Bad Trip

I figure I should really start titling my stories. Anyway, I didn’t write this from experience. I don’t do LSD, and I have never had any kind of drug experience in my life. So don’t be concerned or angry.

I swallow the pills.

I wonder if they scream. Falling down my throat into a totally assured death in a pool of deadly, caustic, skin-dissolving acid.

Acid. That’s funny.

The LSD hits my stomach acid and dddizzzolllvvvesss. I certainly would have screamed if it was me.

I can hear it screaming. It bubbles, baroque baritone blasts blaring beneath your ears as it sizzles with a susurring semblance of sound as it solutes into the solution in your stomach. Why did it have to die? Was it your carelessnesslessnesslessness that caused it it to scream so scintillatingly in the trap at the base of your trachea (that’s funny because the base is the opposite of the acid, too. Stomach acid LSD acid it’s all the same. [bass is the opposite of tenor])? you wonder if the pill was a tenor, if it had a love for a man or,

was it a breeder? I suppose I would never know. Never will know. Because it’s dead now, that pill, and it’s your fault.

But there were two. Lovers, dreamers, it doesn’t matter because now they’re screamers. Screaming in the acid at the base. Home run? Struck with a mace. Bunted, perhaps, across the diamond of your chaps and your tongue, missing your lungs completely, hitting your stomach meatily with a plop and a scream

But that would be dumb;
Bunts are easy to catch out.
Watch the World Series.

The Tigers lost this year
And it was all because of bunts.
Or the Cardinals were best.

Maybe the ear Cardinals?
They stream from your eardrums, vibrating.
They’re singing for you, just you.

Your own personal cabaret.
Birds in tights and skirts and high heels.
But it’s a Vicious Cabaret.

You laugh at your own joke, the Guy Fawkes mask sliding off your face – or maybe that was your face; after all that’s all that faces really are: masks for your own personal humiliation shame hatred prejudice anger rage KILL them all.

But that’s what the acid is good for. It makes you lucid, illuminates your life with a langorous and luscious light, luminously and illustriously launching my line of thought into complete dissolution. And after a short period of insanity, true clarity occurs, and you can see it all.

You can see everything that ever will (have) happens-ed in the universe from a viewpoint far removed from anveryything, and just for a moment, it all makes sense to me. He can see spectate on everything in the world, see her own birth, its own death, and everything in between. And then, as you start to come down, it all caves in.

And the pills.

The pills are still screaming.

Their tinny, pennwhistle voices cHiMIng over the river and through the woods the acid RIVER and you can FEEL THEM  ther e i n y o u r stomach  AND THEY HATE YO o how theyeverdohateyou for KILLing ThHeEmM IWTH A PASSSSSION you never thought possible THEIR DEd DAVE and they can stILL SCREAm like impaled ragdolllllls roassssting onnnn aaaaa spiIiIIIiItttttt. AND</end process>

AND

AND

and then it all starts to come back.

Nondescript rave music is thudding in my ears. I lie on my stomach, having obviously falling out of my chair. Thankfully, I’m experienced enough at this that I know not to land on my back. My pupils have dilated and everything seems very blurry. My breathing accelerates from less than eight times a minute to its normal speed; my heartbeat rises, and I feel the altered state of consciousness leaving me. I sit up, groggily. Spit has caked on the carpet under my mouth. Obviously I was out for a while: it’s gotten dark.

An enormous three-eyed purple lizard walks in, his armored sides carving gashes in the door, his plated tail waving back and forth like a crane.

“What happened, man?” he asks.

I blink and look up. Obviously the effects haven’t quite worn off. I blink again, and the mutant ankylosaurus becomes a tired-looking teenage boy wearing a Sex Pistols shirt and a quizzical expression. I pause, calculating my response.

“Bad trip, man,” I say. “Bad trip.”

~ by pieboy on December 21, 2006.