Artist: Acid Junkies
Album name: Paranoid Experience
Tracks :
Theme from the Acid Junkies- Trainspotter Alert
- Acid Engine
- Prepared
- Cocaino
- Acid Love Making
- Stop-and-Go
- 303 vs 101 (Battle at High Speed on the Intergalactic Highway)
I just wrote this poem-what do you think? Warning, it's extremely long, also I want your interpretation thanks?
I dreamt of you, straddling another man,
could there be some truth that rings true to the tale? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps some
truth indeed rings true,
not in fear of your adultry-that I know is a tandem
off falsified suspicions
upended and dug up by mind tankers, like the
plunging raping Russian oil tankers
that indulge in consummation with mother Earth's silent awaiting artic privies.
I beseech you, do not turn from me in disgust,
it it only my unhappy current existence on
this fair planet,
I love too much, and so I hurt others too often,
in my jealosy I have indulged in
substance abuse,
with the likes of junkies and madmen,
knowing full well you were indulging in the same.
I can recall the time-(it was winter time, I know
because the leaves off the trees'
skeletal arms were of many hues and brittle-
and crumbled to my even feathery touch)-
alas, the time I spent was not in admiring
the artistery of the death cycle of trees,
but was perched in the passenger's seat
of a parked car in a back lot at
lunch hour. My adolescent mind-(I was a
high school sweetheart, woe)-believed
that DiNitrogen Monoxide, or N20, could
alleviate me from my sins, and O!-they did!
And how I did attone in that moment, believing
at the time that the man who was my
friend and benefactor, was in fact my confessional. Oh, how I felt ten thousand armies
strong. Oh, how I felt the sky, touching it
and feeling it's powdery cloud tips, and touching my lips to its powder to taste its acid rain and
mineral water, parched as I was from
destruction to soul and mind,
oh, how I hallucinated miracles and healed the
masses with my mind, (all in my mind),
oh, how I consumed greasy American waste,
and declared it a feast,
knowing full well that my body was decomposing,
and doing so accelerating the process-I sensed
life approaching swiftly, in
the form of heart failure-reader this is indeed proven
true,
having skipped class on another winter day,
and drank so much black coffee straight
that I was a caffinated wreck upon coming
back to class, gasping wretchedly as I
stormed through symphonies and Bach.
My dear love, I love you greatly, as you may see.
My life has been illuminated by lovers and
mental contemplation,
which I had since achieved only once, when
a man slipped me a thin pasty square and
confided in me that it was lysergic acid-
I so took it, and for the following hours
afterward, sat on my desk in English Composition so that I may watch the newsreel
film of Hamlet-or Macbeth-I forget, they
were both consumed by madness. Shakespeare
is mad, I tell you true.
Needless to say I found life to be delicate
and connected with the heavens,
and wrote prose of madcap jesters
and the lady in white and her nunnery.
I recall also riding backseat to the intellectual
minds of my time,
who smoked and drank and contemplated tone
and chordal theory,
and analyzed the complexity of jazz while the
rest of my generation
dreamt and groped to the throbbing intensity
of technological neon sh*t,
and laughed, glowing and in the morning haze
I would perceive menthol haloes
surrounding their proud heads,
and driving into the head town of Davis,
bopping into record shops, leafing through
records for the next Sonny Rollins-alas, all
for naught.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I could have done more.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I could have attended church more.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I could have read
Rimbaud and understood.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I could have had less lovers, and loved soley.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I could have payed less attention to my past failures.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps life is a beautiful painting painted in mad houses.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps the life in my mind
should be my current.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps it is time to cut through all the bullsh*t.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps the Second Coming isis at Hand, in the form of gasping lovers.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I am leaving you with more said, and less to understand.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I am ashamed of my mind, society made me this way.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps my holy laughter is for the healing of the world.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps life is ment to be spent in innocence, and in so doing,
Adam and Eve have left us short.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps Jesus I should have eaten Your Forbidden Fruit,
and been ashamed of my naked form.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps victory is at hand, in the form of youth crisscrossing America.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Perhaps, perhaps it is time we ceased leaving everything to chance.
Love, I am writing of you.
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