at this precise moment.

The Chinese calendar, like most garden variety breeds of Astrology, provides each of its sectioned off calendar dates to the year in which you escaped the womb, an animal for a mascot, each offering up the usual and general list of attributes and weaknesses found in human behavior. My crawling from out the vagina occurred on March 21st of ’84, which happens to label me the lamest and most despicable euphemism in all the underworlds; a rat. A fucking beady eyed, rodent scavenger. How on this Godless green earth can I possibly spin such a sickening certainty so it sounds profound, or seems to gleam? Easy. Add drugs, of course. Nothing injects something extra into the ordinary image of ones self like drugs do.

Leading a life that literally relies on the lies of leeches, and mischief assistance all dope dealers offer, never would allow myself to be a part of the community of cowards the commonly interpreted slang which ‘rat’ embodies. Forgetting the foolery of the moral highroad involved or the lack of basic fucking loyalty of such a mutiny, I simply have required and just as much been too grateful for the dangerous games of an anchored vein, to be sabotaging future priests of relief to be turning them in to the police. Ha! The lone occasion I was recently propositioned with to turn states evidence after a drug raid had me answer as follows:

“Officers, agents, whatever brand of pork you might be, you say I am already busted and left with one fucking problem. If I do what you’re suggesting I will have several fucking problems, leading off with the fact that whenever I’m freed from your useless jail, I will absolutely, with 100% certainty, be seeking a fix; I will be foaming at the gums so profusely, you will swear a fucking Rottweiler ate a box of Elka-Seltzers. Now I doubt either of you two totalitarian swine will bring the syringe my binge will hinge from, so no thanks, pigs”.

Now for the cake batter of brain splatter. Modern, scientific research banged loud in the era of our baby boomers. So much so that they exalted the agony of the common rat, from zero to zenith; All we had to do was get the long tailed vultures completely stoned on government grade dope. Thats right, Ringo. Once the marvels of our minds were unraveled enough for the neurological geeks of the world to feast on, it was soon discovered that mice and rats, more or less have a micro-sized, replica version of our human brain. And since Uncle Sam is Captain Buzzkillington, it was decided by some nameless, dead white men, that we wouldn’t allow our everyday Amerikkkan humans the freedom to opt-in to the utopia of illicit drug analysis or research, but instead grant such a reward to the furry freeloaders known as rats. Since a shit-eating rat cant rig up or chop lines, the stooges in the CIA figured they’d just inject whatever the drug of the day happened to be, directly into the “pleasure center” of the brain. Yahtzee!

Instantaneous envy and rage rang from every junkies basement for the now renowned, literal rat pack. I have to imagine the sudden spike in the Buddhist belief of reincarnation amongst addicts, after the news of the newly numbed varmints leaked out to the masses. Once the target practice of every gun-owner, now the cock of the walk, I can practically picture droves of jones’n junkies, flocking in a frenzy to the nearest temple to ask Lord Buddha to be transfigured as such in the “life to come”. Drooling on themselves and fools to the wealth of the idea of returning as God Damned, but government-approved rats. Once a narc amongst thieves, now the arc of all beings, suddenly everyone loves a lab rat! And why not?

The chosen participants from the breed that are a reciprocating source of disease, are now moonwalking to a much different beat, baby. This isn’t Billie Jean, you grizzly, silly fiends. No more gutters and sewers for these gratuitous schmoozers. Now sunbathing under high pressured sodium florescent lighting, these rats are locked into the painless appeal stage of a stainless steel cage. You show me a real-deal addict that wouldn’t swap spots with these twats, and I will show you a snake-skinned liar. Every last needle freak I’ve never met, and half of those otherwise hooked on any type of tar, powder, rock or crystal, would gladly exchange their subhuman experience for that of a whacked out rat. If any doubt of this previous claim persists in you, take a trip to your local needle exchange or junky tavern (methadone clinic), and just ask any anonymous asshole you might find.

For good or ill I unearthed this epiphany at the ripe age of 18, just as my addicted expedition was revealing itself to myself. I wouldn’t just use and abuse these beloved drugs I was earnestly experimenting with, but dubiously donate my flesh and blood to the ultimate calling: The Human Lab Rat. You can bet your 2nd cousin’s 1st communion cash that I automatically allocated my entire being to the core expansion of ideas and experiences, through the vessel of combining chemicals. Mixing and matching, sniffing and scratching, sticking and gasping, all in the name of research and making memories, of course. In hindsight, it was rather insidious how one by one, the list of “never’s” became “yet’s”, which in turn became “again’s”, with each new form of intoxication yielding me with their ultimate rewards. Retract your hair back to reality, Rapundzle. Those of us who seem to be of a hopeless nature, felt as if we were being bitch-slapped by a prostitute the day the rewards seem to cease, and the consequences of such an experiment replaced those long forgotten perks of putting normality on the back burner. We lethargically learned that the sparks set off by our seemingly innocent antics, eventually, after being fueled by daily doses of toxic oxygen, started fires; And of the countless amounts of chemical reactions, the effects of an inferno cannot be easily reconstructed, and never duplicated identically.

Before I knew what had become of my ambitious but naive journey, my body had become some kind of dope addled drainage field. I cannot recall the day the haze became a daze, and all the colors became grey. With dozens of different, poisonous blends having been taken in, and no new niche to make my bitch, sometime in my mid 20’s, on my mapless atlas life-path, the punch once packed by these wondrous potions was lost. Gone for good and freebased in the fog were my aspirations to entertain strangers, under the influence of whatever they were offering. My once imaginary, limousine of a life now circles the block like a stolen Ford Tracer with expired plates, and the only axis I seem somewhat satisfied with spinning upon, is the glaring grin of Heroin. I wonder if that was in my horoscope? Ho-Hum.

So, bring no more crowds of imposters who pretend to pledge their allegiance, then send me their grievance. The party has long been over and moved on to patrons much more blissfully ignorant than I. I wont be buying anymore bridges from dream selling salesmen. Some days $100 worth of golden brown merely prevents me from shitting myself or strangling you while you sleep. My day-dreams lurk around all evening and its always the same image; A reaper staring at his watch. See, Im still starving to believe in the idea that Im just another ass in the stands or seat on the bleachers. No better, no worse. Just an everyday junky, struggling to even fight for a life he doesn’t yet know how to live. Here’s to the Lab Rats of my yesterdays and your tomorrows. May you never suffer the sour vengeance of the hour thats present; that being said, you’re better off leaving bleach stains, then remaining invisible.


I was a sorry sight to behold, no doubt. Even though the stonewashed denim that snugly gripped my ass this crisp April morning were $200 a pair, they hadn’t been washed in days and held the figure and famine of a strung out Heroin junky. A junky that hadn’t fixed in over 24 miserable fucking hours. If I had, no place further from the structure I was staring at smugly would I be, baby. Believe that. No need chasing netted dragons, after all.

A return to where the whole rehab tour shebang began for me, really was where I stood. 11 years prior was my original, and now historic eclipse with this local treatment hole. Then a brazenly gorgeous, know-everything 19 year old sexual demon, my cruel intentions knew no limits. My first visit here eventually ended with me leaving against staff advice, stoned, with a middle finger in the air, and my arm around their newly crowned clinical supervisor, April. A fine conquest indeed, however the fact of that comical matter which left the jaws of the entire rehab community she was brutally deemed dreadful by, on the floors of their modest living quarters, was the fact we stayed together for 3 incredible however insane years, which in junky life is 3 decades.

Today, however was a much more sullen and real day for a decade long vet of the shrills and chills the spike succumbs you too. Crow feast without a chaser. A real bummer, baby. The iconic and ironic piece of this pathetic puzzle is the counselor whom would be assessing my sorry ass was one of maybe five counselors in the tri-county area I hold an inch of integrity for, J; and why not? J was a blood thirsty intern, freshly freed from prison with a new degree to aim at her enemies, during the insanity of me and April Showers, and over a decade’s time (in multiple rehab centers) watched a curious, baby faced addict in training, morph into a leather skinned junky with little to nothing left on the “never” list. Fitting indeed.

Coy and collected as she might have been in reciting me her initial disdain for even being asked to be the one to see me, no doubt there was a natural curiosity in her head when I came across the screen to be seen. Probably the only AODA assessment in recent history that not a single word was actually entered into any formal record or file. The assessment you see, was of me. My aura, my vibe, my Me. They know the potency of my shtick too personally to simply let me jog down the roster of aimless and annoying questions to determine if my recent banging of dope qualifies me sick enough as inpatient material. Please. I could get a blind chimp to fit the criteria and they know that. The implications alone got my mind hard enough to show up.

What I unavoidably had going for me was just how wounded I undoubtedly appeared, and echoed in every breath. A once well built mammal now being eaten inside out by HepC and a malnourished, Heroin lifestyle. Hard to mask those variables no matter how expensive the jeans might be. A true Narcissus Narcosis with a unique genius about him, however warped from the days wasted, dreading the clock of father time who would and will truly be the antihero here. I was whipped like the family swine, sweet Caroline. Even with the pinpoint accuracy in self awareness it couldn’t and wouldn’t convince this con artist he wasn’t a weathered and bettered God Damned Dylan of dope.

During the best moments of those 40 minutes were not glimmers of alliance or even the trivial addict-to-addict respect I suppose I expected from J, but pity. True blue, shoot the family dog kind of pity. She knew when she rattled the toughness of the sale I’d be in staffing off that there was no way this once addict vagabond, could possibly succumb to anyones policy or stringent formula. Fuck you; no matter how bad I need you.

Which were exactly my thoughts on the morning of the next appointment date, 2 days later which were righteously spent in an Poppy Paradise with Anarchy by my side. The call, which I missed as I was surely surfing a stomach wave of pain, out of dope and absolutely not moving for 30 hours, even if Christ himself came without a fix for the fiend in need, was undoubtedly J herself, beaming in I told you so’s, surely disappointed I am not the type of chap to set up a nazi tactic like voicemail. So long shithole. Like myself, you will not be missed.

He is just the same of a fool for what is his bloody sirloin with the portrait of once wealthy white salve owner , turned ordinary worm-food, than the imaginary minors and city rats of an eastern village were by his cock-a-manie clarinet that intoxicated their consciousness so charismatically, they willingly became fish food outside Koppen Hill. Thats right. His voodoo whistle might have made the young inbreeds and skinless rats scurry in the sunlight, but his pie eyed face lights up like a starving Somalian when the scent of cents are around. Both the original Pied Piper (whom was given a salary for his exterminating expedition), as well as the Drug Underworld’s version; Just another savage with tastebuds.

Never be fooled by the vows of cobra who appears he’s near to console you. Sheep will never moo. Our junky life is an endless, blind reliance of strangers shadier than a Seattle sunset, that make the resume of the original Pied Piper feel like getting fellatio with a fur coat on. More often than not, the Piper holding your sweet relief couldn’t and wouldn’t care less where the dinero came from than if the bastard were in a coma. Only in non-metropolitan areas have I both witnessed, but worse been victim and prisoner to the small area, bible belt type drug dealer morality mirage. It’s reason is quite basic and with an infallible accuracy stems from the dealer having built a friendship that has a deeper root than the seeker just succumbing and numbing. These pesky undesired inevitabilities aren’t a variable when copping dope in the city.

