Tuesday, November 27, 2012

In the Mouth of Juarez

I enjoyed an impromptu and unexpected reunion with my primary hashish dealer from an admittedly hazy period of my life in which I allegedly bootlegged during the Third Indochina War. 

We drank a charming regional cocktail consisting of potato vodka and a smattering of grenadine garnished with a dead moth. This turned our conversation to that dreaded cocktail, “In the Mouth of Juarez”, which has dispersed many a rum shake.

A strong Mezcal is poured into a shot glass. Valium is then crushed up into the drink, with a splash of coconut juice.

I would suggest that harder to find variety which also incorporates the larvae of the Cephida centipede. When dried properly, the larvae cause a euphoric psychoactive rush that eventually dovetails into a mind-bending trip involving a barren, psychedelic moonscape crawling with arthropods.

I'm nostalgic for my strange, feverish nights with the Cephida Death Cult in Oaxaca. One has not lived until they've witnessed the phantasmagoric and positively sadistic Dark Yddhl Cephida Mass. The Yddhl are a vaguely insectoid extradimensional entity that reveal themselves only through ones' Cephida trip.

I was introduced to Cephida while operating a gunrunning operation in the region involving several members of a would-be military junta, and was introduced to that demon drug by my confidante Cabron Franciso, a slunk trafficking drag queen with a penchant for amyl nitrate and rum.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Porcupine Mange

Lozenges for life coaches on drug binges hinges on the habitual harlots that once were starlets. A stench of fecal flagrance for the winos and the vagrants, nicotine stains and porcupine mange for the damned or deranged. Once were lucid but now elusive, elucidating the Elysian Fields with high profit yields and urine shields for the well-heeled gamblers and rhinestone ramblers.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Corpse Wax

Few things are as crass as the stench of corpse wax and yet lately I have been haunted by this pungent perfume of the departed and doomed. I am somehow both dying and dead as I tread amongst the pervading dread, saying but not communicating that which is spoken but unsaid.

I have long been an avid enthusiast of the sins of fermented yeast and have appreciated the finer nature and lures of the Beast but I still shudder at the encroaching mutters - those dreadful whispers that accompanied our arrival from the womb and laugh at our inevitable departure at the tomb.

Grinning pale faces in claustrophobic spaces are our final companions in the crypt amongst dead flesh both wrought and ripped. Perhaps these apparitions are welcome for those souls blessed with such guests as the company of worms and morticians and yet I am damned in the land of those not yet given to decomposition.

The gruesome prattle of the death rattle is anticlimactic as I am already deceased and rot in pain but not in peace.  The songs of the whippoorwill resonate even in this institution for the mentally ill as my skin becomes clammy and finally chill.