‘toxicated [ [mid-Feb 2013, Chronicles of Dis–Infection]


Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the bible says love your enemy.
Frank Sinatra

[meaning&orthography as shatted upon by –OH]

Well and then here’s another one. All splashed out on the alc. Yeah, you heard. Like how you get sort of…. euphoric about this, almost H but not quite. Tipsy, a tremblor and you’re just trying to keep ur balance. Blasting Mysonne on my headphones and high off a documentary on Giselda Blanco. Which, by the motherfucking way, I think is a great crypto-bio opportunity . And now what? When u’re splashed like this at least u don’t have to keep up the pretence of chhhhhhhhhhhoherence or getting at a point. Points elude us the fuck, when are we ever going to get that, HUGHH?

Lyrics? „Two wrongs don’t make a rright, but two bitches on the arm gon’ make a good night“….. don’t even sound like Mysonne [or any other conscious rapper] too facile, too buying into cliches.

Damn, I’m groovulated, groove-struck and here I am trying to pretend that being tippsied–the–fuck–out will make a difference to my writing. It can’t. It won’t. It does. Yet, no bloody drug is gon’ change my fucking k.b.m.o., break this down? Man, keyboard modus operandi. That’s it the –OH don’t fuck w/ me, just makes me more pensive, stare into the cosm more deeper [in such twisting of grammar, no?]. Like: What the bleep we [as in ‘I’] are we really about? But the myth is there, isn’t it ? You drink liquor you become somebody else and start typing up all this intensely un/precedented shit. But that’s not how it is, even D. Washington said as much in his interview on the Guardian recently: the acting just got worse and worse. W/ liq. Likely the same for writing.


Because what you want to write about is what you’ve been meaning to write about, precisely, the stuff that’s been making meaning to you. Lately, if you check you calendar against the cultural events of LU [crisp little backwater ville in CH] you’llllllll know that must/will have been the carnival. And it was. Nearly extatic about that past temporal form, to tell the truth. The fascinating part, in my mind, is how when they first start playing again, outrageously so, on some randomized THU morning. For the first time in a decade I was up at that time of night and heard the detonation, thought to myself something dire, my anxious mind, a gas explosion in one of the proximate buildings, some motherfucker popping his piece but of course, evidently, not so, instead what we call the „Urknall“. Very humble, Big Bang. Some pyro-blast to get this thing started. Then the percussions hit like a stampede of Brontosaurs and nearby ear-drums better bail or get pasted. Mine got pasted, as ever.

In the beginning the ebulience and euphoria of people hammering drums&et al, and blowing the winds like its the last round of breaths, well, it gets you, given the sonic blasts it near-as-much blows your mind. How can these folks, for the three-hundreth time, be excited as candy-blasted kiddos? They just are. And you are too. And there is empathy and synchronicity and euphoria and all the positive shit you ever care to imagine. Seriously.


But then so I suppose you can already imagine the not too-far-off upshot. Yes, truely indeed, this inevitable thing of „the-overstaying-of-all-welcomes“, which probably should also be called „oh-and-so-by-the–by-you-can-just-charge-this-to-my-account-number-of-……-you-motherless-piece-of-a-fuck!“ You know this scene already, it activates ancient patterns of imagination, the playground, a kid finds a semi-fun pattern of interaction to engage with with [that’s two “with”s] another kid or perhaps even adult, it includes a certain verbal utterance to empathize the essence of the game, you can’t go still on this shit but then so also the kid knows yet nothing of best-until-dates, which in this case amounts [something pretty inconceivable just happened on my mac which i might remember to relate later] and so …what???, [hoefgaarden from here to infinity, best brew ever ever ever]…it amounts to not knowing what is essential? Meaning, this thingie-of-yours amounts to all of three minutes of fun. NOT ten!!!!!! At this time, according to doctors and folks of similar ilk, you’re supposed to not shake your offspring overly, but at this time you do, screaming emphatically „ENOUGH! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!“ with the wild-eyed desperation that you last displayed at your high-schoool, what the fuck do you US AmerikanERs call it?, at your high-school-prom. What is more appropriately called: Maturafäscht. I’m so 21st I might have to lick the underside of my Balzac, maybe even „like“ it. Post pic. In addition to all of this, I’m a quadruple sheet to the zephyr. All vocab niggas vibe w/ me 😉

My point, ellusive as I drunkenly claim they are, is that, oh yeah, other swig of trusty ol HG, that that carnevalesque shit, though I haven’t sampled the NO as of yet, it sounds as if they’re doing that shit for the very FIRST TIME: GANGSTA! Blasting their drums&windpipes and all that shit loud as the bigbang…mad props! Overstayed welcome and all.