The city Piper is a much more cunning and glacier-veined hustler, with a cactus heart and a porcupine mind that snaps quills for lack of bills. Come with honey and those alley bees will buzz the block all afternoon without a moments care of the source of the junkies cash. So long as its unmarked (basically showing you’re no narc) and not counterfeit, well shit. You have yourself a question free cobra, whose willing to hauk venom your veins way, as long as the wave stays paid and the the way stays paved. Once your shore is dry, the Piper ignores your time. Emotions are oceans. And Pipers don’t swim, motherfucker.


Of all the children’s fables and stories to be passed around like a pipe in a Vietnamese opium den, the most peculiar of the horrifying is undoubtedly The Pied Piper. Depending how deep your shovel of curiosity and research are designed to dig, the legend varies little in plot and outcome. Much like that of junky life.

The day after the dope is gone is levels above the fear and fright those make believe parents must have experienced when the weird flute man, whom they hired to clean out the city rats with some gypsy whistle, had also lured the young from town and into a lake that would eventually be their cemetery. Think I’m exaggerating? Then I promise you the Princess of Prussia you’ve never been surrounded by the shrills and chills of fiends with no fix.

After 5-10 hours the junky has no doubt dialed, redialed, and spewed a dozen or more text messages to every and any hookup they utilize, looking for fronts, debts owed, or the unicorn of a friendly favor. All of this is useless and the addict knows it. These are the efforts of a seeker with means. Money. Dinero. Moolah. The cashless, drug dependent junkies must recluse themselves of the ordinary rigamarole of copping dope; And why not? We’ve resigned ourselves of all other aspects of ordinary living. Why synthetic and stationary objects that are inanimate, such as standards or morality are even remotely wrestled with is beyond this once blonde bomber.

15 hours into the cesspool we are hardly treading water and dreading the fact it gets harder. Depending the on the place our poisoned and soiled flesh statues have succumbed to the decay of addiction, this is the fork in the freeway. This is when our “yets” become chiseled, plagued pieces of our concrete puzzle; Never forgotten, resignations of whats right and wrong in the name and vein of getting high. Amen.

Some steal, some deal, some trick, and some do a variety of any and every vile, and despicable act(s) the degenerate dictionary holds in its corroded contents. The larger the city, the greater the opportunity is to fall into a snakes pit of ape shit. Constantly juggling the chainsaws of our own conscience, diluted and dilated, we impulsively allow each breach of our behavior to happen so long as flag is captured and the dragon is netted. Regret is the runway every flight takes off from. We feel it under our wheels for just seconds, then glance at its remnants for a moment before we are humming numbly in the clouds. Remember though, Romeo, every flight has a finish. All blackouts usually end in whitewash.

Its Sin To Win

Posted: April 11, 2014 in Anarchy, Current Journal, Galentine, Poetry

Where did my freak go
She’s there, staring sheik stoned
Where is the leaks hole
That’s flooding these street so
Draw blood for your peak
Push, love, then repeat
There’s something unique
About us
To say the least
But its just out of my speech’s reach
To pin point it
like a gin joint its
Lit Dim
With Pink tint
And a bit of moist skin
Begin the hoist lift
Of 2 clad rebels
Before you tune the level
Of our music’s treble
Hit the snooze pedal
Let us loose in the meadow
So we can cut each other
In the blades of grass
Screw numero uno
Its who you laid last
Her knees just scream
Through the tight cut jeans
Its better than any fucking sights you’ll see
Tell me the lights you’ll need
Until you’re plenty ready
For some steady levee
We checked the specs
And our love is 20/20
Perfect vision
This curtains lifting
Gone are the 2 running lovers
Cursed in a mystery
And as much as it may hurt
It was worse before we intervened
And lived to see
The synergy
Of Him and She
They all swore
We were too self absorbed
But the sins we ignored
We couldn’t begin to be bored
Don’t lose your jock in shock
But it gave us the win, forever more
Tender sores and bender whores
Its splendid when
Their mending yours
No shred of remorse
For our bed of thorns
This must be what nance and Sid felt
punk love romance
just kids in velt
hearts of tart
they lived to make melt
like the bastards scent
of abstinence
How our standards be
acts of vanishing
Or an elastic stretch
The blur of what occurs
To go from unheard of
To lets splurge some
Once head of the class
Spreads his ass
just for the cash
it costs to crash
For every skipe you kiss
For a lifeless bliss
An unlikely twist is
What might be missed
A hype like this
Has a type of twitch
They like to bitch
Until you slice your wrists
Remove the evidence
With tunes of sentiment
Bleach the memories
By teaching melodies
How are these felonies
When I learned from the Kennedy’s
Cant find direction
From rants I mention
Try trance and tension
From anti depressants
Surrender and be level
Or render to the vendors
The venom of the peddlers
The better of the devils
Fuck this dream
You’re either a
Zombie or a cadaver
Now you’re up this stream
Thinking “There’s gotta be a paddle”
A device that floats
Or some nice folks
Dumb, nice hopes
When you’re a numbp, white dope
But we burn our white flags
Like suburban white fags
With the turn of a page
You could learn of our rage
But stay blindly smiling
Tame, wry, and hiding
The pain of the game
Is its all the same, you’re finding
Few stay diluted
Spew and refute it
Some include it and toot it
But You choose to boot it
Off on a moon lift
That started off on a spoon’s tip
Get the witch a broomstick
Tell that bitch Im a loose fit
In snugly fitted jeans
A junky loves his dreams
The uglier it seems
No bungee on the beams
For druggies or the fiends
We free fall,
Bleed, stall
Plead on our knees, call
Anything in this world
But admit that we need y’all

Another Ode To The Pain

Out-matched but vigilant
Caskets and viscousness
the end of Laughs and innocence
seem to Trap your pilgrimage
Your glass is half spiteful
Blast off that rifle
Ill mix you a stiff brew
Where the effect
Is a sexist maestro
She seems to fiend the mystic
When she breathes meek relief
The hysteria speaks
Like these stale Meryl Streeps
A frail pale face
Stares at the street
Like the air beneath my leap
The bare dare devil doesn’t care where he eats
His heart barely beats
That’s Heroin sheik
Come feather the dust
Try to sever the trust
Of our leather and lust
But it’ll never sweat or rust
Or smolder in the storm
If I told you I was torn
Between me sober
Or me floored
You’d probably be bored
With the rhetorical
Relapse after rehab
Is more than historical
But if I’m so smart
Then why haven’t I learned to shake it
Because you cant restart
Whats never been terminated
I squirm until sedation
Malnourished and evasive
Allergic to the latest
Virgins of this wasteland
No gloating but a bloated brain
Coated with a golden stain
Old and cold moldy veins
Just another lonely ode to pain
Fuck tough and persistent
Just bluff & hope they miss it
Such rough and rugged missions
When our enough is insufficient
Its missing the mark
Its fish ditches the lark
Our lips kissed in the dark
And his wish list hit start
Christmas in March
Births of the beasts
Fists stiff as starch
Earth needs to grieve
For your turf and your team
We lurk and we scheme
Like a purposeless thief
Urchins without grief

As orgasmic and necessary that junk that I juiced was, it was merely a temporary bandaid for a life wound that only heals with Anarchy around, which making happen hasn’t been an easy task lately. With my dope damaged life revolving around Doctor appointments (whether therapy to score Suboxone or for HepC treatment), or dates with the corrupt court for those pesky indictments which benevolently include the hundreds of dollars-per-hour, Guido lawyer; Plus Anarchy has accomplished a fucking impossible conquest of a junky: To have held the same environment of employment for more than 3 months. Anyway, anyone whose been under the influence of any substance, knows no circumstance blows the buzz of gratefully stoned addicts than a pathetic and (usually) bogus admission of what I call “Addict Guilt”. The over-emotional, which from this sensitive and excitable junky is describing a special kind of pussy; one who acquires whatever drug it might be, fixes once or twice, then their dim lit, drainage field for a mind finds it appropriate to either unfairly overly critique the drug’s potency and quality, or randomly mumbles pointless self congratulatory depressive remarks as it relates to their addiction. Whatever of the two ways this virus manifests itself, it is a defect only found in the dullest and fun less farm animals. True wastes of human waste.

The point of providing you with such an elegant and elaborate explanation of Addict Guilt is to showcase that while its bone spurring to do Heroin without the pulse that has not only kept this piece of shit literally alive, but put me on a polished Persian pedestal, identical to the mind mantel that Anarchy rests on inside my own, I would rather be in the Pope’s drag to hang dead puppies over flames on the day of Brother’s funeral than either be the bitch who just cannot publicly control their own adult decisions, or the bitch who keeps broadcasting how weak the recently done dope was, their despondency in even doing any of the drug, or how less affected by whatever exaggerated amount of dope taken in gets tossed around like a JV cheerleader, they get or are.

Please believe any other fucking fact of the method of my functioning than the idea that I am somehow senseless on the topic of Anarchy getting high, sans our seemingly siamese cycle and by her sexy self, but still I’m able to be virtually flawless on all other platforms of intelligence. Polly, please want a damn cracker after that. Before I make it as clear as crystal meth that my awareness remains at the roost of the best of ranks, both Anarchy and myself had done dungeons of dope prior to our belated introduction and following of fate. Beyond that, we don’t tell each other what to do. Period. In case you’re slower than a second grader, the absolute last conversation my pixie and I would ever engage in would concern either of us limiting, or exclusively reserving any experience or activity. Now, the fact my estrogen example of myself has kept the same damn job over 90 annihilating days, is a supporting stat to the minimal amounts of drugs she has been shooting, let alone humping Heroin.

Morphine, Percocet, Hell even Oxy are blends of bullshit we’ve both bonded alone with, numerous times, I’m sure of it. We are after all a pretty pair of daily poking junkies. However once we made that initial, invigorating and alluring trip Westbound to cop dope together, the drug (Heroin) itself has primarily been acquired and at least partially fixed with, and only with each others company. For a solid 5 or 6 months we were making 2 different $300+ trips into the Minneapolis Metro. That delightfully dreary day it unraveled in prefect sequence was a simultaneous sniffing of the roses that could grow from our death wishes, and then it hit us. Each adventure into the city to cop junk was no longer a mundane chore to suffice a thirst or craving. Ha. Finally the aristocrats had found a purpose, and that purpose was the unknowing dawn of The DopeSick Diaries. We knew from the immediate begnning, the stories we would publish could never become routine or even be expected ideas or material. In order to keep the So while we are both last level needle freaks, if the poison on tap happens to the infallible Heroin, doing it away from the sight of each other’s soulless windows, feels counterfeit, watered down; not too mention makes the ocean crest feel like a lakeside wave. Its just not the fucking same.



The Village Villains Ready To Pillage

Image  —  Posted: April 3, 2014 in Anarchy, Galentine, Pixxx
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There was no way any man, even of Kennedy’s stature could have foresaw the toe curling, Cadillac blow job to come the first time ole’ Norma Jeane put her puckered up Playmate lips on the Commander in Chief’s Washington Monument. When Johnny’s alarm sounded off on that, what would be illustrious day, (no doubt to the tune of Elvis’ Hound Dog), the routine boredom and anguish of leading the United Apes of Amerikkka another 24 pointless hours was all the top gun likely expected. You just never fucking know what may come.

