shroomies ·
4 July 04

Side A

incoherent
Resist what you feel, and remain insane

Close all doors, block all exits, keep everyone inside and let everyone reach the inevitable.

FUCKED UP IS WHAT I AM I SCREAM IN My HEAD DAY IN DAY Out My WRiting LIKE ME iS incoHERENT. I AM A BILLION PEOPLE, A TRILLION FACES.

AN Entire universe, galaxy, existence itself. The number of voices in my head cannot be summarised by words, by Pictures, by something tangible. Even if it was scientifically FUCKing POSSIBLE FOR SOME GENIUS TO COUNT THAT HIGH, it could never happeN. INFINITY IS A PUSSY’S WAY OUT!

I write in a book. In many ways it needs to be read, but perhaps not by others, but by my other selves. There are many me’s that need to understand who I am and what I feel.

cut the bullshit
In fact.

It felt as if we had made a mistake with a pencil, and rubbed it out with an eraser.

Let’s cut the bullshit, metaphors, run arounds and all ANALYTICAL BULLSHIT.

I HAVE BEEN INSANE FOR A WHILE. To be able to MEASURE INSANITY IS MISSING THE POINT. The Reality IS this, FOR FUCKING ME, NOT SOME PATRONISING FUCKING DOCTOR, NOT SOME SELF-PITIFUL COUNSELLOR TO SUGGEST DRUGS LIKE PROZAC. I WAS NEVER DEPRESSED.

BUT HERE i LIE, AND IT HURTS MY HEAD.

The voices continue. He walks along the corridor, contorted vicious biting into me. TEARING ME THE FUCK APART.

I AM Weak. Still tired. I will type this, copy from the book I wrote in. Maybe I am and want to be alone. All these years I thought I had, by some miracle will of someone, fate, destiny and whatever. I thought the voices, depression, self-loathing had gone.

These past three years have been an illusion. I should mention I have had a reasonable amount of mushrooms. I purposley am trying to induce something. These past years, these three years have been restoraton and nothing more.

Could I be depressed for nearly fourteen years? I don’t know who the hell I am. I want to know before I die, because I have set my own pre-determined path of loneliness and hatred.
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the white room
I need my white room, I want my voices to become people. I want to live and die. I don’t want immortality as such. I had this dream that when things go bad, I could die, and come back alive having forgotten everything after several years of death. I would live as any normal human for about 50 years, but I could die when I was sad, and live many years of happiness. Without the pain, without the facade.

I’ve never done enough for my friends, never enough for anyone. I try harder, push myself further, but I am tired. I am so tired now. REALLY THOUGH, WHO THE FUCK AM I? AM I a voice? A thought? Someone else’s PARANOIA? Which voice has been writing?

He wanted to be quiet. He didn’t know dad. He didn’t know mummy. He didn’t know what he was. He was very sad. He is sleepy. He says be alone sometimes, I am very scared of him. He slows my writing. I want to be good, but tired. He is giving up. I want to sleep. But he is writing, and it hurts. Scared of me, and him. He know them. I know them. They scare me too, but he is not as scared because he is strong I think, sometimes I think as well. But. I need to go, so tired. If I sleep he will not scare me. I will think of yellow fields, harvested BY SOME FUCKING FAIRY TALE?!

The number of voices in my head cannot be summarised by words, by Pictures, by something tangible.

WTF KIND OF PLANET ARE YOU ON? Convince yourself you do not exist and let me form in your pitiful existence. Let ME come forward. I am the one should exist. YOU are wasting us AWAY. I WANT TO LIVE LIKE YOU DO, YOU FUCKING GREEDY SON OF A BITCH DIE SO I CAN LIVE, OR DIE in this WASTED BODY AND MIND AND LET ME TAKE OVER. At least I know how to use a life, how to BURN OUT. NOT SIT CONTEMPLATING YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT!!!

subliminal message
I or He? Because I am tired, alone, in everything. So HE.

He alone and tired. He continued to write. In an almost vegetative state, his fingers did the bidding of whatever was. He was distracted by a FUCKING HILARIOUS episode of the axed show FUTURAMA. He laughed his ass off, crying, not knowing where he was.

This episode was of Bender finding God. He cried in laughter as he watched. Witty, sharp, funny to the point of mental collapse. Futurama’s demise was one of the greatest crimes in history. EVER. It was also a bloody, MASSIVE, FUCKING, ERMMM…...

SUBLIMINAL
MESSAGE????

YES!

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Side B
damned tv
I need to take a piss…

Just because I don’t write, doesn’t mean that the story starts, stops and continues. IF YOU CAN’T KEEP UP, FUCK YOU.

