Death Hippies

Death Hippies Here at Death Hippies we do two things, Art & Poetry. With combining the two you get a unique package At Death Hippies we do two things; Art & Poetry.

With combing the two you get a unique package. All Art & Poetry is hand made.

Me as a clown AKA Self Portrait————-( couldn’t get the hair right so I cut a lock off and used the real thing….no one te...
05/27/2026

Me as a clown
AKA Self Portrait

————-
( couldn’t get the hair right so I cut a lock off and used the real thing….no one tell my hairdresser she might get mad )

Can you escape avīci?The question hums like bad circuitry—looping, skipping, chewing its own tail.Two glitches in the sy...
04/07/2026

Can you escape avīci?

The question hums like bad circuitry—looping, skipping, chewing its own tail.

Two glitches in the system. That’s all it takes.

First—
you’re dropped into it. Doesn’t matter what it is—fire, noise, memory rot—
just pressure and no exit sign.

Now add the real toxin:
the idea it never ends.

That’s the hook. Not the pain itself, but the sentence—
forever.

Stamped across the moment like a counterfeit eternity.
Every poor bastard in the deepest pit buys it. Believes it.
Time locks. The door welds shut in the mind.

But it’s a lie. Always was.
Everything leaks. Everything breaks down. Even hell.

Second—
you’re still there, still burning, still grinding your teeth into powder—
but now imagine you knew this was the bottom.

No deeper cut. No worse version waiting backstage.

That knowledge?
A splinter of relief. Small, almost laughable—
but real.

And here’s the twist—
nobody in the worst place knows they’re at the worst place.

They’re always bracing for the next drop,
the next escalation,
the next invention of pain.

So they suffer twice—
once for what is,
once for what might be.

Two bad ideas running the show:
This never ends.
This gets worse.

Crack those—just a hairline fracture—
and something shifts.

The heat drops a degree.
The walls breathe.

It’s still hell—
but not the worst hell anymore.

And the moment it isn’t the worst—
it’s not avīci.

People want a door. A rescuer.
Some angel with keys jangling in the dark.

Maybe that’s how it looks on the way out—
a story the brain tells itself to make the transition bearable.

But the real mechanism?

It’s internal sabotage.
A rewrite of the script mid-torture.

Hell isn’t just a place—
it’s a way of reading what’s happening to you.

Change the reading—just slightly—
and the sentence starts to fall apart.

“What the f**k did they do to us!?” Said The other Tim
03/03/2026

“What the f**k did they do to us!?”
Said The other Tim

And for a moment I held the power of a god—hot wire divinity buzzing in my palms,a borrowed throne made of flickering ne...
02/07/2026

And for a moment I held the power of a god—
hot wire divinity buzzing in my palms,
a borrowed throne made of flickering nerves,
the universe coughing up its controls into my shaking hands.

If I let you in Will we start again? I just can’t believe You’d be my friend I’ll bite my tongueWaited a ton And returne...
02/07/2026

If I let you in
Will we start again?
I just can’t believe
You’d be my friend
I’ll bite my tongue
Waited a ton
And returned to one
Say all the time
Even if I—
controlled myself
I love real life.

Sometimes the only hand left to grip is your own wrist.The scale of it swells—monstrous, teeth in the fog, corridors too...
02/05/2026

Sometimes the only hand left to grip is your own wrist.
The scale of it swells—monstrous, teeth in the fog, corridors too wide for comfort.
Panic architecture.
But beneath the static and the siren weather, I can feel the current shift—
A low tide dragging the rot back out to sea.

I will come home.I hope you’ll be occupying the room.The waiting gnaws—static in the blood.I return to see if you’re rea...
02/04/2026

I will come home.
I hope you’ll be occupying the room.
The waiting gnaws—static in the blood.
I return to see if you’re real or just another residue.
I want to look at you and burn the grime off my soul.

The battery acid sloshing in your chest does the talking—corrosive, hissing truths no language can survive.
01/23/2026

The battery acid sloshing in your chest does the talking—corrosive, hissing truths no language can survive.

Address

45 Old Yellow Springs Road
Fairborn, OH
45324

Opening Hours

Tuesday 11:30am - 8pm
Wednesday 11:30am - 8pm
Thursday 11:30am - 8pm
Friday 1pm - 6pm

Telephone

+19372038275

Website

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