Speed Demon

I wanted that young corpse bride to Valhalla Rising exit, zooming every which way with half-assed whims and random direction. Alcohol buzzed weed fuelled adrenaline rush to burnout the crazy and let out the leathery poison curling and corroding my insides. Brain on fire with melting daydreams and haunters pricking nightmare pins into my skin sac as I dashed and stomped and went stir crazy while moving erratic. Settled on nothing, always trying to change me, rotate me, Tony Hawk 900 on life lines and hash pipes for that rock and rolla life and death; James Dean subconscious, Cobain jealous, Hunter S. light on the exploits and inebriation.

Late nights from college wrecking ball that was my fortune and disaster. Running away from lovesick blues and wah pathetic me in borrowed car on borrowed time in fast lanes all alone on the highway. Dark nights fit me so rightly and I breathed and sucked in that crisp, cool air into cigarette stuffed lungs like man am I cool, no more weird nerd, just hedonist life sucker pushing the throttle to leave a carmageddon twisted metal fantasy on the black road. Reckless driving and speeding nightly wandering towns and cities looking for adventure, too late for the party, too careful for the hard edge. Like a straight edge kid doing anal and strutting tuff. I piecemealed some semblance of dangerous living within my practical mild mannered self. Wild and crazy with touch of sanity. Fear no death but afraid to live, fear of taking plunge and ending the dream.

Loose-lipped lily livered lazy Lothario loser priding himself on thrills and spills in a mad mad world dash to rock bottom and thirst; thirst for life, energy, powerful feelings to wake me from coasting and giving up.

Race away, chaser after shot.
Downing courage and blindly shooting out for some hurrah.
Womanize without the sex.
Suicide without the blood.
Deathrace minus the stakes.

Out of control carousel with the blinding colors. Puking guts out side rail from yeast poison, self-disgust and bulimia obscura. Jettison the garbage, grouchy but me no Oscar, seek death seek shelter seek peace from wrong side. Are you the Gatekeeper? Lockslave. Securitize me, prisonize me, lock me from myself no harmful. I hurt you hurt, you hurt me hurt self punish self, hospital staycation with rage and drug-addled haze pulling me closer to the tide with the rest of the surfers. Push them all, run away again and again, always seeking never stopping.

More four wheel mayhem.

Street racing minor interludes and liquor shot burning tires on roads to freedom with the last chance unfinished in Smartre sardonic soliloquies sleeping with thoughts of sliced neck and tongue sandwiches. Gone late night loopy and dark poet Hicks melody tappa tappa on the eardrum. Am I fearsome? some fear; fears, jeers, tears.

Scare the psychs charm the nurses, losing control like Missy twerk it. Wasting youth in hospital gowns and strip clubs, looking for affection and wit’s end.
Chained up verses cranking internally, freedom to roam in a locked in state, anger rising break sunken chest, lower the poor posture position. Bipolar position excuses for remission and drug addictions.

Just lost and depressed and sick of fighting, constant betterment but still failing, evolve the self but backwards again. Troglodyte troll swiping at friendly bridge crossers.
Eat dem bones and play with self.
Play fool cry foul.
Eat sleep gorge puke.
Stuff craw shit bricks.
Be the jerk and solo dick.
Friendly gestures make me fester.
Fake polite and condescension.
Censors and censure.
Disapproving wide eyes goggle at my absurd.
Farcical farscape and remarkably disturbed.

And what was it all? Putrid lucid hard knocks and melancholia. Necessary beats and rhymes for the rhythm blues rap song informing my conscious, conscience, dreary needy speedy art fix. Paint me a horrorshow that plims and plucks inside me, bending for the daises and growing on the ivy. Gilded weeds and rusted roses. Coward lion roars back simpering fools cum bullies, tinman arrival I’m 40 percent iron. Back to Oz or the chocolate factory which tale to tell and bury my face in? Make a new one for the kiddies, create don’t waste. Pain and vice is the bread and water. Stale baguettes and rhyming couplets hit me over the head so fresh. Push out words, edit later.


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