On the 1st Thursday it’s not all that bad. But then [why the blood don’t they do any of this shit on weekends, this is agains paganism or what the vagina?] …………………..LOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKOLOKOLKOKLOKO….yeah, that’s that shit I“m blasting….Monday Morning, you’re up 5am like u tossed mad blow, wondering what blow might be like, thinking it must be a lot better than whatever one cares to call the dissonant tunes that, at this very moment, are assaultiing your tympanon. This is way the – – – past the welcome phase, remember.


„Money over everything. That makes sense to you? Not me though. This the matrix, I’m Neo. ‘Cause my soul’s way bigger than my ego.“ [I suppose the point is that hiphop, of the Papoose and Mysonne species can go bar for bar, line for line, with Banville, DFW, et al., yeah, you know] Back to the inexistent point. I was sleeping in a horse-drawn cart. Inside a hay-blown hovel. Ah, yes, you’re with me, good.

You’re awake Monday mad, with your reservoir of empathy for BigBand MuZak fully depleted. And then it continues on into the day, Monday, which for me is nothing presently but, anecdotally, means a defecationload to other folks. And then, as if for fucked-up measure, Tuesday too. Though of course the thing is that most people are on vacation. And so am I. My tympanon and my brain is saying „NO! NO! NO! NO! NO?“ in its maddeningly solipsistic way. Am I even making sense to you? Because YOU is who I am trying to appeal to and so this thing, of appealing to you, no matter all the the typos and digressions, is in some pathetically self-conscious and sucker-like manner, what is most important to me. Basically you have to deposit your attention span in my ego though, obviously, world-peace, will flourish [if ever, NOT] from quite a different insemination.

So. Here’s the situation. Day Two. They’re still drumming insanely and the shit is pissing you way the fuck off. But then so every now and then you can tell somebody of real musical talent is down there [50m in our case, unfortunately] and you think accronymously „WTF?“ they’re good, let’em play, and such. After 1h at the latest you think, unsleepingly, still, you’re thinking wrongly, this gals&guys, no matter their explosive enthusiasm, need to be gone. But of course, traditionally, as per forever, that is not how it is. Then you have to figure out some othe rationale and, listening to another good big-band, you can’t help figuring out that they are somehow intoxicated by their own music. All these hours of drumming and blowing and whatever else is done in order to elicit to tunes, has been to the end of auto-intoxication. Which is exactly what they engage in. And since so many of them are not compelte amateurs they are weirdly justified in their pursuit, sort-of like, we know, newcomer, this bluster be us. But you [myself], in unmusical perspecitve or whatnot, cannot bear it. Strongly under the impression that I might still be in need of my eardrums, who knows, even if only to rock the blood out on itunes shiat. Which is my thang, along with datpiff, which the actual, physical stuff, piff, I am deathly scared of. The one with double „F“ too. Damn, I’m like Mysonne fresh off Rikers, jumping. You know or don’t.

But so please, coolo, on Tuesday, what’s the excuse? Right. So, in a benevolent mood, you re-adapt and appreciate their endurance and zest and dedication and, in the throughs of desperation, whatever positive nouns happens to fly your mind.

This is the time where if I don’t finally crash I’m the chowderhead I’ve been all along. Of course, the type of language which comes up with CH for imbecile is much in deserve of awards more sonoursly named than the O-kid. You know or don’t. C ya in a bit or bits. Haha.

[“Her clit look like a jellie-bean, I’m on that promethazine…” –    lil wazyineee]


[what? this is not funny, much of life isn’t]



About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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One Response to ‘toxicated [ [mid-Feb 2013, Chronicles of Dis–Infection]

  1. Clement says:

    Nice piece of writing.
    Would love to get back in touch. please contact me ; )

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