20071014

Buckets of Waste

One quarter of an hour beyond five in the morning and it's just me and "Blood On the Tracks". Ten tracks of bohemian heart break by a lanky hebe giving folk-fags more orgasms than Jack Elliot. I've just finished a thorough testicle scratching session. Emotional and chemical joy is impossible to come by so I do my best to horseradish the physical. Sometimes if I hit just the right spot everything melts away. I hit some hidden nerve as yet undocumented by science that releases opiates unheard of in modern or ancient culture that peels away the illusory walls of conscious. Time, dimensions and euphoria are made wrinkly flesh, mine to manipulate with grubby fingers and uneven keratin. Then, being human and unready for the approaching enlightenment I'm lurched back to the physical and realize I've peeled away not only reality but several layers of skin and the stinging ensues. Hurts so good. One thousand three hundred twenty seconds beyond five in the morning. Ouch.

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