Alcoholiday

Tennessee is full of societal gangrene, especially in Brentwood; bloody thieves of hope stagger around in cosmic disbelief of the existence outside of money and greasy smiles and back stabs that occur at the same moment of a sincere handshake. In northern Virginia, the usual skanks of money grubbing rattle snake business, they lick the blood off of their snake skin suits and chow down on the little man and gloat with their mouth full of their victims to the next shadow of money that leans against the street sign that spells out his last name, preying upon street after street until those who aren’t smiling are simply digested, and those that survive, are rewarded with rings of fancy and a firecracker kiss from lips that represent hell and burn just as equally. The Slums of Hell are enjoyed more than the lost state of mind of a ravenous spiritual hitchhiker, in Hell, the unexpected is expected, and the imagination clots less when it is drugged from anticipation, but when you’re in the crooked pastor representing the resin scraped together through each and every spiritual trap, then anger and crime come second nature, because the ones you find kinship and companionship with, even if they are the ones in shackles, you, my friend are the Sun-Less Dead Specimen that God will never understand, much less the devil. To be alone and utterly confused is one spiritual matter. You raise your arms like a ‘Y’ to the sky and you close your eyes because you know at that moment, another life is being taken, another fire will trap the trap the cries of the young and unlived. Creative magic and reality and the noble imagination to clue it all together will create an exorcism of your soul, exiling your beliefs, your soul and your cares into the unknown mesh of the cosmos—To find yourself to be a simple body, corrupt among the living and diagnosed with opinions and life and judgment, you feel about as free as the soul of Jesus Christ—Trespass, Judge and stampede and tromp on the thoughts, ideas and claims of others, because this body knows no boundaries—exiling ones own consciousness and spitting on everyone alive or dead without a decent argument is just as good as setting yourself on fire while, knee deep in your own lazy complaints. I’d rather live and be hated than to be dead and loved.
I think God’s final sin is Vanity- Why should he be so revered? I think Michael needs to put a whoopee cushion under his fanny because he apparently forgot what it was like to never live. For me, to feel judged under a being that has no shape, that has no boundaries of misunderstanding, that is so cleansed but yet still understands my dirty mind, I think he needs to take a second thought of his acceptance- Most love him, Some don’t believe in him, and some blindly hate him- -I’m just a dude that is trying to scuffle my thoughts and dirty shoes along so as he does not get embarrassed. I do my best; I think he’s lost in silent marvel of himself.
I’m Sorry- I really am- because my thoughts are out of bounds- I answer to no one other than myself and those infinite temptations that have splintered themselves as voices in my well trained mind- I’m an unfortunate case of stool pigeon of miraculous grandeur.
In California, I found ancient Beasts bathed under the grand old sun, Devils with a giddy point of view, and drugs by the multitude. Sidewalks were warm enough to walk without shoes and street creeps were courteous enough to introduce a new needle for an adventure that they promote behind the curtains of your sleeveless imagination.
Death Metal is a prospect not everyone understands, but if you’re a politicking vibrant sumbitch that has been kicked a time or two, then it is in your roots, whether you like it or not- the deranged company I kept with, when they were not picking their teeth with the tendons and muscles of the suicidal doormen, they stood in front of this dreary rage filled tribe banging their heads and slamming their fists, bellowing fierce atrocities like ancient madmen, you don’t understand it, but you definitely get it.
Dante Aligheri understood it, as did Dimebag Darrell. The brass tax of it is that it is not noise; it is a spiritual floatation device to rise from the crevices of anger, alienation, humiliation and mortal damnation. The flailing of the limbs and the banging of the heads is a triumphant return to mans primitive side, a band of shamans they are and will continue to be, to exorcize the incoherent madness that we useful ruffians are smothered with in everyday life. The post-angst moans that give our own hearts tremors, rattle the eyes of the inexperienced, that is the new language of the modern savage, equipped with censors to operate normally in society, but we, they have discovered a way to manipulate that control and eliminate it while on stage or behind a mic. These Fantastic beings of a growing force, they are fragmented strangers with whole ideas. They are castaways and proud of it, they are a towering elite that you either consider your family, or constantly keep in the corner of your eye. The emotions that are toggled with, and the feelings that are spiritually plunged, they are strict doppelgangers of sin and virtue, they don’t tow the line, they plow both sides of it, they are the reformed leaders of societal dropouts and godless humanity, they are the carriers of the torch, the names of the blamed, and the shards of frustration that makes us all want to shave our heads.
Death rides a pale horse; and on this horse is not a man that beckons significance. On this horse rides a broken crusader, a dying breed that has been bred in all parts of the world and has no real tribe, he just scours the globe until he finds his own. And once the tribe is complete, fires are set and families are bound out of exiled alliance, we share a drink, we cut our skin and then we ignite the luscious horror that binds us. From then on, we are all respected, feared and rejected; we are the jolted bemused, the loveless trick that inspired a Satan-less smile, our thoughts lurk further than our feet can carry us, love is an uncharted territory and life is branded with the sneers of others, but we are a restrained God, a humbled demon on his last breath, a spiritual cancer that affects both sides of life and death, we are the ones that carry the secrets that only dead men know.
I wouldn’t imagine California, would be a haven for metal heads, I think of beach boys, I think of punk surfers and I think of Tanned sluts with skin thicker than an unguided ranchero’s. But it’s California, I saw a mere fraction of it, I’ve never been before and I doubt I’ll go back, maybe the faction of hell-raised significant bound truth seekers are about to throw mutiny over the circuit that controls the over flow of plastic bitches, rich whores, perfectly sculpted schmucks that walk the streets like zombified preachers of renounced Sufism, Natural healing, Jack Daniels and Fox Sports, their hands in their pockets, and their pockets, pocket less, so as to satisfy their sunshiny addiction to public masturbation.
In deep introspection, California, it may be considered the united States very own Macquarie Island, The punks and freaks and metal heads being the vermin- One blue collar tweeker might surmise, but on the other hand, these freaks of nature might be the accumulating force that is now rubbing out this new brand of dubious freak-makers that has infested the country- dumbing it down and drugging it up, so that it may rape and pillage our minds thoughts and opinions. Angry and Carefree we are, for we are not of the mind bent nation- We are the saviors with no voice, and until the cinders of the hell that still burn in the minds of those that run the free world is extinguished by the drugs they prescribe themselves, we gypsies of a non existent history, we will continue to spread the word of hope through incoherent recollection, through vengeful torment, through the fantastic reappraisal of misery and the conception of a third world life through blood and tears. The damned we may be labeled, but blessed, you will find us, if you translate the echoes impacted by rejection, tattoos, headstrong ambitious misery, and the calling of a deeper darker force that traced us, years before birth, we will always be a dying race, but we will never die. We are a homeless community of faith and anger- We are the dying breed that hell stays away from and heaven tips its hat to. We’re doomed, yet destined to be reconciled with.