Dionysus quickly opened his old, tired mouth.

He coughed violently and spat a warm salty dog

into his empty mug. It was a solid mass of

goo, almost rubber; almost civilised. His ears

were dripping wax and eyes were bloodshot red.

His knotted hair twisted corkscrew floor-bound,

long greasy locks of brown hippie style. He

burped loudly, a small pool of electric bile stung

the back of his throat. Punk rock music

blasted through the darkened room, shouting

a dithyrambic rhythm. Psychotic eyes peered

towards the shadowy, pale faces around him.

Empty bottles in the trash, countless one night

stands. Sex, drugs and punk rock - a chaotic mind.

An ounce of cocaine sat piled-high upon the

dirty table. A quick look to the left then look

back with flared nostrils and beating primal

heart. He grinned a junky grin. A pound

note; sticky, crusty, wet at one end. Silver

foil burnt on one side. Codeine pills filled a

pocket. A joint burned away in his mouth.

Smoke snaked about his person like a mystic

fog. A bottle of methadone was a good

friend indeed. Mushroom tea for lunch,

he drank the tadpoles eagerly. Stomach

cramps, vomit, a grey tint on his skin. A

large collection of coloured pills lay quietly

in a drawer, waiting for a dream. Small

squares of coloured paper - reality suffocated

and twisted around.

Slippery eels, sunken cities,

eternal thoughts a blanket.

The trees so splendid,

the fish alive.

We shall dine upon a merry feast,

then die.

Cold sweat crept over his

body like a second skin. Opium pipe at his

side, screaming for mercy. What kind of


It evolves and expands inwardly. The

sharpening has begun.

It is born violently into a twisted world.

Society is full of maggots, feasting on

themselves. Suffer little children, for

they have made us suffer.

They shall feel our wrath - unstoppable,

dominating and unique. It will not end until

every last drop of metaphysical blood has

been smeared on their dirty faces. We will

kick, stab, slash and savagely eat away at

their fragile minds. We will rip their souls

wide open. They are powerless, feeble and


Back off, or you will destroy yourself.

This is the sickening war cry of

the unknown beast. The ugly head hangs

low, peering into their lost minds.

They can feel our anger, our pain and

suffering. The knife goes in. It will be twisted,

if necessary.

For thousands of years they have

been unaware, cosy in their confused,

childish beliefs. The self aware versus the

blind. The truth becomes itself.

It has arrived.

May God help us all.

Stu Maclean

© Professor David Nutt