I REALLY NEED TO FUCKING PISS MAN!!! TOO MUCH!!

Urinated like a bloody orgasm! I AM COLD. FrEEZING. I want to sleep.

Jesus, I can’t turn the TV off. The FUCKing mop has something against me too. Keeps blocking the door, hinting that it won’t let me out. That is one angry mop.

Slighty warmer now. Very smart and funny programme on TV, “20 Things to do before You’re 30” 20 minutes? No WAY! Time has stretched. The programme potentially interests me. It’s like a mature version of Press Gang. JESUS!

RELATIONSHIPS are FUCKing madness. Women do my head in. I can’t find one that…whatever. Just doesn’t FUCK MY HEAD UP AND MAKE IT IMPLODE!

Time to sleep. TV on or off. I have written a book in my head today. I started since this morning.

A BOOK THAT NEVER ENDS, WILL NEVER BE HAPPY. I AM HAPPY TO BE A FUCKED UP LOSER.

GOODNITE WORLD

The programme is hilarious! It will keep me awake I think. HOW DO I TURN THE FUCKING TV OFF with the LEAST amount of effort?

I CAN’T TURN IT OFF MAN!!! NOW I KNOW HOW NORMAL PEOPLE FEEL! OMG! I HAVE BECOME SO STUPID, I AM NOW NORMAL LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!

In an almost vegetative state, his fingers did the bidding of whatever was.

PLEASE GOD!!! HOW DO I TURN IT OFF? IT’s been 2 hours and I can’t turn it off. Good show though.

FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!! I TURNED SOMETHING ELSE ON!!! STUPID UNIVERSAL REMOTE!!

The show was EXCELLENT. ALMOST PERFECT. WORTH EVERY TIRING MOMENT

TURN THE FUCK OFF!!!

the dreams
My dreams are all I hoped for. I want to stay here forever. Every perversion accepted. Every thought is beautiful in a harmonic humming. The voices are a city. A town with families, with children. I hear echoes. My vision, my vision is….blurred, my breathing heavy, my chest tight.

I would go to sleep and die. Peacefully. It’s ok because where I am going, no one can take me. Death is someone I have fallen in love with.

She is beautiful, radiant, but she has only one task. She will grant all my unholy wishes of pleasure, all that I desire. She is to whom I have given my life, my love, my dreams, fears and everything I am. Everything is for her, my death, for she is the beautiful love that I adore. She tears out my heart, she watches as I die, as life fades from my body, the essence leaving, and passing away. She does not raise a finger, she turns away in laughter as I die.

“Die – I do not love you”

Even though she rejects me, forever be my damnation, forever be my love, my dearest death.
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the king that died
He sat in his bed…

A King forgotten. He knelt down on one knee, and drank the water from the cup with heavy breath.

He drank water, like it was a divine spirit of the Gods. Holy nectar for the few chosen, forsaken by those who promised to protect.

Delusional, absent-minded old fool. He enters the final journey of his voyage., to his love. “Death is yours, if you give her everything” He remembers this well. He made a pact with the devil, signing the deal in blood.

Sleep again. We will go together. To live, to learn. To love, to grow. Sleep we will. Sleep my love. Sleep my beautiful gentle Death. My nightmares come true. All that I behold, sleep my Death.

I have written a book in my head today. I started since this morning.

mushroom dosage increases: destination insane
J had decided to smoke.

I, having refused, picked up the mushrooms and began to dice. We agreed to watch something magical, and decided upon Moonwalker. The smell of the mushrooms was awful, so I decided to increase the dosage. Moonwalker was nowhere to be found. We settled on something greater. A psychedelic, powerful, influential film. Made for children, but seen across generations. Disney’s Fantasia.

For me, the mushrooms had created and open some sort of hidden sexual frenzy. Everything had some reference to sex, from the food I was consuming, to the objects in my view, to the pictures, the sounds – everything. The entirety of the movie was a symbolism of sexual diversity, perversion, and deviancy. Sexual organs and fluids represented by fairies, plants, sea animals and everything else Disney had thrown in. Some mad, climatic chaos, played against powerfully charged and sexually emotive classical music. This was a porn movie of the sickest kind.