The beautiful and dreary dawn of this ordinary Tuesday was sheepishly camouflaged with a femur cracking temperature in the upper 20’s. The burning sensation stung more after the unseasonably beauty of a 60 degree oasis for the final day of March the day prior. But as the first day of April does best, makes fools of us all, which was my candid and resentful epiphany when I went to start the Ford, and scrape the ice that had a sheet style to it that a St. Louis bomb might bring in late January; with a half busted tool to work with just to add some fucking slapstick comedy to the days junky expedition.

Ojib and Air Max were taking me up the highway the areas lone supplier (Doctor) of Suboxone. After the 20 mile trek, toking ganja and tackling anticipation with expired plates and a car full of felons, I strolled in exactly on time and in my prime. Having detoxed alone at this particular facility 52 times, the staff and I have no doubt become too familiar of fixtures in each others lives. It was also the leading guess as to why I am currently blacklisted from ever detoxing or participating in inpatient services within the company again. I even had the reversal of my expulsion heard and denied in formal staffing. Its not happening, but they will gladly clock the cocks off the state with the fees outpatient, let alone Suboxone treatment costs. Never get it twisted, outpatient is where these rehab rackets are actually opening new vaults for the cash they render. Inpatient is the front that usually loses money but gets the addict in the systematical process that AODA rehab has became. Years of outpatient is not uncommon, at hundreds a visit plus medication kickbacks.

Anyway, The Dr was less than impressed with the mandatory urine screen I provided, after 5 different colors lit the panel like the Vegas Strip with a fucking glow-stick convention in town. So dismayed with my blatant disregard to keep off other chemicals, the good doctor, with all his infinite and expensive wisdom figured having me re-resign a semantical contract, which is already done during intake upon entering the merry go round of drug replacement therapy, would force the fiend from my being and get the point across. After he firmly emphasized the importance of what sounded like being anything but myself, he pulled out that 3X5 ocean blue bible of bliss and started scribbling out the amount of drugs I would require to be a productive citizen.

This is where the everyday addict of entertainment goes off and enjoys their day with a fresh script of Suboxone and a smile. Not this aardvark of addiction. Immediately I make my next visit a week later than it was originally scheduled for, adding a weeks worth of dope to the good Dr’s amount he’d then be mandated to dish out. After exiting the free for all, the real deal in me started punching in its junky codes to compute the real question. How can I turn this Suboxone into Heroin. And after 5 or 6 hours of trading, selling, screaming, fiending, and ripping at the walls paint, there was heroin doing the front-crawl through my bloodstream. An Afghan abyss making the wallflowers disco, baby.



Could it be my bashful Bambi, could it be so….that the pearl stained pathway to puke island, thus far has been counterfeit sort of Frank Lloyd Wright design. An arrows aim at immaculate finish. The Robin Hoods of Godless Hoods.

Flutter as your innards illuminate my dangerous dusk. Become my firefly and then while the fires fly, each other dies. Retiring the ridiculous proposal of prisons. Come dance uninhibited with the Swiss drapes wide open at high noon, honey. Let the cure for bashful, be your dear old satchel.

Come scream our secrets from the crowded rooftops and sex up the stairwells. Instead of airing your soiled laundry, remove its toxicity in total and become transparent. More bluntly: Start Getting Real!

Allow the ancient pheromones, which fiend for an obedient outlet. The only way to kill me is to cremate my candor and deliver the ashes in a gold, Prussian Urn.

Its all drill bits and pill spit now, honey. Toxic smoothies siphoned from a beggars straw. As sinful as this six string, pure as a poppy seed. The orphans are hosting a family reunion and you’re the guest of honor. Bask yourself in Sicilian cigar smoke. Needed revival or greedy saliva?

The altruistic
Aren’t all too mystic
For fallen misfits
Who spit on the litmus
He seems to be cherishing
The stares of embarrassment
Its the grief
That he keeps
Thats where its a scary scene
But stays confident & cunning
Non-Chalant & humming
The gifts he’s tooled with
Build the monster he’s becoming


You ask
why do I shiver when I see you
come hither let me need you
all the glitter, still you beam through
Its not bitter when I breathe you
we are past the place
of after taste
get the crook a second look, well that
is half the chase
the other half is subtle gasps
smothered laughs and druggy naps
love me like a brother
you could fuck and understand
Too classy for a backseat
We shall stay safe from Son of Sam
the castle is crumbling
the castle is crumbling
one bastards dungeon
is another masters numb thing
when all their gods
are profits & facades
his image is dimming
all thats left is this mirage
but his prism cannot sob
just sound bytes in a vacuum
whatever vision that he begot
are vivid lights in the black room
double up the negatives
subtle luck and sedatives
an adjournment from a journal
disgruntled bunch of expletives
she makes any sentence lose its structure
a temptress
never touch her
hemp sex
leather brunch cure
some parts evolving
other flesh stagnant
come start solving
a lovers best dragnet
an undercover gentleman
hovers under scents of them
summer thunder tempts again
some undiscovered lessons in
erupting fucking estrogen
Let’s begin….

Cynicism are what the sparks that fire the the kind of skepticism reformation is built on.

50 years ago if John Barleycorn couldn’t go 15 minutes without tilting back the super juice, limited choices as a result of uneducated personnel and improper facilities left the poor, piss pants lush a first class fucking escort to the flight deck. Chain the Hyde to a radiator with a glass of water and a couple Valium each day; and once the nausea dissipates, detox over. Then it was either another failed formula designed to “socially drink”, which ends in paper slippers with a an exorbitant financial obligation that will likely be added too in two weeks. The other solution? A supernatural type of naivety that often creates more questions than answers.

I imagine the bravado and overall lazy creativity calculated by the talentless scribes who park Volvos with a pretentious pride are the of the same cloth as the opportunists of the oppressed whom are turning the humanity of helping the sick into a black magic type of extortion of the middle american entitlement. Forget the fact the accepted traditions of these groups bluntly and clearly extinguished the notion of an established or organized methodology for a hundred fucking reasons; Ironic that the throned fear of building sobriety centers is the very pulse that pushes the selective blood money buildings today : Money.

Oh how I wish the motive behind the genesis of treatment centers spawning had a more savagery or malicious DNA, but alas, the obvious and logical answer is the dumb-downed, Also Known As “The Simplest”. Why would an influx of (usual) anonymous donors take what was nothing but a few, random and unconnected houses in medium, rural America that would allow the sorry bastards suffering from fumbling their previous recovery, to have a musty mattress on a hardwood hotel; Within a short and sedated 2 decades the philanthropies who silently and at no profit, has to rank high on some fatcat sheister’s list of the silkiest of rackets which only gets less regulated, empty intended, and worse of all, pathetic performance.

With an unparalleled amount of intriguingly refreshing and actual experience concreted from the diversity of money makers; Whether your cockily correcting private chefs at 4am, and illegally smoking Newports underage at Halezden; or giving the gasp giving groans and the goosebumps on thighs of anarchy’s flawless jointed flesh, occurring inside the poorly drywalled walls of the sole inpatient institution the entire county possesses. Arbor Place. The rapid ability senselessness has to spread is a tickle in the tailored trousers. See, the “Monopoly-Like” arrangement is nothing new, rare, or even less than expected. In five years every single county will only be the houser of 1 joint in town with the proper papers that is nothing shy of a gold mine.

Think about your county you call home. Imagine the swine police and the actual number of Alcohol or other Drug offenses. Whether it was ten time DWI offender or just another victimless act of having a medium sized bag of of pleasure powder in your locked, and owned piece of personal property, each and every busted bummer or Baby Huey now must begin at minimum 12 month ransom allocations to whatever the addict arena for the county seat your city sits in. This is best case by the way. To finalize the “offense” or despicable display of minding your own business and services paid for as a hotel guest, all staff recommendations must be adhered too and of course, paid for before accepting the revival from system slavery.

When AA moves along another 2 generations, and the longest limp dick’s “sobriety anniversary” announced all month is 9 months, it will be successful in morphing into another NA which lacks longevity in recovery but has the hand job of private profits pushing the Program inside the institutions indoctrination. Keep those (at least) from halfway affluent backgrounds and the demographic of county indigents that can get double charged in many instances without quesrioms

Whatever AA and the helping ambassadors of addiction lead too, denying their understandable and able influence to keep the stained, revolving door of treatment turning just at the speed the dividends need seems sketchy. To be even more basic. AA and the Rehab Business have endless of numerical reasons to romp and recruit.


Letters From Dad

Posted: March 26, 2014 in Uncategorized
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Dad Says: “I can’t imagine a recovering person with any serious sober time and the resultant improved life writing anything as cynical as this (idea of blaming rehab for 12 step decline)

The Big Book discusses that, after serious study and taking of inventory, weiscover that allof our problems are of our own making. Until we reach that moment of honesty, if we are lucky enough to get there, we will look at external forces (people, places and things) as being responsible for our predicament. Until that enlightenment, we are lost. Step 3 teaches the only way out of this deadly box that I know. And that is “Turning My Life and My Will Over To The Care of God As I Understand Him.” There is no doubt in my mind that only God can remove the compulsion to drink for alcoholics. Trying to do it yourself calls for will-power which is the antithesis of the ‘surrender’, called for in the 12 Step program.

Me:90% of US rehab facilities “claim” adherence to near know nobody. 12 Step philosophy. They even almost always have a woven tapestry with the 12 ‘commandments’embroidered, centered, just as a reminder the steps are the model here.

Once inside the facility, certain forms of worksheets (Matrix Models, Cognitive Behavior Help Protocol) start getting distributed, and while these phony pieces of corporate control often will contain a topic, phrase , or idea the actual 12 Steps have in their itinerary. The real bloody glove is that underneath the hollow floorboards that you swear has the treasure, only to realize the rubble and residue has not only been a failure as a grail for helping the junky to change, the debris is a caramelized, candy coated creation. A few paragraphs that are a waste for any addict severe enough for impatient, a line to say you agree or not, then after the 30 mins are over it’s cigarette time.

The client gets taught what AA “is” and the steps implementation by many following their own worksheets and to know fault of their own, assume meetings are places to find God, vulnerable love interests, new drug connections: all of which is ultra present because most in rehab if not all, are washing the footprint off their back that got them in the door…whether it’s health, job, spouse, kids, law..something. So now, the rehab will focus on how to fix the last “bottom”, all the while the addict Inside is waiting. why they are they admitted is irrelevant outside the the compulsion to get loaded isn’t removed. Period. A missing blueprint for productive drugging isn’t the idea; But watered down dialects if that line of thought are what seem to dominate the rooms of 12 steps.

Every addict is special. Just ask them, they’ll be as grateful a soccer mom after a Prozac refill to tell you just how fucking special they truly are. And if they tell you that they’re nothing special, it will be done so in such a way that requires just as much attention or focus than if they’d said they were the most special of all.

