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THE 24 HR FREAK-OUT
Forward
Dawn's early rays: withdrawing from the clubs
and after-parties
tired and wired, I made my lost ways to a
distant corner cafe,
to heal on tobacco and coffee, longing to
find what can bind a
broken soul and secretly lament what it means
to be brave and
free: sinking sinking sinking sinking sin
king Sin King ...
Born to be made-up of better things, to ride
wild horses and slow
down time by gunning toward a glorious death,
is to depict
something heart-rendering, something never to
be forgotten,
something to raise the spirits of mankind -
that is the buzz.
But again - the madness it sneaks up slow and
surreal, and one
day you think you've survived it, only to
find it has barely begun.
I am divided when I cannot close what I have
opened up: this
time stolen from God and put into the Devil's
hands, time offered
as a burnt offering to the gates of hell
...
At the dear age of 17 I was culled and my
mind broken for their
purpose: my whole being made to rig-out their
Shadow Plan:
a walking-breathing-poetic-bomb that exploded
and killed the
voice of God.
Now I am the irreverent poet, the shot dead
gunslinger, the kid
who outgrew the town of his upbringing, who
limped away from
heart, mind and soul in search of the tool
forged in the fires of
the dragons den, to express what truly
happened back then:
"In my soul peddling-act I took the
tabernacle pill. In my rite of
passage I cheeked the kiss of the Devil and
in my affirmation I
saw it, the most magnificent concept of a
hallucination wielded
by my warlock-eye ...
I saw it, my eyes feasting on its brilliance
and the unbelievable
tangible appearance, for there before me in
all its satanic glory,
glowed the magic circle; the sign; the seal;
the dream symbol
and window to the Self ...
In my new enhanced dimension I felt reborn by
my accursed
anointment, disturbed and overwhelmed by the
wizardry and
craft that the pill had drove me to witness
...
The drug had rounded up all my inspired
powers, offering a kind
of demonic survival-pack, the ideal asset for
the typical artist-
beast-man, soon to be hurled into a long and
hideous poetry
campaign: a bottled backwater no other man
should have to
stomach ...
And so this was the selling point ...
The Devil took my soul and I used his words.
The poems: an
infernal madness and secret ally: the real
muster behind my
leading protagonist tough-guy-poet alter ego,
a full-on reason to
be held back by this ball-buster, this
sin."
| 
letchardinc.com
