Daves Brain Talking (Part 1)

Hi there, my poem (whatever it is) is below this piece of text explaining where this poem came from.

Im not a poetry writer, I just joined here to share my 2 pieces of unusual writing & thoughts that I experienced whilst recovering from a heavy session on MDMA.

This is PART 1 of 2, of my weird experiences:

HOW IT HAPPENED (Not the Poem):
Im 33, like to party, sometimes too much (I have bad friends that encourage me to be naughty), was invited to a gathering by my friend that had escalated from a "back to mine for drinks" all nighter into a drink & drugs 3 day bender. It started on the Friday night and I joined the group on the Sunday around mid day. Was greeted by my friend and a kitchen full of friendly but fucked group of about 9 gurning, sweating, tired looking 20 somethings. Long story short, I ingested what I thought was quite a lot of MDMA but judging from past experiences and the weirdness of whats to follow I'm pretty sure it was heavily cut with some other drug that I soley blame (along side exhaustion) for these weird thoughts and a horrendous comedown. I stayed up partying all night Sunday right though till Monday evening. I couldn't sleep Monday night, was awake all of tuesday daytime just trying to relax and get through it. Suffered the usual heavy headedness, slight giddiness and feeling that your not quite settled back in your brain yet, like it takes a fraction of a second to catch up with your movements. Like when you turn your head it feels like your mind is on a rope swing. Ever get that?

Anyway this is when things get weird, I was sat on the sofa with my laptop and phone, TV on in the background, and at some point on this Tuesday evening must have unknowingly fell asleep but seemed awake to everyone else and started sleep texting. Apparently my girlfriend asked if I was coming to bed and I mumbled "in a minute babe" and continued to sit in the same spot without moving for the entire night. My girlfriend said she woke up several times in the night to try and get me to come to bed and all I did was reply with the same thing "yea, I'm coming now babe give me 2 seconds". She noticed that the page on my laptop hadn't changed all night and every time she entered the room I made a slack attempt to appear to be busy typing when I actually wasn't. I finally went to bed around 7am she tells me.

I wake up confused and disorientated to my girlfriend nudging me reminding me we have to leave in a minute, referencing that she needs me to take her to work which I do daily. I had only been to sleep for 1 hour, I don't even remember going to sleep the following night. It was only when I checked my whatsapp messages that I realised something wasn't quite right. I had sent the following messages to my girlfriend and had copied and pasted them to a few other friends too. I eventually confessed to my girlfriend that I had took some stuff at a party and that I wont be doing it again. After being pissed off with me she now empathises with me and advises that I should try and stay away from those types of people.

One last thing before you read the texts below, You may have noticed that this is PART 1 out of 2 parts, this is because the weirdness didn't stop there. Feel free to take a look at "Daves Brain Talking (Part 2)" to read a much more poetic piece of writing that I thought of when waking up from a dream I had a day after this texting malarkey happened.

OK, THE TEXTS:
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Babe I feel like I need to put my finger tips on the iphone buttons and just let them start writing without really thinking about anything, just let the fingers do the work, let them do their own thing tonight. Free them for only but 5 minutes to run lose upon the shiney glass architecture that was once just a prisoner to Steve Jobs's frontal lobe

A watering can made of shiny floppy almost like a glossy pink plastic and out of the top of it grows a big palm tree trunk, then out of the trunk there is lots of Chinese people's eyes all half closed with no eyelashes, then right at the top of the tree instead of there being palm leaves like a normal palm tree, there is one massive home pride man (google him) but he's face is a big swat sticker instead of the traditional eyes and nose, and he's arms are long neon pink, I mean really glowing, like radioactive dogs cocks, with the tips looking like lipsticks. And dripping out of the tips is a really thick black treacle like smokers tar you see on smokers lungs , it's dripping out slowly really thick, and as the camera follows it trickling down you see at the bottom of the tree where the treacle is going into, and that is Dean Drury's sat there pulling forward his xxl jumper so the treacle is poring into his jumpers neck hole, he's looking upwards to wards the falling treacle, behind him floating in the middle of the air without any assistants is a large hulk hogans moustache and it is just there floating up then down on repeat. And then every 5 seconds you hear an Apple Mac booting up chime but every time you hear it, it goes down a semi tone so the sound gets lower, at the same time as every time it gets lower you hear a whisper starting at low volume at first, it's barely audible at the start but with each chime you hear the whispering word say "fuck it I'm gonna rim myself" in a very evil sounding voice, very similar to the voice of the voice of the voice of the voice of the voice of the possessed girl on the exorcist.

I've been letting my brain type a short story all on its own, do you want to feel it?