Quote  —  Posted: March 23, 2014 in Current Journal, Galentine, Quotes
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if you would have had any love for my needs at all, instead of the imposing of a tractor beam trip wire that would taco singe my tortilla, you can thank the unorganized ideals and ideas of an ill assumed investigator who work for fried food and chances at family deceit, stole a week long of Lombardi proportioned player interviews with the wizardry of a smacked out Warhol, spanning hundreds of thousands of words as the bastard child, barking rebel who has sponged into a sex soaked and snarky Sphinx, lined up like the vultures on a 5:30am sidewalk, mumbling their methadone monologues.

All around the moons of my mind are all the types of sewers you’ll find. They come up at noon, to a noose around the blind and a loud speaker aimed at the deaf. All a conscience does is give excuses of the mind just to reduce us to the rinds. Morality is a 2nd mortgage, motherfucker. From the tempting engine to the caboose in behind. Aloof, but I’m kind. a different kind of beacon. words of revolution from a different bleaker region, in a beaker of treason. So we came in sipping and tripping. Found fixes from reapers, now peaking the way to tweaking. the less you acquiesce with these “Do It yourself” blends of junkies the mess is an invisible trend. Sort of like the ” I work for the Yankees” audition offered blind leverage and the actors are already pissing in their INS magic coveralls; because nothing commands an undeserved Leading Male Role like a Lazy- Eyed Black Shrek. But thats another bloodbath.

When the inevitable and internal combusting of our digital dilemma does commence, a significant alteration of mans evolution will begin its rapid decline. If say tomorrow afternoon, Barack Obama gets caught in a drug den of a dive hotel with a dead 20 year girl and a live 12 years old boy; which leaves him no hesitation to initiate an absolute apocalyptic ass raping of humanities existence. The only preexisting entities who would walk away from the rubble and raw wounds were the leather studded vampires with in love their lips and relief in their smiles. That special and sacred relief that a destitute junky achieves for those 30 seconds after a fix, where the screams of slaughtered children would be indifferent audibles, unheard and unnoticed due to the the ultimate forcefield of feelings. Heroin.

The metaphysical and irrevocable morphing that occurs within the change from an ordinary human to a flawless famine of a beast, filled with a beautiful blood thirst, and exceptionally seductive dead eyes – The reverse cloning of becoming an addict is far more a tragic affair; like ten prayers for dead layers. However great the chasm between the two different but majestic monsters might be; make no mistake about it young birdie, prepare for the tail spin school of the pale skin ghouls. Dying is the easy part.


21 hours were remaining within my life’s most illustrious decade ever, all the while within an unequivocally Mayberry sort of City Hall and village, which only accented their career-orientation as assholes that would forever a cruel life. All I ever wanted to be “when I grew up” was a professional abuser of excitement. With a couple dozen tats and double that in arrests, a handful of mental health diagnosis, over a hundred different beneficiaries of the weapon I was able to use often and effectively. I annoyed more than I enjoyed, scarred a share of innocents, and lied for the fun of it sometimes. Torched bridges and bruised egos aside, no one whose ever met me can say I was anything shy of brilliant and was so without any fucking boundaries.

I have never been confident in anything so fully in this life which offers a finale with a Jew and flying Middle Eastern Horse, except knowing enough to pay something as silly as this public opinion or legacy preservation be not a worry in a window sill. While convinced of a fetal knowledge that my autobiographical actualities would differ largely from most I would be force fucked and compiled with. A man so effortless and inherently natural, all the while superbly intelligent and impossible to turn into Pavlov’s canine over . An entirely unique blend of my own, unseen prior or thereafter my presence that overmatched any existing geniuses or unexplainable at large . Possessing such a prophecy of oneself from the time my mom took the lords name in orgasmic vain, I was destined and probably designed to isolate and alienate.

All of these merits clearly show a world which to be easily maneuvered and mastered by myself. The protege life almost blueprinted without smudge. It turns out that while running cons at psychiatric offices on the tab of moms insurance in the name of acquiring a benzodiazepine prescription turned up behavioral patterns identical to one DSM diagnosis: Borderline Personality Disorder.

Unapologetic in nature and numerous in numbers in the respected psych clinics state BPD patients should expect to have little to no improvement over the course of a lifetime. Many will get much worse than when initially diagnosed. 75% are guaranteed to be some species of addict, and almost a third will kill themselves. This is what the Tea Baggers would lazily chalk down as a demonic possessed devil boy, whose only two options with a decimal of (safe word) opportunity or (dangerous word) hope.

The point behind my public transparency isn’t just a rewarding public peek at the marvelous me, but my admission that participating in the ‘dirty 30’s’ wasn’t part of any fucking scenario. More strategic outlets exist than my arsenal for phony ransom procedure and the basic assembly of an indestructible cult, than there are for making it out my twenties alive.

The must mention is the obvious point that my repitore of righteousness is the ideal cell makeup for peak performance in all arenas of a twenty something male masterpiece. But once the cryptic and calloused countdown hit 20 hours, my flawless flesh statue would begin to fail. The ease at which my earth eclipses will cease. Enter : Dilemma. Do I resign the reins of revered ringleader in hopes of shoveling swan shit in a circus tent for 5 more meaningless years as a field servant; Or end a superbly self directed dream life in the same chord as it was enjoyed?

Obviously I’ll be getting nude and into my noose. Can the enigmatic addict turn theoretical into a world renown mental illness nursing with the acquiring of endless riches that are always an arms reach from his nightly, Guatemalan hookers that don’t even get the degrading deliciousness of curling a congressman’s crosshairs while she sits bored to Bananza reruns on the side from all the overnight lock-ins.We could always belong to Putins Perfect Program; in which case warming you or growing unnecessarily attached could cause coma types of head trauma, first to your newborn the. daddy himself. Go Russia Go!

With another set of Lucifer’s twelve tainted months in the dusts wind and dusks grin, added with a special crew screw for the sanctimonious crossing over from the mystic baboonery which structures the side effects and sexcapades my twenties are architected in, its the first tangible evidence of the long overdue evolution my life and bank account had been begging for, like dick starved bellhops at an Oscar Meyer event.

Some folk’s years leave an untitled, (or as I find more accurate:uninspired) aura, or get forgotten about, and are blended into 3-5 year compilation project. I cannot actually validate the accuracy of the previous statement, due to a consistent unleashing of badass rebellion writing by fab assed felons.

The whitewashed witch that age 29 finalized as, was a bittersweet bitch from the beginning. Knowing her out the gate as the final muse for my diabolical decade in the life of the Dali Llama of darkness and hard sex, 29 became the arranged marriage equivalent for my finding unbiased love or peace, before Zoloft replaces your coke addled Caribbean and Clamydia cruises.

Instead of once entertaining the possibility I may live beyond 29, my behavior bulldozed the boundaries I had observed year after year as the last leg restraints, disallowing the Dells from dominating all demographics in all of the Midwest; by disobeying a pseudo moral code canonized by commonplace cream pies, the freedom we fiend to freebase is replaced by double cut bummer dope, leaving those it touched without the faintest idea how a free press functions as a public persuader, or the pride and passion of a PETA protest that crescendos with the a corpse of cheetah simulating fellatio on the corpse of a Kangaroo.

Again this year I likely annoyed more than I enjoyed, undoubtedly offended countless cowards by simply being comfortable as king chameleon in a habitat for the habit forming heroes of our generation. I have been asked to leave more public places in a single night than most sickos pull off, ever, only to later host the hard drug after bar which was known to be a favorite hangout for the usual suspects responsible for my regular removals.
I will be the first to agree that the line of people who loathe and moan at the mention of my name is an impressive number and will remain forever growing, but no honest man can say I was anything shy of stunning stardust, with a elegant ease whose only answer to “whattaya wanna be when you grow up”, was an unscripted rebel reply of “an abuser of all things awesome”. Once again, missions accomplished.


You can tell by our walks that we’ve been running for years

You can’t tell by our talks, we’re humming our words

And I’m in love with a nurse who perscribes me pain

Drugs my urges but subscribes to my game

When I hum a little tune
Of Freud meets Poe
i go numb until im blue
Keeping coy with freaks you know
As sudden as the cold
& unimpressed by the oceans,
Beloved druggy soul
obsessed, high and coasting

Not me, not me, set a blaze to what they’ve ordered me

Concrete leak, in case he is quarantined

masses are amassed by of the asses of man.
We can stay Clay with class, if Cassius says we can

show off your golden bracelets
brag about those races
Hold off the bogus racists
By showing them their places

The middleman has officially become this mid-weeks failure in the system and overall under fucking achiever. I’m smarter than most of your children’s heros and I cannot fully grasp what alluring asterisk is behind the anal (of the) lysis, that is, what oxygen requiring mammal sits in a properly upholstered chair and decides he would rather be referred to as, known for, and otherwise nonexistent if he wasn’t promising a drowning Jew as he only offers a bare bones baptism.

If  it were forgiveness I sought from this unemployed negro blooded medicine/musician man, I would have apologized for mistaking his “smoking hot” wife for a common empty, unoccupied space; which is truly all it is.

There is a statutory rape sort of tickle whenever your, no less than 3 unique levels of fucked up, supposed to be middleman returns; and suddenly instead of the “Dude was out of everything” lie, his heavy tongue and pie eyes only can receive the jumbled message from the spaghetti brain signals and mutter “Drugs were out of Oreos”.

The world needs more reliable felons.

The infinite fetch game, though instead of obedient and housebroken labradors, the beasts responsible for retrieving the rodents are nappy haired hounds with hollow eyes and lies on their tongues. Its not that my certain motley crue is an enigma or remotely alluring as subpar shit middlemen; Its that everyone has become a fucking middleman!

When everyone is getting high on their own supply, everyone isn’t going to make money. Basic fucking math could detail such an equation. What math (or any other fucking entity) cannot accurately account for is a drug trade no longer in the cashmere hands of illegal businessman, but rather in the sleazy and greedy mitts of actively hooked fiends, that always, inevitably, become their own best customer. If your rabbits foot happen to shoot its load and you cross paths with the junky pusher when their spiral is diving downward, you’ve just won the drug addict olympics. If by chance you fuck the wet dream up and live through the perfect storm of sedated suicide, life just isn’t for you.

Love (Less),

The seminole difference between an alcoholic who claims they’re ready to get sober compared to the junky is this : The alcoholic will instantly start citing reasons or personal accolades as to why their dependency isn’t all that serious or progressive; While the addict equally instinctively begins rattling off their own prepared monologue aimed at convincing whomever that their case is uniquely challenging/hopeless.

Both are basic entry level blends of manipulation that take on entirely different personas, but their desired result is a total clone of one another: To dig the foundation that each owns denial river will run and flow through. Instead of putting an immediate or abrupt dagger in the neck of this bed of lies, let the architect of this elementary tactic build a base they are entombed in. Once a bullshit artist is confined to one canvas, their creative cluster-fuck of the truth is largely limited.

Another equally useful reason for allowing these types of attention whores to initially roam free is creating the priceless allusion that every addicted person must feel from time to time; That once again, odds aside, their orchestrated wit and well polished social charm proved to be the victor. Its a well known fucking fact that an active addict who thinks they’ve either outsmarted or out maneuvered an opponent with a superior skill-set is destined to immediately make enormous mistakes. In this case the mistakes might help someone save their sorry asses.




