Arcturus Murray sat down one evening after sniffing some powdered magic mushrooms, with an epiphytical smile on his pale face. The stench was unbearable; a crossed-eyed pilot drooped lazily in the mist of his mind, visions blurred. The world was broken, ruined, and shattered into raw human flesh & sick ground bones. He walked, and he crawled, past and present meet within the shadows of blue, yellow, green, red, red, red, the color of blood, with junky veins pulsing underneath his saggy skin. Love clutching hatchets in both hands, with recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonable kick.
“Welcome to Creekwell City,” He said “Where everything is a magic trick-k-k.”
He whispered words into her ear in ritualistic patterns, the beat of the drum coming from a crowd that flooded humbly like desolate drops in a great sea of acid. Mona Lisa, he thought, was undone so many times, hovering aimlessly to the end of a sad little earth, going mad by retreating from the existence of the masters of war, who rolled the dice deciding whom should live, and whom should take a ride through fiery hell. They walked upside down dressed in dirty wedding gowns, crude, cruel, following the human engine which waited like a taxi throbbing, refusing to admit or accept the obvious truth surrounding humanity, with eyes of magma, which gazed upon the sky on lonely summer afternoons. Steve Miller sells his consumers silhouettes, like trunks of decaying trees, subconsciously patting their emotions.
“Capture everything, forget nothing!” He screamed.
The Medicine Man walked in, speaking of a rare condition which is characterized by scanning foolishly, miserably, and simply, the colors of the rough winds, which would have no reason being there in the first place. At the violet hour, he spoke of creatures that only exist amidst the thoughts of those who cast fountains of dark glooms and puss, through their delusional heads, setting out an infinite loop that is in fact the present universal war.
There’s that moment when one grasps the thought that this is no ocean, but the spill of bright white light, and murders of one-eyed crows scattered on branches in a striking fashion. They caught a glimpse of the Ape Man as he fell to the ground, still breathing and grunting, wondering how people would die for this, where at the same moment, a blind raven fluttered upon the hills where the world looked like a miserable walnut. It threw up its dinner of earth worms, with splintered wings outstretched, longing for more, and no matter how the beaked defendant seemed to notice nothing, it thought of death while recollecting memories of crimson clouds in a December sky. The high winds cried fear as men threw feces at each other, going mad from the realization of being born into this hellish rubbish world.
She lay there, a future goddess, with bloodshot eyes, dressed in rags, smoking a dime’s worth of some celestial grass, staring out of a frost covered window, that shielded her from others who ingested a form of drug, which eventually made their pale bones nap & crack like firewood. It was time where every single human being on earth stood about a junk dealer, with billions of nanoparticles orbiting a fractured globe of sensory perception. He did not improve or simplify this presumably attractive bundle of flesh, but began pumping tar, making their eyelids go purple, and their lungs black. The faces in the crowd looked for specific façades within themselves, and eventually died without finding the reason behind them being seriously wounded by evil, which towered over them, selling its sickening product to the lowest bidder.
Arcturus took another massive snort, and wiggled his blood-filled nose, sinking once more into the darkest corners of his own thoughts, no questions asked, and he dreamt of what may happen to the young hipster chick, sitting limply next to him, mouth wide open, with nasty gargles of foam spewing out of it, down her long chin.
Bing-dong, the bell went announcing the end of the world as we know it.
Now you see it, now you don’t.