Tyrosine, GABA, & Caffeine O'my

[jack_babalon]

I've hot wired my brain with copious amounts of Tyrosine, GABA, Ginseng, ST.Johns Wort & SAM-E. Candy colored pills all boiling up in coffee so black that it sucks the light right out of the air around the cup. My fingers dance to the code burn: Work flowing around me in streams of Christmas colored numbers off the screen. I'm bombarded with blood tests, MRIs, Amputations & reports by the thousands. Four hours in and i've done ten hours of work already. Hyped up and bored. Heart racing with nowhere to go. Tires spinning in the work mud. The chemicals & caffeine have given me an akward tumesence, an embarassing redirection of nervous energy. Sabotaged by libidinous guerillas lurking in the jungles of my lust. Suddenly my thoughts veer off course, going down dark alleys and slipping money to shadow faced Karma Pimps. Renegade neurotransmiters have hijacked my train of thought and their riding that rail straight to the Red Light District of my imagination.


On one floor of the Invisible Brothel there are andrognyous ghost concubines. Etheral Dominatrixes that float into you, a hot wind of electricity that tickles and singes the hair off your chest, they sink into your flesh and play dress up with your body. They wear your skin intimately, offer up sweet tortures that taste like rust on roses, they open the dusty books locked in your head and read out loud, with your own voice, the desperate secrets you wanted to be released of. Demonic possesion becomes the ultimate act of submission. The telepathic collar strangling you into an asphyixation hard on. You fellate the spiked heel of the repressed memory. On another floor, there are, for your convenience, The Geishas of Shame, who wear porcelain masks resembling the victims of your life- both real & imagined. Eyeless strangled faces that attend to your every need. Slit throats that speak like flutes. Kimonos made out of flayed backs, tied by silk hangmans ropes the noose coyly dangles in the lap. The music of the muffled screams play from unseen speakers above you. Airborn opiates flood the room. You can stay here as long as you like, but remember there is a cost. In somebody elses imagination you are the Victim, and one day it will be your turn to wear the mask. There are other floors to visit if you have the time. There is the sewing circle of the Shadow Mothers, who will stitch your lips together with the strands of your fate. You will know your future and your fate and doomed to never be able to say a word about it. There are the Steam Freaks, who live in the rafters of the basement, they live & nest along the maze of pipes along the ceiling, descending down by chain to pluck up fresh meat. They strip the flesh slowly off their 'Lovers' until only raw muscle is left and then the fun starts. The Hiroshima Gallery. The Laughing Ward. The altar of Pan! There is the Narcissus' Attic: Where the ultimate lover waits in a hall mirrors, waiting for you to unleash the right reflection. Then there is a room just for you. I have'nt named it yet. I don't dare to. It's yours to do with as you please, but the only condition is that you find it yourself and promise not to leave it as you found it.

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[catwalk.livejournal.com]

:: shallow, excited breaths ::
oh... my.