A Sexual Asexual

Posted: March 16, 2014 in Galentine, Poetry
Tags: , ,

dont enter my bubble
a sexist mess of trouble
have you ever tried to sleep, you sheep
while trying to hide
a crying freak, petite
underneath your sheets
or just above the ceiling
dont cha love the feeling
of believing what you’re being
an orchestra worth hearing
on their porches with their sneering
with flamers and fires
we aim with desire
take the pain
make it brighter
inhale the shame
lit with the lighter
the next tale
ms. me being crispy
when your next sex gets stale
wheres the order
wheres the line
tortured life on an orchard vine
a borderline
whose sort of fine
fucks with your world
as soon as I’m bored with mine
think you got me where you need me
as you leave me by the gallows
just don’t want me too deeply
or need me too shallow

Spring Hymn

Posted: March 16, 2014 in Poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

Spite in my eyes
I got a spike full of lies
A fucking hype in the night
Tonight someone dies
Like a killer
But something lesser
No will for the confessor
No money for a meal
But a pile of pills up on my dresser
Count em out
He’s nodding out
Why don’t you motherfuckers
Come and yell and tell me
What I’m all about
Jesus staring in
The evil’s there again
The heroin is barely in
And there he is
Scaring kids

A cock rock rap star
Stop drop laugh now
That’s just the fucking black tar
Blinding just how wack you are
Aloof but I’m doomed
A spoof you can’t exhume
This doofus just consumes
His fucking future in a spoon
Someone tell this loon
There’s no tomb with his name
Parents too embarrassed
For simple fuckin grave
Instead when he’s dead
His ashes turn to lead
And build the damn bullets
They’ll be pulling from their heads

Just a savage on display
A famine in the fray
An animal brain
With family disarray
Ban him they say
that motherfucker lies
Like cattle in the hay

Black and blue
From the smack I do
You laugh
It’s true
You haven’t a clue
No hope
I tick
So dope sick
Poke and prick
Another quick fix
An hour later
The shits and the fits

It’s a long numb road that circles itself
when the junk is null and worthless as hell
It abolishes all your senses
When knowledge offers no defenses
Against the smear of the ghost in the mirror…..ghost in the mirror

No ones here
Coast is clear
A joke you smear
Cuz there’s still
Dope on the mirror
These cries
Aren’t for help
Fuck these lies
That I’ve dealt
You deserved a better hand
From a better leathered man

It’s a long numb road that circles itself
when the junk is null and worthless as hell
It abolishes all your senses
When knowledge is no defense
Against the smear of the ghost in the mirror…..ghost in the mirror

How many times I must slay you
Make you
Take the tail god gave you
And ride it thru the parade route
so ride it on
out my face
Guide you clowns
Into outer space
Sorry not sorry
No I ain’t subtle
I create trouble
Take your telescope to a felons hope
Bust my lakes bubble
It’s like I’m Castro ! Castro!
Do not fucking pass go
So damn Sick
of dealing with these assholes
Wake up where’d my masks go
Do a fucking blast yo
Sky goes black
kick back into trashed mode
Do another lap bro
Might Get you a fat hoe
Why did he just snap so fast tho
go attack slow
Then go for the kill
Like Dope and the pills
Ya know it’s a thrill
Try and fight if ya’d like
But you know we know you hold no will
Take a snoot through the flute
Keep the cobra standing still
Snakes try and cop deals
Like they’re fucking cops for real
I lead their kids to Koppen Hill
And drop em in a still
A real prize fighter
You could swear
my eyes were lighter
My rapping’s trapping rats
This pie eyed pied piper
The waters are still
Long Islands & pills
Can’t deny what is skill
And what’s wasted talent
I bet you hate that you’re average
A blatant cancer
Vacant of answers


This screed is from a designed dungeon of human perversity. An old un dusted tomb that is within all flesh statues. As the rickety mahogany boards that had the tomb mummified peeled themselves back, I propped my ear to the gory details within, seemingly malignant memories of my misery resurfaced….

perhaps only legible by the hieroglyphics of the terrestrials who see the human disgrace as the ExtraT’s. Ta-Ta for now…..

I once remember a certain tight assed intern that I shot a load in, weeks prior on the old man’s Power PC in the basement of his dead mothers yacht. The sort with knees that could be either grounded on my shoulders, or the alarm before the shoulders, yelling at the minds of the very junkies, addicts, convicts, drunks, and future fucks she would screw so calmly to get another $2/extra per hr to the top, “the entirety of our psychological well being is predicated on the idea that each of us is in some way shape or form gives a shit” hahaha….my gratitude for being rid of social boundaries is admittedly off to a good start.
Like how George McGovern had the party, nation, and whatever part of the world would give a shit believing again ; cranked up like a fucking outlaw mixing up some bathtub speed that only the Angels could keep candid over. Fuck that. Sit down and ditch the frowns.

Thats too say my scared up self, an opinion or hope for future events to play out a certain way. during my short 15 years of sliding into the sycamores, and orgasming on oaks , my most accurate depictions stem from the humans behavior at the most vile of alleys. the perverse practicum is, that we now are the upright standing mutation, and consequently have now, without a usual or typical hardwiring, can be anything other attempt to reconcile this pole position , or was a newly hired pop, is in . i would have rather gone unseen for a rough seven hours than in the spotlight of bluff-in, and their pussy ass dreadful undertakers. that being said, I have never honestly took the weedback and knee slaps also known as feedback

nearly on cue my pixies and my goons

So many stretched-thin articulators at the current killer catholic lexicon; the people sure to “land” such a title or role in the rawhide, wait with the tongues wagging and the only thing more pathetic than anything resembling social transfiguring, is the 20 ton bottle of 1000 times distilled Vodka that Putin had 3 dykes & 2 green eyed Negros, and a Georgian who has liver failure, get waisted for two weeks consequently. Looking like a chiseled embodiment of thunder, Putin watched the dykes with his sleeping pills and when the Belgium Waffle & Amsterdam cigar smoke, it was time to pontificate.. some Kraut snuffed Adolf pictures graffitied all over the poor jewish Austrian. luckily his castle of queers and barbaric pedophiles were either recharging or…..shit….they were going to get the actual fucking action. no more blow jobs in the boys bathroom. no more waiting until 16. John Mccain controls these robots from the privacy of his 18ft storage unit, which he only visits to add a charge the space age cyber heart his soulless skin stretches over like saran-wrap on a corn fed tummy.

The lime eyed nigros key most unhidden alcohol in their tapeworm tummies. and why not? if bowie is right after all, we only have five years left as it stands. i hope the earths end takes out all food but cheese. Such a simpleton and random request I know; its like screwing of six sisters to see if theyd squeal in sequence.

You see, with only cheese, the mice and rats become clear as a cocaine nosebleed. Lets have the nuclear wasteland reach its full capabilities and all the more closer planets approaching, well, if we fuck things up bad enough then the jokes on them. Because the size of my physique, no vacancy for a soul to soeak. for i bet my only 2 nuts, and the left ball of your brothers, here and now, that if you live in Wisconsin or other Northwoods venue, there is a better chance than not, 6 or 7 random people could irrevocably be talking shit and have your sloppy seconds mustache that makes a Kentucky Derby Horse raping seem like time for make out session. Now thats racing, boys.

dragons guard all refrigerators-(i think the shits kicked in, dude” is on duty
laugh at ALL the anemic power

dont fuck with a writer who doesn’t know any better than to tell the truth

Galentine, with the daily leadership from Gotham, city officials, and the fact most ppl that know aren’t the same representatives when they see Im willing to do whatever i can to get the rats young wanderers to oay the fucking piper.

See….Ive already manipulated the watch baby, and its time to make the right fucking choice. Lets Fuck for the sake of free will.

whatever you think you love, you just cant be it

Should i start a 6 stanza song

perhpas. maybe 12. see Brussels Bastard as a punk name.

the end of my segment where i get sent to the most off key, unprepared, but a totally hilarious farewell, but the jocks have the barbed wire tattoo too tight on their neck the check a chocking on by B Block Niggers.

“you can Braid it nicely you Fucking Sickle Cell having, Power Ranger nigger lover to be”

“I don’t even like the Negros” mumbled McCain.

Then, crisp as a

“I just love icing your mom over overtime in the cattle barn. If she didn’t lick me like a tumbleweed on a treadmill, I’d feed the hungry with her. Worms. The hungry worms. “

Driving towards relief


The rarely seen, but always influential in the site’s evolution, Anarchy


Every over paid marriage counselor (which is every one that exists) will tell you that compromise and communication are the most important aspects to any relationship; Especially the relationship an addict has with the junk. No union exists that demands such a compromise of innumerable areas of your moral compass, than the relationship between a junky and his dope. Holy Fuck. What a sentence.

Toss the statistics and figures because they are always so desensitizing to the real and actual lives that those numbers represent. Not every hopped up sophomore in high school that hits a joint at a barrel party is going to end up in a Methadone Clinic or Suboxone Program. The fingerprints on the bloody knife are that while “scientists may have found  a genetic link that would look at predisposition”, people whom are experimenting aren’t just going to know which is predisposed at which isn’t. Addicts are usually easier to spot long term than drunks for the simple fact they die quicker. No alcohol consuming American Male is going to be eager to say he can’t hold his booze and is, *gasp* an alcoholic. So its a crap shoot of sorts really when you’re taking that angle.

A certain population, say 10%-14%, with demographics showing no real bearing, which is an enigma in an of itself, however there is 13 of 100 whom once they “get off”, with whatever preference or opportunity (drug) came along, it plain and simply just works too fucking well for those 13. When the non-addicted dip-shit snorts his virgin line of coke at a college keg party, he very likely won’t think of it again the rest of the evening, and continue to be happy with his night of planned being drinking. Now Suzy-Q  takes the same virgin line of blow at the same party and 45 minutes later she is scrambling like a game a tag trying to find what knight in shining armor gave her that magic dust, so she can do it over and over and over again. If she does’t locate the supplier (which would be unlikely) her entire fucking evening will be ruined at a level of disdain that language cannot actually articulate it’s pulverizing effect.

With the breed of banshees that this article really is focusing on is the umbrella’d group whom get their rocks off most enjoyed with the assistance of opiates. Whether it’s Tramadol or Heroin, the clinics and facilities truly don’t start making those kind, or any other distinctions until the addict has already began their Drug Replacement Therapy; Meaning, the amount of dose the addict starts at, in my own personal experience, wasn’t all that fluctuating. With Methadone, Wisconsin’s state max is 30mls. With Suboxone I always started with 3, 8mg pills. For a pill popper, those doses are like clouds that tickle your taint. For Heroin addicts those jump-offs don’t even chip the paint. It wash”t until I hit 200mls of Methadone did I get any “relief” lasting past noon. Relief is the junky jargon at the clinics that means how long you felt until you wanted real dope. Calling it anything else is just sprucing it up, undeservingly.

The biggest problem that both the Suboxone program and Methadone clinic’s alike have is that their clientele are drug addicts. Serious ones at that. It may seem like a conundrum and boy if it were ever so fucking easy to categorize as that, many lives would be calm. Jokes aside, it is 100% true. Eventually in these programs the “replacement therapy” or weaker dope if we want to be blunt, it just stops tossing the salad like it used too 2 months ago and so we start cheating on the love of our lives. We sneak a romp with a handful of benzo’s (Xanax, Klonopin, Valium) here and there. He clients keep a steady side chick of marijuana around usually, and it’s nothing to finger fuck flirt with a speed need here and there across clinic lines. This isn’t everyone and I feel compelled to make sure some of you morons will infer I am saying everyone on Drug Replacement Programming is getting high on on the side, and thats not true. That said, its well over half and probably closer to 75%.

