|"Hotel Hallucinogen" from The Long Hard Road Out of Hell|
|Written by Marilyn Manson|
|Released:||February 14, 1998|
|Illustrator:||P. R. Brown|
|Media type:||Print (Paperback)|
"Hotel Hallucinogen" is a poem Brian Warner wrote to Night Terrors magazine in 1988. The letters along with the poem can be found in The Long Hard Road Out of Hell.
Lying in bed contemplating,
tomorrow simply meditating,
I stare into a single empty spot,
and I notice a penetrating of eyes looking up and down and at various odd angles secretly inspecting me;
and I feel my stare tugged away from the blank screen in front of my eyes and directed at the eight empty beer cans
forming an unintentional pyramid.
And I close my eyelids to think-
how many hours have passed since I constructed such an
immaculate edifice of tin?
Or did I create it at all?
Was it the watchers?
I open my eyes and return my stare to the pyramid.
But the pyramid has now become a flaming pyre, and the face within is my own.
What is this prophecy that comes to me like a delivery boy,
cold and uncaring of its message, asking for only recognition?
But I will not fall prey to this revelation of irrelevance
I will not recognize this perversion of thought.
I will not.
I hurl my pillow at the infernal grave, as if to save my eyes
from horrific understanding, and I hear the hollow clang
of seven empty beer cans, not eight- was it fate that left one to stand?
Why does this solitary tin soldier
stand in defiance to my pillow talk of annihilation?
Then, for some odd, idiotic, most definitely enigmatic reason
the can begins to erupt in a barrage of whimpering cries.
Does he lament because his friends and family are gone?
or that he has no one with which to spawn? They were gone...
But no, that's not the reason. It is a baby's cry of his mother's treason.
The screaming fear of abandonment. And this wailing, screaming, whining causes
the dead cans to rise and I can't believe my eyes,
that this concession of beverage containers is chanting in a cacophony of shallow rebellion to my Doctrine of Annihilation that was discussed in my Summit of the Pillow
(which is now lost among the aluminium-alloy anarchists).
I am afraid, afraid of these cans, these nihilistic rebels. As the one approaches-the baby crier,
I suppose my fear now escalates, constructing a wall around my bed,
trying to shut everything out but without a doubt the crier casually climbs what I thought was a Great Wall not unlike the one in Berlin.
He begins to speak. His words flow cryptically from the hole in his head
like funeral music: deep, resonant, and sorrowful. He says to me: "you must surrender your dreams it's just.
We sit all day planning for your attendance and upon your arrival you very impolitely ignore us."
No. He gives me a pair of aphrodisiac sunglasses, and I fall asleep in the shade.I pull out a single can of beer, and as I begin to drink I hear the weeping of an abandoned infant.
Asleep in a field of hyacinth and jade. When I crawl out of my sleep
I get up, my hair is tangled in a mess of golden locks. I enter the kitchen, and go to the icebox.
- The poem can be found on page 58 and 59 in The Long Hard Road Out of Hell.