My friend’s mother once told us over dinner and her home-made Sloe Gin when we were 17 how she went to a Doors concert in London when she was 14 and took acid for the first time. We all thought she was a) amazing and b) felt really rubbish and unadventurous. IN anycase, have some words from American Prayer. Just because I like them.
They are waiting to take us into the severed garden
Do you know how pale & wanton thrillful
Comes death on strange hour
Unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you’ve brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all & gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven’s claws
No more money, no more fancy dress
This other Kingdom seems by far the best until its other jaw reveals incest & loose obedience to a vegetable law
I will not go
Preferring a Feast of Friends
To the Giant family
I always though it was “to a great famine”, which I actually think is better, but googling assures me (ish) the above is correct. Jim; we should have talked. I know, drugs can totally help make good poetry, just ask your good, dead, friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He was strung out on opium most of the time. That’s why the ending of Kubla Khan (“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, A stately pleasure dome decree..”) started so well and finished so badly. He was awoken from his opium writing-fest by some reverend dude from the next village and the last verse makes even less sense than the ones he wrote when he was fucked.
There’s a lesson in that for us all I think.