There comes a time when you either screw the regrettable coed at the bar or leave her homely ass for someone more sideways than you, and here that homely whore ends up being stronger fixes than the Suboxone or Methadone for the clients involved. How long do you poke bears? Depends on how much backup you have. Here, the backup is real drugs. Having “one foot in and one foot out” is the most nut wrenching catechism you could ever let some Presbyterians dream up. Not really being sober but not being lit up the way you really like being; There is no worse stage to be in along the life of an addicted person. Almost all go through it for various time periods along their personal pathways to perdition. I personally am a 2 time Suboxone flunky and now am getting out of the Metro Methadone Clinic, though am actually tapering at record fucking speeds. Yeah, I am bragging a bit. To go from 400 to, well 80 this morning since Jan 1st this year. I’m some type of petri dish experiment, I know it.

Many in my carnival life have come to the conclusion that the only reason I am so vigorously coming off the Methadone this time around is to fulfill some self-fulfilling prophecy to go back and OD on Heroin before I turn 3o (March 21). I say that is a heavily layered assumption to have about another fucking individual and to no actually express their predictions mostly (not concerns) first hand but through the lakes and grapevines. Fucking Cowards. If you ever come to me and say you heard something about me, my life, or anything of the sort, and don’t have the basic level of decency to tell me where the information stemmed from, you are not my friend. To sit and hear slander and not allow me to distinguish immediately is not what friends do. Even I know that and I am a shitty friend.

After a week of being in whatever of the 2 Drug Replacement Therapy programs out there, you will KNOW if you belong or not, or if you are going to play the game since you’re there already. You know which way I chose each time… Ta-Ta….



junky administration

junky administration


DSM-V Diagnosis



the year I met Anarchy

the year I met Anarchy

Outside your core handful of cohorts, fuck over everyone you can; Because you can bet your morning’s last fix that if they haven’t thought of or attempted to fuck you over already, they will.


Quote  —  Posted: January 23, 2014 in Current Journal, Galentine, Quotes

Its a tough gig ya know. Being the truth sayer in a land of lie lovers.

So long as those who continue to want uncut, unedited junky news and sweet psycho acoustic blues, I will sit with Anarchy wrist to wrist, blood to blood, scar to scar, and watch the world wander beneath us. Observing, calculating and reconstructing it in our own blended mind. Enjoy the show.





You see, I stupidly and was of a  stoned kinda of mind while I  agreed to go to the meeting spot of an A.A. meeting with Ambiguous Andy: The kind queer fellow with 37 years of sobriety, but then out of left fucking field last week takes three different man sized Colorado hits off 3 different strains of ganja after me being back in his dwelling and life (as the only change in his), full time for a months time. In essence I am his devils details and how off my cocks rocker does it make me that I can pull it off. $200 Friday this last 18th. $25 Monday the 20th, and then $600 Tuesday the 21st at Midnight, which if technicalities are at play, it would be the 22nd. The sources range from Sober Houses to Porn Trainee.

Anyway, even though the amounts have been outlined to the ambiguous Droid, watching his firm jawline (since its mental due to a sexy motorcycle accident in the 70’s), watch it hit the floor when he realizes what I can collect and how rapidly and steadily because I am an entrepreneur as much as I am a long-dicked opportunist, and that combination rarely leaves someone without sources of cash. They have a sweet tooth for fast action around this territory, darling, and Im the James Dean of Flaming Fiends.

I guess no one is surprised in the fucking minimal of degrees that I never came close to even giving it a Dutchmen’s effort to make it into the AA meeting. Andrew, curse and bless his wretched dick loving soul, he was faithfully stacking chairs and loading coffee for the St. Paul group of drunks on a Sunday with the air temp at 10 degrees, reciting like Pole Pot, preparing the upside down crucifixion of my lifespan just shy of three decades. I really am not or was not cut out for this absolute anything monologue , let alone sobriety. What a waste of potential life adventure, and selling yourself short.

The following morning at 3:00am I was awakened by Ambiguous Andy, not remembering nodding out for the final days rest, which is usually 2 hour spurts after which the body pains will wake me. Nevertheless Ambiguous beat the aches to waking me because I had forgotten somewhere on klonopin island that this Monday was Mr. Martin Lither King Day and considered a holiday at the methadone clinic. Holidays hours are 6:00am-9:30am. I don’t dose until 10 at the earliest of days so without an adaptation of plans, I would miss my dose and have to kill a clergyman. Because if there is one thing you don’t do is fuck with an addicts drugs.

Anyway, after awaking and realizing the fucker I was up against, I spiked the hawk, threw on the fresh pressed Guido Nike jumpsuit & white Eddy Lacy jersey with fresh Nike shoes and a fresh tagged Vans over hoody. Brushed the bicuspids and we hopped into the newly purchased, silver 2 seater Miata for 70 miles in 10 degree blowing snow baby. Midwest maniacs. This was, of course not before I tried calling my good pal Notorious who doses at the clinic and see if I could kill 4 hours with him until Ambiguous could be back from his job to get me. Relying on people is just below brain aneurysms but luckily I have aces. Notorious didn’t reply in necessary time to leave and get Ambiguous back on time but I reached DraYa, the DopeSick Diaries logo artist and she said I could relax there for 4 hours. Bam. We hit the highway.

After dosing and doing the daily fuckery at the Metro Tavern, DraYa was waiting and we went to her college housing unit, downtown. 20 minutes later, my african street pharmacist Phase called and asked if I, the person with no license or car registered in my name, whom lives 70 miles away and no way for Phase to know I was in town, could get his son to school with his wife. Oh sure. How about a trip to the laundry mat and fucking Home Depot too, doulja.

I got Phase’s son to school in a cab with his wife and he rewarded my chivalry with completely legal smoking tobacco, depending on what state your in. Anyway it was just another day in the life that is The DopeSick Diaries. This actually was fairly humdrum by most rubrics. This is the resting period before the riots. Tomorrow at midnight the real releases and relief will be rundown till sundown with my buzz and my love around. Ta-Ta..


Rocking the Eddy Lacy on 'em

Rocking the Eddy Lacy on ‘em

I cannot tell you of the countless numbers of creepy, crock-of-shit for brains having, scholars of all brands,who ramble on about an infinite number of topics that no range of examples could do its encompassing and vast range any articulate justice. The scholars themselves being of such a roulette table of Babylon and randomness, no mind could believe the variety. Well, unless that mind belonged to a junky. A top tier, weird turned pro sort of addict, ya know. A mind such as Galentine’s.

Some of the unimpressive scholars being those of the actual academic breed; Whose green horns and damp rear ears, almost take away from them babbling on about their latest NPR discovery or fucking tidbit from BBC, like they’ve freshly humped the holy grail of underground sources in journalism, and made the wench squeal like a soccer mom.
Unaccomplished hipsters gives image to this gaggle of goblins, whose (lack) of skills couldn’t tell you the difference in dependance and addiction, and would likely scoff as they claim none to exist. Immediately after which, they post the occurrence on their preferred social media outlet as describing how they just whimsically jousted some jack off and are no less than 10 points more hip for it.

The other spectrum of know-it-all-know-nothings bases his infallible wisdom on the years of being enamored with such a group/topic/whatever; And that while they never really have been partaking in the content they pontificate on, the decades (usually) observing (perhaps to point of befriending certain individuals just to get a glimpse of it, outside looking in), make their points of view not only equal to anyone else’s, in some instances they go further and claim higher understanding, due to not diluting themselves with whatever the circumstances any lifestyle/belief/pattern/proclivity or any other topic that would be used as a platform for superiority. Codependent counselors would be an excellent example of this being a frequent occurrence.

When @FTWandUoo told me privately he was switching from methadone to Suboxone, and asked if I had any thoughts, I offered to do that which I have yet to do since this blog’s creation in October of 2013; I would take on the closest thing to a ‘request post’ as I have had, and aim its arrows at his questions and and concerns surrounding the switch from one drug replacement therapy to another. Why the fuck was I so eager to do a post on this day after the Sabbath Day where all Agnostics take the jewish day of rest and do nothing differently? Was it me whom was eager to pontificate on a topic I either read a dump-truck of theory on, or an issue I watched someone close to me fuck with the fringes of a free for all for? No, Darlin’. Perhaps the reason I offered to give this reader and fellow online aristocrat an exclusive piece of my past because it is just that. I lived it. It is a piece of my past as much as reused rigs and bisexual Bambi’s.

Shortly after I had my seizure from downing a couple of stolen Haldol from the 40 year old, black schizophrenic who was living in the halfway house I managed and whom I also was sponsoring in bis 12 step program, at that moment. Its the spiral of next circumstances that fucking pissed in my parade rain. Anarchy and I each took 2 of the psychotropic pills to help us come down and pass out on our DopeSick dilemma of like hour 30 of no junk, and she kissed me with her lashes and lips and left for the night. At Midnight the next day, March 19th, (Anarchy’s 22nd birthday) I awake alone in seizures, stopping my breathing every 20 or 30 suffocating and exhausting seconds, like getting bashed in the testicles by a 100 pound coke whore with a 9 iron on a testicle driving range. The seizures, which obviously were brought on by the bad reaction to a ultra high dose of Haldol, coupled with the stage the body physiologically was in, 40 hours into heroin detox. I endured pure and total agony of the seizures for 9 hours before I caved and called 9-11 on myself, knowing it was the cannon that would crumble the castle I created with Anarchy, and my pedestal would sink. I was on Suboxone from that day on until May. Last time I did it, I put 4, 8mg strips in a cooker, added 200 units of water, stirred and dissolved it, shot all 32 and I still didn’t “catch one”.

Jump ahead to July which lapse  is well documented on the website, what with the 6 week freak-outs and federal arrests while running sober houses and blah blah blah. Point is an addict like me was never going to be satisfied by what Suboxone could give me and I headed back to the cesspool junky tavern that the methadone clinic is because I was at that level. Im not gonna rewrite it all, its all on the site, but they (the clinic) took me to 400 mills in 15 weeks. As of Jan 1st this year I  have dropped from 400 and today my cocktail was 120. I know, Im an anomaly. A fucking weird drug robot that isn’t affected the same as others, as the RN said. My case is not typical and if you view my sites pics and posts can decipher I’m not a fucking member of Hitler’s Youth or a straight edge that doesn’t know how to help the landing be softer, ya dig?

Only you or maybe if you have an Anarchy or An Ambiguous Andy or Panda like myself to know what type of addict you are. You don’t have to be, and really shouldn’t try and live to be the enigma Anarchy and Galentine are, but someone should be able to tell you honestly without doubt if you’re the sort who could ever, in a million fucking dry humps be satisfied with Suboxone or not. If not, my cell is on my LinkedIn page and call me up, I could tell ya in 5 minutes or less. I’m not the writer who’ll say I hoped you took some part of my answer and it bettered your being because you fucking asked me and you’re assertive enough to tell me either way. Okay. Ta-Ta..

