Thread: Another strange tale from strange times

Now I'm starting to reminisce on the yellow VW bug I saw one day while walking stoned down Lewers in Waikiki, in the windshield it had a scale model of a yellow VW bug with the interior hand painted to match the white and yellow hibiscus seatcovers of the larger version so I peered closer to see how detailed it got everything seemed to match and I tripped out on it and then I spotted in the windshield a micromachines VW bug and next thing you know my face is pressed against this cars window trying to see if the seats were painted and then I hear a distorted murmur behind me "SHESCUSH ME SWHASCHT ARESHU DOOOOINNTTGGGG" I think the murmuring is directed at me so I snap back to my senses and spring from the car trying to pinpoint the source when I see this cute little surfer chick in full on Wave Battling regalia(a bikini)like so:

Now most surfer girls don't wander far from the beach with out a sarong or towel on the bottom but this girl knows what shes got and flaunts it. I luckily was so high I got the words out and said how much I admired the creativity she put into her triple scale model so she told me a little about what went into it and we talked a bit and I found we had alot in common next thing I know I'm in the passenger seat and being whisked away to this mountain flophouse for surfers that is 4 stories of home descending down the mountain/hill side. We start discussing beat writers and how much we love Kerouac and could live on Apple pie and ice cream as well and we're on the fourth bong rip when she asks me if I want to go higher and I'm like alright. So she takes out a little metal box with a lock on it and takes a mini luggage key from around her neck and pops the lock off and inside is a whole cache of pills, baggies, vials, etc. She grabs a syringe and rubber tube then it happens she jabs me and my face falls into a seemingly endless spiral of a smile, my eyes are closed yet so wide open and I hear her voice. So familiar are the words when I realize she's opened my backpack and is reading from my journal of poems, lyrics, scribbles and musings and she reads it all and then folds a page and writes the date and hands it to me...

Chickenscratch as thus:

If there are halos around the lights and stars tonight
does it mark me soon to die before the sun shines bright?
Hours swim by and I lie in my undeath,
my eyes afixed on the last fading star as dawn swallows it,
morning light stalks into my eyes scalding them and I growl
"But for what misery".
I know only one nonmystery at this moment so pucker for me
and I will take my breakfast from your lips,
devour me as I devour you and we will fulfill a revolution.

Aubade
by Philip Larkin


I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.

In time the curtain-edges will grow light.

Till then I see what's really always there:

Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,

Making all thought impossible but how

And where and when I shall myself die.

Arid interrogation: yet the dread

Of dying, and being dead,

Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.



The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse

-- The good not done, the love not given, time

Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because

An only life can take so long to climb

Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;

But at the total emptiness for ever,

The sure extinction that we travel to

And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,

Not to be anywhere,

And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.



This is a special way of being afraid

No trick dispels. Religion used to try,

That vast moth-eaten musical brocade

Created to pretend we never die,

And specious stuff that says No rational being

Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing

That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,

No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,

Nothing to love or link with,

The anaesthetic from which none come round.



And so it stays just on the edge of vision,

A small unfocused blur, a standing chill

That slows each impulse down to indecision.

Most things may never happen: this one will,

And realisation of its rages out

In furnace-fear when we are caught without

People or drink. Courage is no good:

It means not scaring others. Being brave

Lets no one off the grave.

Death is no different whined at than withstood.



Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.

It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,

Have always known, know that we can't escape,

Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.

Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring

In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring

Intricate rented world begins to rouse.

The sky is white as clay, with no sun.

Work has to be done.

Postmen like doctors go from house to house.