Fear and Loathing: Creating Originality in a Conformist Culture

I have a darker side of me that you easily like or possibly follow in late hours of humanity.
I discovered him many years ago as a joke while falling down and making a daily wage.
My shadow sees what I cannot and he chooses to be strong and not dismiss these lines.

A few drinks brings him out to play, and nothing makes him truly angry
-He will display the absence of spirit I let lay on the uncut grass of summer.

I pull my hat lower and run for my life as I write frantically with our pace
-The morning sunrise may be hours from contradicting our pace,
but he has years to put to words as if minutes to eternity on paper.

My Gonzo, my Raoul Duke, my Eddie Cabbage becomes a time capsule of truth that will be opened eventually.
The story will possibly tell of fallen souls, soldiers, and mirror reflections of the peaceful Taoist side of me.

I sit at my typewriter
-lost to reflections as my fingers press the keys onto destinations where truth and an asshole meet.
-I see nothing new, the Cabbage man in me sees timeless words, where I refuse to tread to define the politics of the time.

Interviews and sexual conquest hold the same Maginot line.
Life holds and will relinquish an orgasm of originality or the submissive spirit.

The question of how deeply one desires sleep in our sub-conscience plagues the ink to page.
How far is America from the Roman Empire in decadence and depravity?

Frantically, emotionally, and belligerently I blend fears, loathing, and a scene of uniformity in these words.


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