DoctorGonzo420

The fear returns, unflinching and furious. It rests - humbled by it’s overwhelming power. It reaches out for me. I don’t resist. I can’t resist… …and it knows this. Shackled by anxiety, I wait; a helpless prisoner of my own devices. I want what I need and have everything I don’t. This is how my cycle progresses, twisting and turning me through life as if I were one gigantic corkscrew in an endless rollercoaster of depravity and comforting defeat. I bleed for the trivial and shrug off the valuable. If not a monster, I am nothing. I am the spider in your shoe, the cliff around the corner, a seed for all that is s

Just another bad bad day on the road… I want for nothing. I live for nothing. No passion, no praise, no remorse. Even frustration ceases to move me anymore. The lid has closed on the empty jar, suffocating all inside. It’s closed so tight the glass cracks around the edges, but not enough to break the infinite barrier that surrounds me. Pressing keys no longer brings relief. Each sentence is a chore, each letter - a jagged pain on what little remains. “Rock bottom,” unlike how it is commonly understood, is not a definite line, the metaphor is hopelessly flawed. Such a place would be heaven now, for even at its lowest leve

“You aren’t like most people… are you Jackie?” said a voice from beyond the spinning blades of the ceiling fan. I thought about this lazily for a second. The Ketamine I’d been snorting was shifting everything into a slow, constant state of movement, aimless yet driven. It was naturally making concentration a near impossible task. But as I sank deeper and deeper into the gigantic purple bean bag I stopped worrying. I just chuckled lightly to myself, faintly becoming aware of my blissful confusion. “Like… how?”, I asked, now amused by the ridiculousness of the question and in turn, my own situation. The

“My god those are spectacular,” I say to myself, as I watch the torpedo-sized tits bounce vigorously up and down in front of me. The reflection on the big projector screen casts an eerie blue-white glow across the rows of seats. A low-hanging haze of cigarette smoke distorts and softens the light. It makes the room’s edges appear almost fuzzy, blurring the guilty faces of my fellow patrons, scattered safely amongst the seats. The Pink Mink Theater is one of the only places left in town where a man can still smoke indoors. It’s not that it isn’t completely illegal, which it is. I mean it is a movie theater after a

 I can still hear them you know, those beckoning voices calling out to me from somewhere below that 9th circle, far past the generic fire and brimstone. Far past even frosted icicles that one only finds when they have truly hit the unforgiving rocky bottom and are staring their true horned nature straight in the face. The voices echo with thunderous reverberation through the miles and miles of bedrock I’ve learned to deposit between myself and what Hunter would call the “bad crazies.” I can pour all the dirt and constructive garbage I want into that bottomless pit of despair I used to call home, but they are still there

“Two down, one to go.” The message, it’s painted like that of a skywriter, lost in a fog of Nicaraguan smoke - the drunken pilot sluggishly scrawling his loop-de-loops in a never ending series of towering climbs and hopeless stalls out across the blanketing night sky. These poorly rolled tree-trunks, even at a paltry $4.99, are a waste of effort - The work of some central American farmer, whose cracked and bleeding hands are pressed into every fiber of the leaves. You can almost taste his desperation, his futility, in the endless plumes of smoke as they cascade down your lips. And desperation friends, is an acrid and sour ha

This putrid place it makes me sick. I almost wish I’d died. To defend its face, from 3rd world shits, And know too late that I had lied. These people, if you call them that, These decadent shallow souls, Bowing to their gilded steeple, Of shiny, sterile, printed, gold These paltry swine, these animals, They wallow so depraved. Like pigs amongst the viscous waste, Soiling on what others slaved. Their muscles gone to atrophy, While feeding from the hand, Lives have grown so opulent, They don’t even have to stand. Too complacent they have grown, Blind in the frenzy of their greed, They’ve been discovered, their w

The wild fires of a thousand eyes, Glaring in the dark. The burning flame, of loves refrain Smolders in its mark. Surrounded by the downed pine wood, Their dried and brittle bark. Aching for the lick of flame, From which rebirth could start. But fickle is the flame of hearts, For which time is fraught with dire. No flickered flash or errant spark, On which longing can retire. So around it goes the rage of love, This game of fools and liars. Through unspoken codes, On empty roads Burned under aching tires.

Against the tides, our galleon rides, our battered and beaten swan. Like beasts we spurn, few souls return, but many men have gone. For on this night, We’ve found our light, And are pressing for the dawn Burning out the hellfire The madness - Satan spawn. Sails thick with desperation, And anchors full of hope, our tried and crumbling sanity, held back by fraying rope. What life that is the sailor’s! We cursed and the free, pushing onward aimlessly in a cold, unfeeling sea. Triumphant in our glory, We hold our epic story, but our fight against the madness, Leaves us trapped in Satan’s quarry. Will we ever

Lying on my bed, I turn the speakers loud, Zeppelin in my head, Of one I am the crowd. Swaying to the guitar, Nodding to the drums, Above the gods, o we are No majesty left unsung They are the one the only The trinity plus one. From their houses of the holy To the records left undone And when I hear those banshees roar I close my eyes and think of you. And they make me want you even more, But in my juices I’m left to stew So I lie here on my bed, drenched in my own lust. Hotrod backseats in my head, more vivid with passing thrust. The wanting is so seething It’s as if you are right here. Alone with me, I can al