Galentine 💋

Ima gunslinging Starved type
junked up in bar fights
your every day, feather weights
take a swing of our life
i stash my past
with my masks and hash
you can find all 3
in my plaid back pack
god damn
this kid is saturated
and exasperated
talents so
you can chatter
how the bastard’s graded
cuz I’m so
high though
timezones and iPhones
blindfolds on my goals
you cant see what i beleive in
I’m fiending what im needing
Im Galentine
Im Free
From needing Freedom
green fatigues
but no fatiguing
dream of me
but dont argee &
hopefully the
dope and weed
chokes emotions free
despite what youve seen
tonight has a theme
my diazapine
might entice
what you’ve seen
your highness and screams
sublimed by the beams
im what reminds you
of trying to be free
apply what you see
or die on the beats
we never die, why
survived by the streets
its like im healing
the healthy
Or dealing with the wealthy
the soul is what i steal
whoever may tries to help me
if your better
then come and melt me
be-head and come & scalp me
if not shut the fuck up
and show me where the belts be
cuz im ready to gloat
give me some venom to smoke
Dopesick Devil
like Freddy on coke
the levee has broke
send men for a boat, oh
expenses are low
its been spent on this show
call in reforcements
who are all in
from the porcelyn
remember all is fortunate
you alcohol abortionists
you smelling what im
torching kid
from felons with enormous hits
nevermind that story
heres a forty
for ya ornery chick
relieve you of your porno wish
then leave you in the morning sick
indeed another boring chick
That we have left scorned and pissed
I’m the answer that you’ve feared
Looking at dancers in the mirrors
Perhaps a fast disaster
I’m like a cancer that’s been cured
Given lessons of defeat
So sexist in the sheets
Undressing all the freaks
Watch my surging takeoff
Immersing break off
Gods hardest con artist
Im lying, Honest

2 punks 1 love

2 punks 1 love

freshly fixed

“The Magnum Opus for every junky is to be a highly desired, posh-sloth, whom is neither expected nor responsible for any single instance in their life. That is highest of all statuses in any and all druggy circles across the planet. To be entitled and anonymous, that is the honey’s eve tea, and oh what a dream.


Quote  —  Posted: January 16, 2014 in Galentine, Quotes, Throwback Thursday
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

February 2013
Speed Ball 101
Speed Ball 101



Only Included In The Picture Are:    Sour Jolly Rancher Chewable’s

(2 Zip Lock Baggies full)

2005 Blackberry Curve with no camera

Custom E-Cig from E-cig Crib in Minneapolis

1 30ML bottle of Grape Frost (24mg/ML Nicotine)  Juice

1 30 ML bottle of Blueberry Chill (24mg/ML Nicotine) Juice

Zebra colored E-Cig case converted into makeup case

Beats Audio case converted into sunglasses case

Sour Patch Kids-Watermelon Slices

Wooden Jar of  natural Anxiety Aids

Glass Jar of natural shisha herbal incense

1 Ounce of  ROTO eye drops

Medium sized, open notebook


20140115-165547.jpg     Retroactive Picture, unknown location or posession of belongings

Nothing  twinkles my toes like the backhanding of a big mouthed brute. This world needs balances and checks, structures and regulations, but what it doesn’t fucking need is wide hips with coal souls. I won’t lie (about this) and tell you I didn’t get a half hard mental boner on Wednesday, after I was treated like common filth from Spazz, the weakest link (which considering her girth is ironic) of the Metro Methadone Clinic’s counseling constituents. Is it sad, or is it sensual that when my cynicism is exemplified and verified through real life occurrences, I am often delighted more than I’m disgusted. Perhaps its just the satisfaction of yet again being accurate in my assessments of human behavior that strokes the shaft of my frontal cortex.

This past hump day, Wednesday the 8th, had my morning in its crosshairs to fuck up the congruent theme the week began with. On Wednesdays at the Metro Dose Bar (Methadone Clinic), the hours of operation, which is the clinical term for “passing out dope to the areas junkies” run from 5:00 until 10:00am. This is an hour and a half less than usual weekdays, due to the dope clinics weekly staffing falling on Hump Day. Since this horrible reemergence into Methadonia, I have never been late. Not once. Today however was going to be close.

My brother in arms, Ambiguous Andy, who drives me daily aside from the weekends when Panda carriages my cold corpse to dose, drives bus and isn’t home from his route until 8:45am. The clinic is 80 minutes from our castle if you’re moderately breaking traffic laws. Being the beautiful, brilliant tho sometimes brainless addict I am, had forgotten it was Wednesday and was casually adding eye liner and switching shoes for no reason. Ambiguous quickly reminded me of the days name and in 5 more wasted minutes we were flying in the silver 6 speed roadster, southbound and stricken with anxiety that should we be too late, the horrid fucking mess of all messes that articulates the sight of a junky who misses their methadone dose, would be our reality the next 24 punishing hours. Especially an addict like myself that is tapering at a speed disliked by 90% of the clinics staff (because my rate is a daily, rapid taper which gets me out sooner and the clinic $18/day poorer).

I decided 10 minutes into our top speed travels that lying was the only way I could pull off showing up after dosing hours and even have a chance at getting my dope. To think exceptions get made often in the mafioso mentality the methadone clinic is based on, is an uneducated assertion. They are cash cows. Period.

The lie was innocent enough. A victimless long truth you might say. I was to call the clinic when I hit the freeway, which is 50 mins from the front door of the clinic, and tell them the county road leading to the freeway was addled with a 3 car pile up and multiple units slowing and sometimes stopping traffic. The accident stalled our already 75 minute trip another 30 because the wreck had children involved, and what looked like an uninsured el camino as the pile-up’s perpetrator, in a pair of ash stained Dickies with a “roll your own” Gambler cig in his prison tatted hand. Hey, I needed this to be a story the person on the other line is just like, “Yea fuck it come as soon as you can”, Which is exactly what happened. The RN on staff answered and said okay they’d let the door person know. Jackpot…Almost.

The stench in the wench was that the days door person was Spazz Ass. My well documented nemesis at the clinic. A patron walked out the door at 10:13, when I tried to walk in, she slammed my fashionable combat boot with all 230 of her inertia and moaned with a horses groan that I was too late. I then, calm as a cockroach in Queens, explained the call I made to the RN, to which she groaned again that they weren’t even dosing any longer and I would have to suffer until tomorrow and to remove my foot from her door. Exact words. I immediately called the clinics number on my cellphone, which was orgasmically answered, contextually speaking by The Director of the clinic. I gave her a comment on the pleasant greeting she answered the phone with, since she never is the employee on phone duty, and went over the accident, how I immediately called and that the RN said door person would be notified. She put me on hold for no more than 33 seconds and cooingly invited me in to quickly get my dose and commended my diligence in doing all I could. I could have cunt punched her camel toe I was so enthralled, not only with The Director’s benevolent act and basic human kindness, but more so at the rhino running around, soaking in her sulky stained G(inormous)string. The backhanded bitch-slapping ol’ Bird Brain became victim to, is the nectar jolly ranchers and heroin come from. Pure, posh pride, doll.

Nuisances like Spazz Ass are awful in many ways, like the rest of us, however, where she differers is that she is that type of terrorist that must make their bullshit, yours; And this is done so by any tactic, including belittling the drug addicts she took an oath to serve selflessly. Belittling based upon a false and fraudulent superiority assumption, while many whom dose daily at the metro, such as myself, have high credentials in her very field; Both in academics and life in actual life experience. Cut that from her putrid pessimism that keeps all her clients anxious as hell, and a piercing delivery that leaves Gilbert Godfried searching for his Gucci earmuffs. A total fraud, failure and worst off oblivious. May the house fire happen in her happy home, for no reason other than her having to live as many of her clients have for years. Now that would be justice.

Just before publishing this, I had to document my Freudian epiphany. This whole incident occurred on Wednesday, the week’s HumpDay. Its more obvious than ever that Spazz Azz and her blatant bitchiness is nothing more than her knowing that yet again, her Hump Day would be like the last 43; Watching Biggest Loser with her hazelnut dildo and craigslist messages.


Anytime I see a lame-duck politician bring his family or staff down due to the lame quacker’s actions, I upchuck the bile my bowels bathe in. No one likes a tattle tale, hater whom is jealous and ripe with envy. As a gentleman on bail, my finest moments of articulation cannot spell out the disdain for a do-goober nagging narc ass I possess.

How about when the perpetrator is the very institution hustling off the Pepto pink methadone each day? And when I say perpetrator, I mean enough so that the DEA has launched a full fledged fuck for all and they were kind enough to send yours truly a letter spelling it out so basic, I could explain the gist of it to a down syndrome dolphin. Best piece of this puzzle is my pictorial proof I must release to fulfill my role as serious journalist.

I challenge anyone to show me mainstream coverage in either regional or local daily rags, but the 6th grade girls swim team has a new diving board worth a glance I hear, according to the Leader Telegram.

My favorite part is the total blatant wording that unapologetically states the HIPPA confidentiality laws mean no more than the ink they are printed in. If the feds want any and all records, medical, from a treatment center, why waste the first assessment,that costs $300, assuring the safety of the information collected in “your recovery”.

So, how does the neighborhood dose bar get a federal indictment?
The Dr presiding over all the doses in the 350 patient clinic was 75, half blind, closet queer who instead of just being a homo; His repressed desires and huge degrees of control, were carried out and over an ultra vulnerable stable of young junky females whom he would get extra frisky in the intake physical. After that and a month or so to get the young pop-tarts at a few hundred mills of ‘done each day; Then have the same blitzed out bimbos come to his private practice where he would prescribe anywhere from 30 to 90, 2mg Xanax bars. The real deals, no Alprazolam generics for his blackout Bambi’s. Without going into a long pharmacology dissertation, just know that there isn’t a more lethal and guaranteed disaster looming when mixing methadone and Xanax, and any other Benzodiazepine. Even more messy than booze and benzo’s and thats as bad as it gets with the asshole still breathing; But thats just it, the propensity to not wake up when mixing the aforementioned cocktail is higher than any other, that my 18 years has taught me.