J, meanwhile, gained some insane gratification and created every sexually related grunt and shriek. He was in his own world, but the bastard was having the time of his life, wherever he was. He was in a very different world to where I was. I could feel the mushrooms, numbing me gently into submission, talking to me, asking me to relax and let it do the work for me. These mushrooms cared.
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The night previous, J had a suggestion that the mushrooms were taking over the world. His paranoid delusion had some logical credence to it. People all over the globe were taking mushrooms, on the premise of a journey of self-discovery and awareness. The mushrooms were in fact aliens, and the only way they can communicate with us, is through the process of ingestion. Or perhaps they were bad aliens, and the only way they could take over people was to attract other with their propaganda. By eating the mushrooms, you would then be under their control and write about the fascinating journey you went through. This would in turn attract other vulnerable people, and entice them to take it, and so the cycle continues, until the mushrooms have taken over. The mother ships would probably be shaped like fields of moss and fertiliser in space and just consume everyone by layering itself over the world. Then through the process of procreating and consummation, and perhaps some genetic fusion, mushroom people would be borne. Part of this is my delusion, part of it his. We have a tendency to approach the same topic at either ends.

Fantasia’s most recognisable moment had begun. Perhaps the only time that Mickey Mouse did not come across as a latent homosexual. The mushroom were releasing themselves slowly, but working. Perhaps Mickey’s latent homosexuality was always prevalent….actually, I now take back what I said, and Mickey was always gay. He is as gay as ever in Fantasia.

I went back to my world of dreams momentarily, as Fantasia played. To quote Burroughs, who quotes Hassan i Sabbah. A quote I have seen used as a form of identification into some literary elite of snobbery.

“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted”

He closed his eyes, and returned to a better world. A world without consistency, without the hellish nightmares, coming to frighten what little remained of his broken soul and satisfies his every whim of desire for the dark lust.

A psychedelic, powerful, influential film. Made for children, but seen across generations. Disney’s Fantasia.

I had taken a greater score of mushrooms than I had previously planned. The equivalent or whatever. It was now taking a monstrous effect on me, like some carnivorous diplodocus devouring me in its jaws. I can feel its teeth pressing firmly against my bone, wedging against my flesh. The nerves flesh, all breaking and snapping under the strain of these powerful, amazing jaws. The soul has long since exited,

“I’m no sucker – you’re on your own”

“Fuck you soul! You provide no use to me. I’ll deal with this alone. As always, as ever, forever.”

The bastard was eating me. There was little I could do. I pondered on my options, while at the same time; I heard my spine snapping like a matchstick. I screamed and groaned in agony. My eyes welled up with blood. My jaw had locked in pain, they had opened so much, that I could not scream any louder, without the bottom part of my mouth splitting and tearing apart from the rest of my face. Not that this mattered at this moment.

“Oh fuck it, you slow cunt. I’ll help you.”

A jolt against one of the huge teeth had knocked my jaw into place. I could barely see, but I could still see torn parts of my body floating around the mouth, with several other animals, screaming, scratching at the huge tongue that was knocking them back. There was no exit, and these animals were finally aware. They wanted to exist, much like me, and even with their strength and one mindedness, they could not escape. I wondered if they thought like I did. That if they had the same thoughts about life and love I did. When you’re being chewed up by a dinosaur, you think like that sometimes I suppose.
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There was no exit, no hope of escape – and if there was what then? It would be a case of me and torso, and someone telling me that I had everything to live for. If you’re going to die, don’t die by half measures. Was this murder I wondered? Would there be a dinosaur court where it could be prosecuted for crimes against humanity? Why would there be? We choose not to prosecute our own murderers, killers, those with diplomatic immunity, trade agreements and such. Pathetic. Sicking. Vomit-inducing. I began to devour my flesh at this thought, gnawing at what remained of my arms, tasting this madness.

As I fell, I traversed down the neck, my head pressed against the sticky and wet throat, being forced down, deep down into a place I couldn’t see. It was all darkness, for what felt like hours. I could no longer see, but I could smell the putrid stench of bile, of death and of remains. I think I had entered the digestive system.

I was bored and frustrated at this point. I knew, after all I had been through, I should have died. But, as ever, I survived, and had the scars to prove it. The scars I carry are mostly mental, so when someone sees me, they automatically assume the scars do not exist, that I am “OK” or “Doing well”. This death was an anti-climax. I waited, what felt like a terribly long time now. I imagined new generations appearing outside of this stomach. As I was slowly being digested, I could no longer feel the pain – but I was bored. The mind existed, but the body was now gone. The fucking soul had run off with the goddam money, and left a big “fuck you Jack! I’m off to Mexico to find me some underage whores!”

My inane ramblings continued at a tired, bored and distant J. Poor bastard was listening to me ramble on and on, turning into some vocal chameleon. I could catch a fly with my tongue; spit the tongue out, long as my body, and as moist & sticky as the forbidden pleasure between her legs.

It was now taking a monstrous effect on me, like some carnivorous diplodocus devouring me in its jaws.