The story is soft to the touch and smells like the colour blue

I don't speak to Jehovah's witnesses via telecom communications, if I've told you this one time I've told Young's fish and chip shop chips a thousand times before now pick up your rice pudding with out the rice in it (we all know you substitute the rice for Tom jones's hole punch paper shavings (you know the little paper discs of neutral colour) that live in the clear bottomed housing estate of hole punchville. I don't even know how you got Tom Jones Hole punch in the first place. His mum was out the country the day you obtained it and I know for a fact he was servicing his Henry the Hoover on that day as well, so I'm thinking you must of stolen it off of his desk. Well I say servicing it, he was using tipex and a black permanent marker pen (which I know he part exchanged in John Menzies back in 1997, I remember it well, the hole punches were situated next to the Sega Megadrive game "ToeJam & Earl" the cold cut turkey edition" with dill and pickles smeared all over the price tag, I remember thinking what type of person would do that? Who has smeared all of that on the price tag? I mean come on! Only a greenstead 74 year old cleaner of sir Charles Lucas art college would do something as fruity as that. He was using the marker pen and tipex to alter the eye balls on the Henry the hoover to make them look more crooked. He once said in an interview for toenail clipping weekly that he often found the hoover staring at him from across the landing after he had vacuumed up all of the spiders tiny balls they play in, didn't I tell you? Oh yea sorry I invested 32 Japanese yen into a business that is creating very tiny play pen style arenas for spiders to play in, and the one we are beta testing at the mo is equipped with a cheese and ham breville machine along side a tiny ball pit housing 471 tiny little hollow plastic balls. So as I was saying after Tom (is that a sock or a small rubber duck bought from wilkos next to the playhouse pub in Colchester) down your pants Jones vacuum's up all of the tiny plastic balls from the tiny spiders tiny ball pit, he describes the wondering eye look a bit like as if one eye of the hover is having it's very first vodka redbull before heading into town, the taxi isn't even booked yet, why would it be, it's only the first drink of the night! And the other wondering eye of the hover is sat having a kebab at 3am in the morning whilst getting finger banged by a strange looking man who's face can only be described as Dean Drury but imagine if he wasn't English but from Zimbabwe. Yea it's a weird face to imagine isn't it. And the funny thing is he speaks not in language but in tiny sounding ship horns, you know, the horns on cruise ships, actually it might be some kind of train horn, yea... Yea sorry the more I hear it the more I'm convinced it's a regular train horn. The end

You recon I should send it to penguin publishing or have a chat with golfing umbrella?

It's the blue and white golfing umbrella before you start playing the race card. I do like the red and white one equally as much so you can't really call me a racist, the only thing that I can genuinely criticise about the red and white one is it's persistent vendetta against rain drops falling on it from obtuse angles. The blue and white umbrella could t give a flying fuck about pointless aqua related politics. That's why I prefer it. And that's the way the cock bends upward. Like a cobra. A spitting cobra! But that's another story altogether. We'll save that for another time ok. Oi wait a fucking minute! That bell is for me, not you! Ok? So sit back in your seats please until I say so.... (Waits a staggeringly long 8 minutes in silence)...... Ok now you can leave! And don't forget to bring in Thursdays projects, they should be complete by now and will be presented in front of the entire class including the class rooms nonce: Mr bad touch! (There is some whispering going on between mr bad touch and the teacher) Ok class I totally forgot to mention that MR bad touch has successfully completed his courses and has bean promoted to a new title that you should all address him by from now on: DR nonce. So as I was saying the entire class will present their projects to the entire class on Thursday accompanied by DR nonce. (DR nonce, who is panting like a dog at this point and who's tongue is flopping out of his mouth and hanging out like a Labrador trapped in a very hot car, with the windows done up and the radio playing Billy Da Kids radio one xtra mix on repeat) gives a little salute, he raises his right hand to his eyebrow, holds it there for 10 seconds before executing the final stage of the salute which is a move known as the gypsies orgasm, it's when he brings the hand that is at the brow downwards past his side then thrusts his hand into the top of his trousers and simulates a waggling penis by wiggling his little finger through the unzipped fly of the trouser. The climax of the salute is now executed and is often referred to by the arch bishop of cranberry ear ring piercing supplies ltd as the most sacred and gentle optical illusion since Paul Daniels disappearing fame and there for wealth trick of 1997. Awww 1997 was a great year for drum and bass, i remember being locked out of my garage, and the only way to gain entry to this garage was through a very small, dusty (and no doubt reeking of school dinners) & (you know that smell of food cooking when you go into a block of flats around dinner time? It always smelt of baked beans and happy thoughts didn't it) well yea the window was reeking with the pungent smells of this, but ye tried his best cometh and he who shall gain entry into the garage window shall be awarded with the sweet angelic sounds of angles hairs being cut with play dough cutting scissors, this is Devine and delightful and as the smell of a thousand school dinners wafts out of the window and into the Michael night, a faint sound can be heard, wafting into my ear drums from the the very window I thus fucked with my body through not 10 Seconds prior, to now be here, waiting anxiously, nervously, for the sound waves to wash over the tiny hairs that react to the sound waves deep within my ear holes. Vandalised golden treasures of all shapes and sizes, but one fact remains all treasures sleeping here are without doubt just small mounds of wax. Shhhhh! Don't wake them, for they have school tomorrow. And no, not in a smack my metre stick hard across your bottom and can I buy you a DR pepper. Look you can buy them from that drinks machine (supplied by: brupack drinks and machines co ltd) (google them, the directors wife was once the lady that used to do the quick typing on teletext, she used to type the words quickly as the television program spewed out its protons of red green and blue into the many waiting irises of people from across the TV loving nation. She was good at her job but was fired on her 257th job, typing the teletext for a live broadcast of the infamous German folk festival unusually named: Kenny Ken plays a flute for a change. X

THE END
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Weird isn't it? Check out the dream I had a day later: Daves Brain Talking (Part 2)

So, what are you thinking right now? Please post a comment. Whatever you are thinking now just share your thoughts, good or bad.

Cheers
Dave C