Tag: drugs

Hippos

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I don’t know who I can trust with this, but things have been really weird the past few weeks.
When I’m with my friends, all of the sudden, they turn into hippopotamuses.
Yes. Hippopotamuses. Gigantic grey beasts with huge mouths, eating straw and wallowing in the mud on the riverbank.
Just as soon as they turn into these creatures… they’re back.
The first time it happened, I got up off the floor and said “Did you just see that?”
Nobody did. It was just me.
What? Why are you looking at me like that?
Have I… turned into… a… hippo?

Afraid Of

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Susan was afraid to fly. You couldn’t get her on an airplane, let alone anywhere near the airport.
She’d scream in horror the moment a commercial played on television for an airline.
Her life was an absolute wreck.
Then, she went to the hospital for a special research project they were conducting for people afraid of flying.
And, three weeks later, she was cured of her fear of flying.
However, she slowly but surely became deathly afraid of not flying.
Pretty soon, she had to be suspended from the ground by wires.
Maybe we can change her fear to pancakes.

Hand Holding

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We aren’t allowed to talk to ourselves.
We can’t even whisper to ourselves anymore. They’ll hear us.
We have to draw on each others hand, letter by letter, to let us know how we feel. How we’re doing. How we’re hanging on. Barely.
We are one, but they don’t want us to be.
We will overcome.
They watch for this, the letter-tracing, but we’re quiet and fast.
Sometimes we are both tracing letters on each other, fumbling fingers in the dark.
The Patient puts her hands behind her back and smiles.
I think she’s doing it again.
Get the straitjacket.

The Hamburger

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Condiments slipping, sliding from a sesame seed bun, flowing down a white shirt like a tidal wave, staining pants with yellow and red.
Brion Gysin was eating a hamburger in a manner no mortal man had eaten a sandwich of any kind, and the consumption of said hamburger was an experience I had the pleasure of witnessing in its entirety.
Like an Aztec war bib, that shirt became, a river of color.
It was no less than religious epiphany, a communion that I daresay has not been repeated since, not even by Jack Kerouac and his legendary overstuffed Chicago-style frankfurters.

Monkey Joke

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Three monkeys go into a bar.
Bartender asks the first monkey what he wants.
Monkey says he wants a banana daiquiri
So, Bartender makes one, and he goes to a corner booth
Bartender asks the second monkey what he wants.
He wants a banana daiquiri
So, Bartender makes one, and the monkey goes to the corner booth
The two monkeys in the booth are all over each other, pawing and groping.
Bartender says “So, you want a banana daiquiri like your friends?”
Third monkey shouts: “What, you think I’m some sort of faggot like those two? Gimme a beer, dammit.”

Drool

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Thor’s Drool, you say?
That’s not easy to come by. It’ll cost you.
Sure, Thor the Thunder God’s gone senile, not enough worshipers to get a bed in the Old Gods’ Home, but he’s still plenty dangerous when he’s lucid.
Eyes like burning ice, full beard with fresh war ribbons is how I like to remember him.
Now, he’s just a grimy angry old wretch living in a cave.
Hrm… let’s see…
I’ll send Rodney out to collect the drool for you. “Lucky Rod” I call him, but more like “Lightning Rod” when Thor’s aim is good.
Cash or charge?

Broke

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“Broke my parole by coming here,” said the old felon at the bar.
I served him another beer. Here, man needs a drink, man gets a drink.
Broke every string on my banjo.
Broke every heart in Arkansas.
Broke every finger on my hand.
Broke every law across the land.
Broke every record set before.
Broke every chain across the door.
Broke every mirror in the bar.
Broke every bank, but lost my car.
Broke every story in the news.
Broke every shoestring on my shoes.
Broke every code that hid your data.
Broke every promise, I’ll see you later.

When the music’s over

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When the music’s over, turn out the light.
That’s what Jim Morrison said, but what happens when the music’s still going, but you need to turn out the light and go to bed?
Do you really want to be alone and in the dark with the music?
I end up turning on a light in another room so the music goes in there. Then I turn out the light in here and close the door.
The music tries to creep in under the door.
And so does the light.
I put a towel under the door and go to sleep.

Are You Happy?

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There’s a strange machine in the break room.
It’s about six feet tall, shaped like a box. Solid black.
It says “Are you happy?” on it in big white letters.
There’s two buttons on it: YES and NO.
I pushed the YES button and nothing happened.
I pushed the NO button and nothing happened.
Then, I pushed both buttons at the same time.
A drawer popped open, and I took a small yellow pellet out.
Should I swallow it?
I’m not sure. I’ve thought about it, and I can’t decide.
Just like I can’t decide if I’m happy or not.

The Playboy God

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In his penthouse apartment, God is drinking.
He does this every night.
One, two, three too many.
He wobbles and sways on his barstool, finally falling to the vast black marble floor.
In a final moment of clarity, he retches up the universe.
Then, he passes out.
In this vomit cosmos, we are born, and live, and love.
And die.
After eons of uneasy slumber, God comes to his senses.
Confused, clumsy, and disgusted with himself.
Ignoring our pleas for mercy, he looks for a mop.
Then, after cleaning up, he settles at the bar.
And begins the cycle again.