onemorepanic

Biscuits, pork chops and hot sauce at dawn.
The carved squash illuminated by candle to the side.
I never thought I'd carve a vegetable into absolute sexiness, but there it sat, glowing, my little zen fruit, created during the hours of a psylocybin dance off.
And now I want pumpkins, dozens of them, a set of good knives, and to toss the drunkenfest Halloween blasts, come this fall. Costumes optional.

And to think, I was just in the midst of an exit.
Stomach ache and vomit thoughts, a sour distaste for occurence, when my best friends mother comes about and divvies up the mushrooms.
Should I? I can't.. It's been so long.
Chomp, chew and swallow.

Laughter ensues.
Blowing the minds of his relatives.
Potent motherfuckers tearing shit up.
We are the heroes we know we are.

And then I'm handed a knife.
And a squash.
And then it becomes so obvious.

I've been neglecting my creative side for way too fucking long. Too caught up in the doldrums of everyday rotting. Work, sleep, fuck and drink. Like a record caught between scratches.

Stop treating things as product.
And start considering them as an extension.
An extension of mind and soul.
Tiny bits of therapy standing tall like giants.
My thanks to nature and cow shit.
And 100 dollar bags of mushrooms.