IRC-Galleria

Then the X-Files being, looking
like some kinda blue-green Jackie Chan
With Isabella Rossellini lips and breath that reeked of vanilla chig champa
Did a slow-mo Matrix decent outta the butt end of the banana vessel
and hovered above my bug-eyes,
My gaping jaw,
And my sweaty L. Ron Hubbard upper lip,
And all I could think was,
I hope Uncle Martin here doesn't notice
That I pissed my fucking pants.

So light in his way
Like an apparition,
He had me crying out,
Fuck me!
It's gotta be
the Deadhead chemistry!
The blotter got right on top of me
Got me seeing E motherfucking T!