Monday, 13 May 2013
Cocaine is a Hell of a Drug!
Zip, zip. Cunt be blazing en aw with this, the finest of D4 wagging the tail, de rich cunt with de condo, the walled security gaff off down on de Shrews-bury road, surrounded by Blackrock laddos wearing Lenister ruggers heads, the fuckers with the slits for the eyes, the perfectly square bits of head and face, the fellas, ah man, there be some lads here who are just really spicy, fuckers who just smoked their lungs. Brutal, this fucken shit ken. Brutal. Every drug has a personality attached to it ken. A story. A life. This is your story ken. The lassie out there with your name on it, well it's just like that roysh, there's a fucken drug there too, just for you, to match up with your personality be it speed, amphetamines, speed, microbots, or a whole cabinet of happy happy joy joy. Blazing. I fucking hate this shit, vile vile vile and vile, veryyyyy vile. Did I mention that it was fucken vile? Why did I take it? It's like ten cups of coffee injected into you ken. It's not really a high is it? It makes your right nostril feel a little bit numb for a bit. Then one of your teeth. These fuckos have built a resistance around it for a bit.
ONE: In which Franco is the fucken most vivacious, must be getting shite done motherfucker, convivial, loquacious, scintillating (oh yes), pirouetting around like the head honcho jack of the box, lights, the perambulations in this den of sin, Franco, Franco, Franco yep, giddy up, the lassie with the fucken arse on her. Some lad is out front is eating this one's face.
TWO: Jesus fucken shit. Does this shit play into the hands of the devil en aw? From indignant to despondant. The fucken shit is wearing off, base jumping off of the Grand Canyon, and nay more am I in the essence of Tong. Suddenly it is like a sledgehammer to the soul. Kill. Kill. Kill. The song She Sells Sanctuary is playing. DAW DA DAW DA DAW DAW DAW DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. Fuck, the comedown is brutal. This shit lets you get in touch with your misanthropic side. Then, the shittiest, worst feeling in the world, like everything you love and have ever loved and everything will ever love is just cold jelly, pointless, sad, extra-venous, malignant, gangrene on the limb. Stone cold stinking sober now, but with the smithy laid bare. This hurts. I'm sitting on the couch. Can't move ken. I'm not sick, but I can't stop fantasizing about ending my map once and for all. They're, they're the fucken cunts right there en aw, watching The Longest Yard, and it's the that fucken wally derpy derp Adam Sandler and there's this really fucken bad hip hop music. The guy next to me is even worse for wear. This sesquipedalian tirade on this Latin lassie from somewhere. Yeah maannnnnnnnnn. I hear ya. Nice one. Yeh fucked her up the shitter. Fuck, Sartre and Heidegger must have been on something else to be that pratty. Existence precedes Essence or some shite like that.
THREE: Silly sailor shit. The anger. Just angry with everything. Stormed out. Lost. Never again as always. It's too safe to get a taxi back out of the South Side and intos the (gasp) North side. Walking walking. Drugs are bad kids. Right now, it's fucken hilarious, I'm making my big, super fucken epic plan to leave this fucken dump. Riding third class on a one class train. Get money. Take plane to Provence in France. Backpack. My dream ken. Then, a cunt starts walking. Walking walking, walking. Just like I am now. Walk. Walk through all these towns, cities, cultures. Hey, they might not be around for much longer. Smile and wave as yous pass them by. Walking. Walking. Walking. Keep walking. Get that nice job. Nice everything. Nice bank account. Nice face. Walking. Walking. Nice lassie. Soon, after enough walking, you end up in China. That's what I want to do. But a cunt be too scared en aw. Someone will talk me down and say it's silly. This movement, this fragment of thought. The alt right. These fuckers are all Trotskyites. They think by spreading the word, that it might all be ok? No fucken way ken. The only way we're getting things back together is by letting it completely crash. That's the only way. It is like a maths proof. But, another question? If you say, have a system of thought, is it inevitable that such and such a pattern has to play itself out? So, lets say you have an orthodox form of economics, a la Austrian School? Suppose we had this magical system where the economy was carefully deconstructed in a way to allow for such change to happen, be it some plan to equate the market with actual value? Is it, a historical certainty, that something like this will give way to something stupid like neoclassical economics? How does a cunt step in? What is the correct way to rule? Why am I even thinking about this? Perhaps we create our own movement, our own party? But what the hell. That's depressing. That after all of this...
But in the end, all yous can look out for is your little patch of ground, your friends, and your family. Certainly, the roof of stars, the machine that is bleeding to death, dinnae have your name on it, because those old words like family and loyalty and purpose dinnae mean what they used to be. They are lost, distant, almost intangible.
If if isn't us that gets this shit working, you know it's over for all of us. Some cunts gonna have to step up and make and example of himself.
Charlie ken A hell of a sexy drug.