Best part is I had this letter when I reentered the clinic in July and brought the document with me, then pulled it out and acted aloof and clueless like some of the hens and asked what the subpoena meant. The poor wiseness of the secretary was obviously not prepped for such an ambush that she have no more privy to the answers I would ask than the beaner shining wingtips at the airport.







the altruistic
are all too mystic
fallen misfit with a calling
who spits on their litmus
are you starting to get this
he seems to be cherishing
ripping at the seams and the fiend
of embarrassment
retrieve the belief
and grief
of a terrible scene
confident and cunning
nonchalant, its Hum B
fooling whom he’s school with
and monster that he’s numbing
that Eve’s a fruity fiend
she keeps eating Adam’s apple
even Moses knows
the wheels are peeling
off their axels
pardon the heathens
this garden-less Eden
alarmed at what your seeing
its the start of something Ethan

Welcome ladies and gentle sin
ill be your tour’s vampircal host
a spiritual hoax
like the dirtiness of urgentness
like the perks of sex on Percocets
the lies are high and lively
I’m actually dying
getting highs off anhedonia
its diazepandemonium
like the blind eye of bribing
time always finds those hiding
fuck mortality
I’m gonna show them now
never growing up
until I’m cold & lowered down
according to what the creeps say
he was arrested on leap day
bourbon type bravery
amtracks on each vein
when never arrives
where do you hide
for there are no stores
where you can score enough more


Any sensual bliss in the world,
that he can mention its hits in this world
it isn’t worth one million shavings
of the bliss of this ending of craving


When nothing, and I mean nothing inspires or challenges my psyche anymore, no person or place excites, no thought or idea provokes, it is then and especially then, that change is necessary and potentially looming like an unhappy marriage headed towards extra affairs. Unfortunately for anyone that loves me, there hasn’t been a “fast forward” button to press and my threshold, nor does such rapid moving fate happen for anyone else either; Added to the ambushing is how thick my threshold for bullshit has become. That kind of combination is the reason no bridges in my rearview are left without some scorching. The few left standing at all, are as rickety and raggedy as any you might find in an Indiana Jones action outake, with sleazy extras and stunt buffs to boot. A little reenactment of a script-less, subpar plot, populated with B-List bimbos and Bambi’s to play the parts re-written to fit the bill of belligerence for a French speaking house boy carrying an attitude and a .38, just in case the henchmen try pocketing the hors d’oeuvres being passed about the to plastic pirañas. The flying fish would need an ejection seat to bring comic relief to the humdrum hangover hovering over our heritage.

🅾utlasting the storm of a creative overcast can be a bird more lonesome than any dove from above or below the spaghetti western of all westerns . The arts of creating are this Earth’s most cleverly disguised conundrum since feminine men found eye shadow to be beneficial and conservatives convinced their constituents that the way to hate queers is by secretly being one. That’s right, Rhonda. Once the Moonlight Drives are just late-night taco stops, and the once flowing poetic mouthpiece donned by your rebel writer, is now just another nagging, male menstruating matador. The propensity to resort back to crass and calculating cravings climbs the silk curtains and marble countertop(less), and this alien’s end is elbow room away.

💲uddenly I sense myself as dialing up a dose of Histrionic Personality Disorder (Borderline’s pre Madonna cousin who differs most in that the Histrionic’s uncanny conniptions are done for attention, while the Borderline’s outlandishness is performed out of the fear of abandonment, stemming from childhood anxieties of whether or not they had their parents love), though fabricated as the ass of a firefly, very much actual in symptom and system.

The clown shoes we unwittingly wear when we’re captivated by (any type of) craving, makes sideshows of us all. While feeling the grandiose gasses building up in our bowels as we try and tip toe around the egg shelled tight rope, the urges of urgency devolve our rank as food chain champion to common, impulsive ingrates. Many millions with malnourished minds have made mental love in the cathedral of coitus and other cravings, mere moments after a doctored up declaration of how such failures were a blast of the past, never to rear their ugle heads and heartless hard-ons again. Thats the kind of fuckery our queen of quarantine carries with a curtsey and a cartoonish can of ass kissing on hand, to keep the qualified quiet and the gay and strays at bay.

Once alive and recovered
from this rekindling, reckless repairing
under cover fucking smothered
and the curing of craving,
that melted minute
we drop our dicks back into saint sinners
covered in paint thinner
fuck you ad your steak dinner
our aching livers, ain’t pale faint figure
fades to black yet again.
Ms. Winehouse knew the score as I calculate it.
There are no shortages of temptations
to crave like enslaved angels
; but should you sidestep with a high neck,
your average yield of cabbage fields,
become cloned and toned, sold and loaned
to the fear filled puritans
who don’t feel the spear within
The leaf’s life is a neat flight,
free from cravings and misbehaving, dancing under street lights.
worry-less like its a bourbon fest, no stress, unless, you all confess,
to the burgundy mess on the poor girls pearl burned dress. You’re MURDERESS!

©ravings will dwarf the insanity brought upon by jealousy or any of the other putrid and pretty deadly sinful celebrations for this reason alone: When the junky or other animal whose equally jones’n is locked in the stste of craving; All of life and deaths darkest frames of mind and matter, are encompassed to quench the craving and net the dragon.

Galentine 💋

With the large demographic who visit the site, I thought it appropriate to see just how many readers are addicts themselves.



When your entire life has been one attempt at resistance after another, the most rebellious act left to carry out is acquiescing to the way life fucks and flows by.


Quote  —  Posted: January 7, 2014 in Current Journal, Galentine, Quotes
Tags: , , , , ,

Now, Im not the type of tyrant that spits and pushes, and tells you its lube. Not me, Jimmy Dean. Im not hear to give you polished passages by any means, but where my curtains differ from the douche’s in disguises is I find no benefit in doing the salsa on eggshells and just articulate boldly and free of misinterpretations or chance at misleading you. You’ll either love me for it or learn from it. What other memoir or slice of social commentary can say the same? Only the ripest.

This is where the bulk of the common senseless get all revved up and are eager and intrusive as they announce their want for facts and truth. “Straight shooter” is a common adjective that gets self imposed by the self righteous simpletons, because like a large number of folks, they cannot communicate in ordinary back and forth exchanges. Instead, after the unnecessary insertion of raising the decibels, while 3 or 4 low barks replace the exchange of unique thought or provocative ideas. Grunts and groans are the new doomed obstacles.

The average and every day nobody wants to want the truth, whatever the cost or consequence. But deep downstairs, past the cellar dwellers and elf urchins, those same nobodies no more want uncut, flatline honesty than they want me getting kinky with their families 18 year old boy/girl twins. A real raunchy rendition of Rudolph, where the the red nose is running with cocaine mucus and heroin snot, and the sleigh is a gay shaley, rising up, up and away. The masses want the magic muted and a vacant noose for those who shake up ancient rules. The truth sayers are taken to the outskirts of town, beaten by brutes, and left penniless and nude without a compass or a cock-ring.

Often this display of ostrich behavior extends into the clinically-coy realm of AODA counseling. Several victims of my decade-thick caseload have fit the bill to a tee in their quest for fluff puff awareness, and each were surgically dismembered through mental humiliation and scholastic inferiority. That’s not even paying a winks worth of homage to the obvious handicap in life experience in context to my addicted life-form. But enough of those shrapnel sandwiches, because my latest and greatest counselor of arms whom we’ll call Mystique is a rare raven that sincerely and begrudgingly bows to needing information unedited. This pairing of client and countess, er, counselor didn’t occur by a handpicked chance. It was after I had cancelled Slother’s services, was rejected by Spazz Ass, and finally taken on feverishly by a zeal only existing in fresh fish. Mystique, while not new to the field of practice, had just been acquired by said clinic maybe 90 days ago. I admired her ambition for leftovers, you might say.

Where all this brilliant background is leading too is that since I began my MSW (Medically Supervised Withdrawal) off methadone, Mystique has really been the only set of ears and solid enough of a conscience to hear my thoughts and opinions on the matter. Tragic this is so considering the magnitude of the minefield, that methadone withdrawal is described as being and documented by in its painful examples. The process a junky must go through to come down on their methadone dose compared to increasing their dose is the equivalent of scoring pharmaceuticals off the street as oppose to jumping the hoops of copping through your doctor. Yea some hiccups happen buying from the street, but all in all you know as certain as Judas was getting voted off the island that the supply never totally runs dry; While the hoop humping and hurdle fucking in seeing an actual psych then shrink to get your pills, is never a locked in scenario. So yea, the clinic makes it a miserable mind-fuck to lower your dose.

First a 1 on 1 with the counselor (Mystique), where the reasons for wanting to drop are articulated and a fiduciary commitment to outline potential risk factors are carried out. No problem. Then the blue balls of bowing the head and meeting with Director Babysitter to essentially duplicate the doldrums of the initial doom and gloom of how daily dose dropping is wicked Wonka WASP venom. After I repeated my affirmations astutely, Director Babysitter granted me allowance to drop my dose daily. How harmonious my hollow heart might hum if all that bushwhacking was the final feast of fuckery tied into this basic adjustment. Oh, fountain wishes and unicorn kisses.

Bad enough that 3 separate appointments had to be made (and when the demographic most prevalent at said facility is without transportation), each waste of water that flushed down the shit from those involved was an unnecessary repetitive due to identical hyper-analyzing of hypotheticals, once again yielding nothing new. All these idioms already and still the locomotive of lunacy hasn’t reached its maximum vacancy because now the dingo dose dealers in doctor drag find it irresistible to insert their personal pond water into my streamlining sea current. The true fucking pity is that if I were a less weathered, green-horned, ambitious amateur in the drug world, there is no doubt that my feet would freeze, my confidence melt, and I’d have been talked into staying at my max dose and consequently falling further into the Pepto-Bismal cesspool of one foot in/one foot out, boner barricading, liver lava Methadonia.

Shame on you Metro Methadone Clinic. For wanting me saturated as an aging piece of roadkill, with no old wounds because the easily bruised saran-wrap skin has the yellow’d over with a jaundice camouflage. To keep me a skeleton picked clean by every scavenger whose needed a snack these last few months. Not this junky. This bird of prey is flying the coupe while the other mackerels cackle, tied to the roof.


Today a two for one with Song Lyric/ Poetry Saturday, finishing the weeks trend of poetry, song writing and hymns of the disease. Every so often my mind goes into binge writing and this weeks purge was in the lyrical department. A nice switch every so often. Anyway, Enjoy them as I do.

50 Cent Solution

numbing down streams
we sailed once before
drop your anchors
& dock the tankers
birds of blurry colors lead to
a flock of neighbors
care to wager
or spare your anger
fury and the focused
bury the hopeless
with bare knees & coke lips
lets window shop
with bricks and burned bras
this dick is a gold flaw
Scan the sunday funnies
For a worthy fucking cause
This devil gets his discount
when his fellows sell a risked amount
statues are too bashful
so sell em with their dicks out
thoughtless as a thorn-bush
sexy as a Studebaker
spears disappear
when im nesting yes we lure later
strong as 6 or more, sycamore’s
however this schism scored
a 50 cent shell
and hell
we wont be sick no more

From ‘The 4th Floor Melodies’ Collection…

This little doozy
A tale of 2 Susie’s
One wound up tight
The other bound more loosely
Susie 1
walks spun & high strung
Susie 2
always blue, boo-hoo without a clue
1 full of panic
Stressing obsessive
2 is much less manic
But awfully depressive
The days revolve around
The mold she is holding
1 minute ice cold
Next moment she is boiling
Now before your upset
with your somethings to say
While there might be 2 Susie’s
They’re one drug of the same
Susie one loves as she
scrubs tubs and cleans the house
Until susie 2 comes through
and schlubs on each couch
Damn your 2 Susies crap
You lured me in trouble
Go back to your nooses trap
And thorazine shuffles

You ask
why do i shiver when i see you
come hither let me feed you
all the glitter you can gleam through
so im not bitter when i see you
we are past the place
of after taste
getting you to love what you once hated
is half the chase
the other half is subtle gasps
smothered laughs and druggy naps
love me like a brother
you could fuck and understand
love me like the mother
that you drug under the sands
the castle is crumbling
the castle is crumbling
one bastards dungeon
its no wonder he is numbing
when all their gods
are profits & facades
his image is dimming
all thats left is this mirage