
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
being?


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
weak.
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


