rogerdr (rogerdr) wrote,

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before he goes upstairs, he has the foresight to get a lighter from the bar. and pays for it with a tenspot. he'd ask for a water pipe as well, because he prefers them to joints, but he's not yet that comfortable the idea of grass being okay here. why not? It's not like the shit was exactly taboo in bellona, either, but there the boundaries were more obvious. and this is the sort of thing hopheads dream about, right? hell, he could probably grow all he wants right here in his room and nobody would say a word. he's just not a hophead, though, however much he has smoked (since?). it gives him
I'm trying to listen for the important words, even if I can't hear the cadence of their speech. It's not so hard to eavesdrop on two or three lunch conversations at once if you do it that way. The strange part isn't that so many people here are from different times and worlds, it's that they all speak English. If there's some kind of science or magic at work here, then why do they still have accents? I should ask one of the gods. If anyone would know, they would.
the good buzz, yeah; but it also dulls the little bit of memory he has left. when he writes stoned, it reads like the fucking bible; but when he comes down he loses the faith. words that seemed to fit together like incan temples become the ruins of rome. sentences break up like pirate ships on the grand banks. what was eloquent becomes grotesque and worse, for even the transcendent logic that spawned it is lost in the haze of morning afters. at least when he writes something no one else can fathom, though they may say it must be brilliant simply because they can't understand it, he knows what it means. when written under the influence of a tropical god, only those dancing the native dance can feel the beat of its drums. so, knowing all of this, why does he still do it? for the joke of it all, man! literature can't be all shakespeare and tolsty and kafka and kant. you gotta throw in some alice in wonderland every once in a blue george or the whole thing starts getting cranky. what, with soccer here and football there, english is pretty fucked anyway. and how about fuck, hunh? it's so much older than making love, but the tv talks like it never happens. oh, you've got your double-entendres and your mixed
Did I really write this? It's not that I don't recall the frame of mind, but it's not in my handwriting; and this pen doesn't have black ink and the way I remember it, I was more stoned at the beginning than toward the end.
metaphors, but uncle milty can always say it's just your own sick loneliness going out on a limb. he'd say you'll never hear bob hope shit out that kind of fudge. and he'd be right, `cause you're on the road with the wrong moriarty and the coolaide ain't spiked with the good stuff this time. the other side of the pentacle couldn't be further from the lie, and don't try to tell me what they're dishing out is the best of all possible pigs in a blanket. breakfast isn't just for mourning doves, you know. even fat farmers gotta crow like they're counting coo. did i mention i hate writing when i'm stoned? well, i lied.
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