I continued to ramble on, by which time the mushrooms had taken a rather interesting tangent. I was unable to string together a sentence on paper without a lot of focus – I felt I was drifting away from the paper, but my hand remained in the same place. I was completely nuts at this point, as I struck through everything I had written in the sheer frustration of nothing actually being a sentence. The sentence was my goal, and I need to accomplish it.

Aubergines dying
carrots being thrown around
a field full of cucumbers catching carrots
normality

Batman living in a jungle
he talking to three skulls that lay on the table
he looks at the moon and shrieks like a bat
the dead man rows his boat around the hut
normality

I felt sorry for Britney. She was a lost little puppy. Her music stunk like shitweeds. Once the queen of pop, now the queen of tacky; no clue of what direction she wanted to go, with all the lyrical skill of a dead cheetah. The kid has made a lot of bad decisions, and has fallen on hard times. Her rival, Christina, first a queen of teenage, slightly mature pop, now the queen of seduction. Many find her revolting, and many find her attractive. Either way, she attracts people to comment by what she does. Britney on the other hand seems to be the type to jump up and down and shout, “Look at me! I’m an attention whore!” She hasn’t grown up, she is a kid after all, but she still hasn’t grown up. You can’t argue with success, even though it’s aimed at the retard generation of music listeners. You have to feel sorry for Britney, because she can’t shake off the teeny bopper image. Try as she might, wear as little clothing as she might, no one can take her ridiculous music seriously. Those that were her fans when she first came out, have moved on, and gone on to other things or switched to someone who grew with her music, a la Christina. I am not a fan of either, but it’s interesting to see how the tables have turned.
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This was a long goddamned trip – I knew if I closed my eyes, it would all be more perverse, more real, than I could perhaps handle at this moment. If I closed my eyes, I wouldn’t want to return. So, I lived in my perversity, lived in my illusions, my dreams, and my journey and continue – eyes wide open. During this process, I felt a moment of inspiration to do something. I drew two pictures, of a Koala that dances. When she sleeps, she dances at the disco, and keeps on dancing, until she wakes up. Because when she wakes up, she stands still, and looks like a pirate – it’s all a secret facade for when she sleeps. Because when she sleeps, she’s happiest, and when she wakes from her sleep, she feels alive again.

I couldn’t write anymore, but I had one last thought, that I need to write about. At the time, it felt right…...

her last nite
We met at her place.

She looking as cool and collected as ever, standing in the doorway, her head tilted to one side, wearing her casuals. I, not having made much of an effort, looking like a slacker that worked in some newsagents, but looking acceptable enough to invite me in. She says nothing of it, smiling and guiding me inward. She offers me a drink, and I gracefully accept.

Both talk for a while. We hadn’t talked for a long time, it had been a while since we communicated, but for all the changes, for all the things that had made us grow as people, as individuals – we were, at the core, still the same, but just a little wise, a little more patient, and little older. We discuss the topics of life in general, our lives and what we had done during this time, what we had seen and discovered; the ups and the downs, the highs and lows. The conversation is friendly for the most part, and humorous and gentle through out. I sometimes interject with an immaturity I refuse to leave behind even after all these years. She just smiles, kindly, ignoring what I said, but perhaps realising, I could never grow up.

I continued to ramble on, by which time the mushrooms had taken a rather interesting tangent.

She suggests we make our way to the main room. It’s spacious, yet comfortable. We sit down, next to each other. We watch numerous amounts of films, across genres and languages: classics, bad movies that are so bad they’re good, musicals, comedies, abstract films, cheesy films, violent films, erotic films, movies she likes, movies I like, and movies we both like.

Placing her head on my shoulder, she is gentle, kind, intriguing. We watch “The Jungle Book” at her reluctance, and at my demand. I dance to “Bear Necessities” for her. She frowns, and pouts in a way that screams “Oh Christ! No! Don’t!”, and throws a cushion at me. I sit back down, hug her and apologise. “Turn that frown upside down yer miserable cow!” she smiles.

We watched perhaps nearly a hundred films, which spanned over generations, genres and languages. We decide to continue watching, until the hundredth film. This would be the last. The remaining choice, and with the film ending, the night would end, we would end, and our worlds would part. It wasn’t sad, it wasn’t difficult. It felt as if we had made a mistake with a pencil, and rubbed it out with an eraser. The mistake was fun, it made sense at the time, but it needed to be erased because it wouldn’t last – it had a shelf life. It was inevitably going to end, so why stretch it? Of course, perhaps it may not have lasted. But we chose not to take that chance, and decided that it was as good as it got now. That it would be a distant happy memory, which would safely disappear out of our minds. Only to be triggered, by some off chance – “Was it a dream? Or did it happen?”

So, the night ends. The last embrace. We exchange goodbyes, knowing full well, this is goodbye. We never see or remember each other again.

The end.