to this:
The first part of this story was written seperately, and so to bring you up this point, a recap. I was with about four of my guy friends. We were about 4 hours too early for the show. We'd just taken acid, courtesy of my friend Phil, and my friend Bob was not taking his trip to well. We'd followed a bunch of roadies back stage (mostly all of them drunk or stoned) and we were looking or the door to the dressing room in which I would find Twiggy Ramirez. Now I'm no hardcore metal fan. Manson has a knack for making music to ironically truthful and satirical lyrics, which is why I like him. We went to this show and were 4 of the only 6 black people there. If it wasn't for the goth fiends drenched in leather, lace and velvet black garb, I'd have felt ut of place. LOL. SO that's enough priming... here's the story:***
THE NIGHT IS YOUNG AND FULL OF REST
The hallway, long, narrowing, reappearing and disappearing, and then repeating as I followed that messy black hair. Cigarette smoke billowing in the air behind me, fresh sounds of whatever and nothing all around, that acid was a beast to devour the senses... that acid was a lover to fill my every orifice w/his manlihood till I was left screaming, sweating down this hallway. Where was this door? This portal to sure achievement and entertainment... where were the blue pixies all flying to? Where the fuck were my friends? They were neither in front nor behind me, where I'd left them, in pursuit of Ramirez this funny day in '99. Fuck it... where I am soon they may be. Nothing mattered, everything did. Where was this door?
I CAN'T DESCRIBE THE WAY SHE DRESS'D
What seemed like the full 4 and a half hours later, there was the door, tightly shut. It had to be it. I laid a hand on it, pressed an ear to it... Shhhhh let's hear the rawk noises and the sex talks. What the fuck, let's open it. Bursting in on this thing was thrilling, filled w/offhandish glances from band members Twiggy Ramirez, and John5, other unnamed faces, didn't matter, just him, just me, silence in this room of purple and green colors spinning. Heard the rawk noises. What now... what comes next. How to fill this VOID and answer the "Who the fuck are you?" From an unnamed.
"I'm Jim Morrison, or something like that." Said sardonically, sarcastically. Chuckles from the messy haired Twiggy on comfy couch. This is evolution, the monkey, the man, then the gun. Chuckles from the messy-haired man, and I am a revelation and I melt to the Holy Wood. Let's look at the room awhile shall we? Let's take a sip of Jack Daniels from the unopened bottle, shall we? Let's fucking do something!
SHE'LL PANDER TO SOME STRANGE REQUEST
"Well shit, if you're gonna be here, at least sit the fuck down." This from I don't know who, but obliged, duly noted. Let's take another drink from the Jack Daniels bottle... who's is it? Who cares? Drink it up and fill the VOID, discover Lords and New Creatures, sit beside the messy-haired man.
"Who's Jack Daniels is that" said one in the corner.
"Hers, now, I think" said the messy-haired man.
Looks around and hears the knock on the door. Where's Manson? Where are my friends, nervous, disoriented Bob, jokester Phil, laugh-a-lot Dennis? Lost in the spiraling maze, and here was I, next to the messy-haired man.
"What's the name?" or some such words from this man, spoken "Kayla" in return, quietly... who knew I wasn't Jim Morrison?
ANYTHING YOU SUGGEST
The door is moved again, in walks the rest of them... me lost in a lock of his hair, fascinated by it all, everything was surrealistic and forever yesterday attempted murder success. No one knew what it all meant, but we all knew it meant something. "Who the fuck are they?" Came again from somewhere, no matter who or where. We were all there, silly kids in our makeshift Goth attempts, the four of us a collection of high, and elated wackos from the south of Chicago. It was all about the quiet signed violence of the thing, they all filed in. Where was Manson now? Should we leave... what do I do know? Here was messy-haired man my eyes had searched for, here were friends, all missions seemed accomplished just as the blue pixies had all floated away, purple and green still spinning. Rawk noises and dirty sex talks. What happens now?
ANYTHING TO PLEASE HER GUEST
Time lapse... where did all the minutes go? A blackout period where we all sat quiet on the floor outside of this door. What happened to our rawk noises and the messy haired man? What happened to the stage set. Sleep on Bob, jokes w/Phil and Dennis, disorientation w/me.
"The fuck happened to the show man? Where's all the noise?"
"Show's on in ten minutes, we should grab our spots." This from Phil, the most sane of the lot. Slap against the face of our dear Bob, and we were off. Where was the show, how was the show? Was this the Goth experience we'd been waiting for? It would have to be. I remember the show as being a psychedelic mosh scene w/loud music everybody everybody rawking out to the sounds from us all, everybody everybody entranced, manic/passionate intoxicated. Last night I dreamed of murder, sex and free crime, and the evening rawk show. Where the music was our life support, that took our life. Here I walked away with a few scratches and bruises, Bob had gotten slugged once in the eye, toting his shiner and denouncing the rawk/Goth scene. Phil elated, arm slightly bleeding, Dennis is just fine, or so it seemed, back sore next morning, all asleep on the floor, hung-over from few bottles of tequila littered on floor. What did I do to end the night... What did I do to make night right... How the fuck do I gain my sight, Drunken gains the poor girls plight.
---Center poetry by: Jim Morrison “The Guest”
