Psychotropic

18.09.09



The little pills have gone,


Gone the way of the bigger ones,


Swirling round the toilet at speed as the water falls from the urn into the bowl.



Would they really swirl the other way around should I be playing with my mental state in the Northern Hemisphere? Would I be allowed the quantity I have managed to stockpile in the Northern Hemisphere? And would they have ever let me back on the streets?


Many questions come from time in the toilet though as I have learnt the responses are not always answers or if they are I have learnt that on occasion they miss the mark, by quite a mile.



Or a Barn Door.



You know why Barn’s are painted red?


Cause it’s the cheapest color.




Red is not a color you want to see in the toilet especially if you are male, something is definitely amiss.


Males apparently miss the toilet a lot.


I don’t know how, with all those pills to aim at.





The fluorescent lights have been flickering lately, one has blown, the one on the left hand side of our room so my speech pattern and recognition is impaired though at least I remain able to abstract and miss the door frame whilst the right handed fluro keeps going, this however is now taking about a minute to alight, not a good sign when you decide perhaps you need the pills, searching for them in the dark whilst the linguist in me talks about hairbrushes making banana milkshakes ensuring coal as the secret ingredient – trust me, that secret will be well kept.



Lights or not I still know where the toilet is.



Where my pills are,




Slowly dissolving into the bowl,





This however is not too much of a problem as I haven’t flushed in 76 hours and the psychotropic strength combined with the renal residue ensures the fluorescent lights come back to life, the whirlwind slows down and eerily the words written in blood on the ceiling begin to make sense.








Change the goddamn bulbs.










The Grey Madness