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Acting the billy (Whizz)

Updated on July 3, 2013

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This is a drug induced poem by Bill who was an Hells Angel and a very close friend of mine he called me is little Bro' Bill died in 1992 when he rode his motorcycle off a cliff, it always seemed to me that this poem was (at the time) the final chapter of his life which he wrote 2 years before his death.

(Notoriety updated by request)

Blood pumping eye's burning,
watch 'cos your mind is turning,
digging deep into the bag,
mainline the red white and blue,
No! it's not the union jack,
from whence before you had a clue,
sweating cold, muscles aching,
careful of the amount your taking,
nevermind I'm not shy,
I could tell you the reason why,
digging deep, too deep for greed,
can't seem to find my lines of speed.
pushing deep to far to see,
the five mil rush, hunting for me,
your eyes become voids of black,
I hope I've got my trolly jack!
somewhere your mind is screaming,
bring back the hammer this boy is leaving,
buzz yourself numb, speak untill your dumb,
in the morning watch the rays of the morning sun.
Radioactivity falls from the skies,
bearded men with warts in their eyes,
cannonball run, tampax express!,
no time to clean up that bloody mess,
your spirit on its cosmic bike,
leads you towards another spike,
see the face of the moon, 
looking up from a spoon,
no matter if you dig to deep,
I know the mysteries that you seek,
emptied my bag and I feel great!,
I'm riding to fast to ejeculate,
I could only speculate,
has my sanity arrived to late?
Losing power, don't forget to bail out,
the magical mystery tour is over,
as to that there is no doubt,
you fall like a brick from the sky,
no longer all those miles high,
well for six days now you've done your best,
done your drugs now take a rest,
Oh! I see an angel, timely steed,
tank full of petrol, bags full of speed,
I've gone loco, now into acid not the sulphuric kind,
but those little micros which introduces you to your psychedelic mind.
blow your skullular fuse,
don't unplug now, because you'll lose,
if you have the choice to choose,
don't refuse,
the more said the less fat to chew,
but to those not stoned this will confuse,
Laying beneath the balack oily deep,
they call the brimy foam,
it dreams but never sleeps,
heaves but never roams,
that cold restless ocean,
where those lost are never found,
hearts like ships are broken,
the screaming dead make no sound,
the sea is never lifeless,
yet it takes more than gives,
its secrets though will not confess,
and its memories not relive,
my bike rolled off the cliff at speed,
into the blackness below,
my bones will rest amongst the shadows,
of the mysteries and fall to earth as snow.


This poem was written by a close friend of mine who is no longer with us, Ive not altered or added or corrected his grammer published
"as-is" the way he penned it so please excuse any errors.
Bill Logan Ireland 1992


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  • Mark Psychedlic profile image

    Mark Hodges 6 years ago from Birmingham UK

    Thankyou I've updated the poem as requested

  • Vinaya Ghimire profile image

    Vinaya Ghimire 6 years ago from Nepal

    Your friend is really a good poet, I see emotions undulating through valleys and peaks. But I think you must attribute his name, even though he is dead