The Long Hard Road Out Of Hell. Neil Strauss

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      soaking up the tertiary realities of life.

      * * *

      HOTEL HALLUCINOGEN

      Lying in bed contemplating

      tomorrow, simply meditating,

      I stare into a single empty

      spot, and notice a penetrating

      of two eyes looking up and

      down and at various odd angles

      secretly inspecting me; and I

      feel my stare tugged away

      from the blank screen in

      front of my eyes and directed

      at the eight empty beer cans

      forming an unintentional pyramid.

      And I close my lids to think -

      How many hours have passed

      since I constructed such an

      immaculate edifice of tin?

      Or did I create it all?

      Was it the watchers?

      I open my eyes and return my stare to the pyramid.

      But the pyramid has now

      become a flaming pyre, and

      the face within is my own.

      What is this prophecy that

      comes to me like a delivery boy,

      cold and uncaring of its message,

      asking only for recognition?

      But I will not fall prey

      to this relevation of irrelevance

      I will not recognize this perversion

      of thought.

      I will not.

      I hurl my pillow at the

      infernal grave, as if to save my

      eyes from horrific understanding,

      and I hear the hollow clang

      of seven empty beer cans,

      not eight -

      Was it fate that left

      one to stand?

      Why does this solitary tin soldier

      stand in defiance to my

      pillow talk of annihilation?

      Then, for some odd, idiotic,

      most definitely enigmatic reason

      the can begins to erupt in a barrage of

      whimpering cries.

      Does he lament because his

      friends and family are gone

      or that he has no one

      with which to spawn?

      They were gone ...

      But no, that’s not the reason.

      It is a baby’s cry of his mother’s

      treason.

      The screaming fear of abandonment.

      And this wailing, screaming, whining

      causes the dead cans to rise

      and I can’t believe my eyes,

      that this concession of

      beverage containers is chanting

      in a cacophony of shallow rebellion

      to my Doctrine of Annihilation

      that was discussed in my

      Summit of the Pillow (which is now

      lost among the stamping feet of the

      aluminium-alloy anarchists).

      I am afraid, afraid of these

      cans, these nihilistic rebels.

      As the one approaches – the baby cryer,

      I suppose my fear now

      escalates, constructing a wall

      around my bed, trying to shut

      everything out

      but without a doubt

      the cryer casually climbs what

      I thought was a Great Wall

      not unlike the one in Berlin.

      He begins to speak.

      His words flow cryptically from

      the hole in his head

      like funeral music: deep, resonant,

      and sorrowful

      He says to me: „You must

      surrender to your dreams it’s just.

      We sit all day planning for your attendance

      and upon arrival you

      very impolitely

      ignore us.“

      I awe, I nod involuntarily

      and he closes my eyes.

      No.

      He gives me a pair of aphrodisiac sunglasses,

      and I fall asleep in the shade.

      Asleep in a field of hyacinth and jade.

      When I crawl out of my sleep

      I get up,

      my hair a tangled mess of golden СКАЧАТЬ