Barbarians

My head was swimming now, a pleasantly intoxicated dream state. I no longer knew or even cared what century it was. I was numb from the waist down, circulation long ago cut off to my legs. The heavily painted faces and costumes of my geisha companions, the spare black-and-white walls, the choo-choo train of tiny plates of jewel-like dishes - everything melted together in that full mind/body narcotized zone where everything/nothing matters. You know you're having one of those meals of your life but are no longer intimidated by it. Consciousness of time and expense go out the window. Cares of table manners disappear. What happens next, later, or even tomorrow fades into insignificance. You become a happy passenger, completely submitting to whatever happens next, confident that somehow the whole universe is in particularly benevolent alignment, that nothing could possibly distract or detract from the wonderfulness of the moment.

Anthony Bourdain - A Cook's Tour

baby bird mama's birthday girl looks damn fine
we bury our hatchets in bottles and powders
lingerie and dancing
we get fucked up and slither around
to celebrate us
together
young and alive
if only just barely
for tonight
that glorious
only

mooooooommmm ur face smells like tylenol!

Wilkie Collins was addicted to laudanum, a 10% solution of opiate in alcohol. He got it for a case of gout, and never stopped downing the stuff. One day, his servant, curious about his happy juice, poured for himself a big-ass glass, riiiight to the top same as Wilkie downed on the daily.
Killed the poor motherfucker. Like ahhhhhhhhhh mmmmm booom dead.
Wilkie went on to invent detective fiction. Go figure.

cat cage IV:

i want to
grind you into a fine powder and shove you up my nose
keep you in a silver dish by my bedside and consume you
in small spoonfuls day and night electrifying the wet parts
in my head's guts from the inside sparking greedy desire
insatiable gnawing motivating me headlong inevitable into
spectacular disaster.