Decades / Failures – G00DBY3

You know, I talk about drugs a lot but I rarely, if ever, do them because I can’t, man. I just can’t. There was this fantastic little window, somewhere between my first lay and my last dilation, when I prolly could’ve pinned up like an hero if I’d wanted or just gone full bore TraLaLa barbiturate cautionary maven or tripped the light phantasmagoric horrorshow like a glass-eyed Learian alone against the neubaten or just, you know, made marijuana my sociological mantle or not even. Shit, I could’ve just honed in on the pleasures of recreation and the endless, insipid inspirations narcotics can offer a man but I didn’t.

Yes, I drink beer and whiskey (and scotch, gin and rum, even at Big Jim’s) and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee, aplenty and I know those are drugs in their own right and how dare I, ad homonym but we’re all goddamn adults here (or better well fucking be) so I’ll just go ahead and assume you know what I mean when I say that narcotics and I make the worst pair of sickly bed bugs your two-bit shame-fuck has ever pretended it didn’t see out of the corner of its eye crawling up those old cum-crackled BVDs.

Because whenever I get high or try (I have failed in time) my whole life turns a sullen gauze that swallows a week, at least. Words get sticky. Memories lapse into static. All “me” is forgiven to the obtuse root of sadness where Scottish Fold kittens go to die, wide-eyed in the arms of the tired moms who only wanted you to love them for who they were before you turned all their displacement to dirt and how dare you and how dare I and how the fuck long does this charade have to go on until we all understand that there’s no true love to be had because love is a physiological construct as ridiculous as cash and you know the whole concept of Western currency is a balloon that was burst in the 40s and poisoned the oceans, the air, the land, the trees, the BEES! HOLY SHIT THE BEES! And the bats all have fungus eating their faces thanks to the Koch brothers and GMO and pretty soon it won’t be Mad Max at all. Oil rots. Did you know that? Shit’s gonna be straight up Waterworld or Hello America because there is no fiction that is NOT science fiction because the science is right there and that’s FACT! all around us, just begging, pleading, SCREAMING the reveille of the death’s head propped high above the righteous and rightly godless (duh, Nietzsche) hordes parading penny-maces and anvils like a song because, in the end, man…and it’s coming…the only music left will be suffering…tragedy, in the literal, Shakespearean sense and the sound of dust swallowing the last remnants of the remnants of the remnants of the remnants you held so fucking dear because you and your Puritanical ipso facto bullshit doomed us all from the first rape to the next phase of your PRECIOUS fucking career and fuck you for that and fuck me for caring because I love you SO MUCH right now I could spit a string of perfect pentameter from here, RIGHT HERE, where I stand before you as presently perfect as I will ever be and you’re just…so…fucking…pretty and kind and sweet and gentle and mine (right?), right across the universe and back again but what would it matter?

We’re all dead, Clive.

So let’s just listen to Spaceman 3.

G00DBY3 Tracklist:

1. White Walls 04:40
2. Blank Clocks 02:45
3. Fractured 05:24
4. Secret Superstitions 04:10
5. Slow Waves 04:08
6. Midnight to Six 06:08
7. The 3 Line 05:02
8. Pretty Deadly 04:23

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