Fucked up on drugs I didn't take.
Until now, I was no believer in conspiracies. As it is, I've been peaking
and dipping for what seems to have been, and continues be- an eternity.
I've never
in my twenty one years of life,
fucked with enough acid
to warrent this class
of flashback.
Somebody put something in my drink. Fuck! It was a god damned Pepsi!

I'm tripping.
On the cold cement floor.
Of a holding facility.
Some county jail.
September (?) 1977. Wondering
how they managed to cover up the assassination of John Lennon.

I'm raving!
I'm Screaming!
I'm ecstatic!
I'm scared!
I am fucked up!

I'm suddenly calmed by a light that enters through a keyhole of a door in my cell.
It's a solid steel door that leads to the outside.
When I stare at the keyhole from a certain angle, I'm taken
by intense blues and violets. The light has relocated me.
I sense that I've crossed over to- to...
Fuck, you name it!
Any attempt at designation by your's truly
might have you doubting my sanity!
For the record, I'll call it
The Blake State.
Hallucination,
delusion,
apophenia-
'sall here.
I'm gone, baby, gone!

Stains on the concrete floor change shape.
With each shape a narrative invites itself. I am orator. I am audience.
I see what appears to be a ghost, shaped like a rider dressed in white, on a white horse. The ghost tries to ride through, but crashes into a wall then dissipates
into a pale, bluish mist. Voice over: "There goes Apocalypse Johnny."
"There goes Apocalypse Johnny!" I scream to whoever is listening, "Johnny didn't make it through!" I'm laughing, mad, hysterical in my god granted state of-

Listen!

I have it on good authority that the whole of existence lies within the heads of five beings on life support. They are tied mind to mind by some kind of link.
Particle wave?
Psychic?
Digital?
FuckifIknow.
I do know this: We are the accumulative sum of their collective dream.
When they go, so go we all.
Apocalypse Johnny, he's the devil.
He walks around the sleepers' beds
waiting to place pennies on their eyes.
Yeah, he's going to pull some plugs.
I'm laughing like Lennon at the end of "Hey Bull Dog" I'm screaming: "Johnny's getting even! Hahahahahahahah! He's gettin' fuckin even!"


Then I hear The Voice:
a mad, cynical voice.
A voice that sneers in an English accent.
Almost cockney accent.
Calls me by nick name.

Says: "Wordsmith are you, Chuck?"

I'm, I'm grinning and grunting and muttering, and drooling like the sub human I've become. I'm nodding my head ferociously, and babbling like some sacred idiot.

Voice: "complete the rhyme, Chuck!
You can complete the rhyme, can't you?"

I continue to nod and mutter, like some autistic-

The Voice proceeds with the rhyme:

"Apocalypse
Bastards
true to their nature
sell their blue babies
to Red
Righteous
Fathers.

Ask of the fair children
and you'll never find them
Trade their ploughshares
for swords
as god stands behind them."

I'm grinning and drooling, head-spinning crazyasfuck and- Then
I'm lucid.
For a moment.
Lucid.
I add to the rhyme:

"The linen white chosen
When duty befallen
take books as their shields
and go as god calls them.

The voice:

"Not very good, Chuck. Not very good at all."

I spit out in hysterical laughter:
"You should see it from my angle!"

And all goes black.