The Gates of Hell

Just Another Day of Flying Free

Am I dreaming this or is it for real?

I just got to Woodstock and I’m sure that I’m lost

Here’s a crowd of robot-people I’ve never met before.

Please tell me; what’s the fucking deal?


It’s a real weird party without a damn host

Look at all their phony plastic faces

Blathering around the kitchen table

With cocaine spackled nostrils to boost


Oh wow! Tell me something

Is there acid in this punch?

You look like you’re melting

Into something made for lunch.


Oh Jesus! It’s that Rasputin priest?

Crazy-eyed, howling, spitting beast?

I’m slipping and sliding off of the mat,

Into the witch bitch’s brewing vat


Now I’m falling off the damn roof

Sliding back from whence I came

Is this my dream of a cloven hoof

Where I’m exhausted, broken; spent and lame


These goddam pills are fucking killing me

They make me so dull I can’t even count

But Riding the Tiger gives me The Scare

Afraid I’m too terrified to dismount


Riding the Tiger to the Gates of Hell

Straight to my Death, pell mell!


Peter Mark Wells-Garnett © 06 February 2017



One thought on “The Gates of Hell

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