...If you wish to lose yourself to your dreams,
Lost souls asleep do drift,
With those memories that gleam,
I won't be hiding as the doses I admire
sate those craving of desire; find your game.

We got this glow in our house,
The entire crowd is out,
All the feens are
up for it,
I know you love it when it's kickin' off.
I like your reckoning
because we're buzzin' and there's nothing here to stop,
To stop this.

And everything works out, be sound,
I wear the symbols just because.

...The way we are, the way we seem,
Fill this nothing with our dreams.
The buckfast and spliff do their rounds
in the gaf where we all sit
as we get ****** and love it.

And everything works out, be sound,
Everyone can put their hoods down
here.

After giving up psychoactive substances
for a long while, I hoped I might find my
definitive baseline but all I can conclude
is a lack of one. Only in contrast
to an altered state of mind
can we really judge one to be at baseline.
I tried, I really did, sober for months at a
time. I would not eat properly when I was
studying and it would be most unpleasant,
Restless and irritable, I'd say I was 'hangry'.
This hammered home one thing, one thing
alone: as food metabolizes certain nutrients
are absorbed into the bloodstream, some of
which may permeate the blood-brain barrier.
Deficiency or excess of common compounds
contained in food can affect our consciousness,
For example, postprandial somnolence.
Lack of nutrition causes contrasting effects and an
aggravated excitation manifests in a hungry human
just as sleepy sedation occurs in the sated **** sapien.
I do wonder what effects diet has on neuroplasticity.
Vitamins and rich-foodstuffs must have some effects
on cognition. It should hence be essential in building
a nootropic stack that one keeps track of their diet so
that every calorie can be calculated and tallied. Thereby
we might more efficiently measure our natural baseline
and hence perfect a method of stacking.

Such an odd thing it is to
craft such a lonely piece
of poetry and publish it
on a website where others
might read into emotion
that seems to bleed from
those words
put down
by yours
truly. Be they fearful
or joyous or of sorrow
or intrigue, the echoes
of feeling
are detached
from the voice
that did dare cast
them, begging
for interpretation
yet no longer a part
of him, his moment of
subjective experience is
all yours
for the taking,
Encapsulating
what he saw,
Inanimate
signs drawn
on thy digital wall.
The reader does read
into your words
but the question I am
asking is what thoughts
do you suppose
belong, to who or whom?
Which pathos do the words
you read belong to? Surely
it is yours, mine has been

detached when I transcribed
those words. Do you see
what I'm getting at?
When you feel you might wonder
where it all comes from.

I ask in my poetry that
I might be healed, that
it might heal me but tell
me, who or what am I asking
this of? Words make up poetry
but they do not endow semantic
properties of themselves, sign
does not equate to significance
for the process of semiosis does
require a subject to deem,
To bestow meaning, to gleam.
It is my intention that this
self-expression should be as
therapy is but I see not the
means or rather its mechanism
we call catharsis but claim no
more, nothing but a few sounds

and some long gone echoes
that remind us of things
I knew we'd never forget
but I never thought it'd
be this difficult
to remember what-
ever beauty was.

Would you mention those foreign times
in the quiet of night
or some other type of cool nocturnal silence?


I am asking you

We'll sing of the sesh, our heads' song,
With cheering rousing bants,
As 'round a blazing joint we throng,
The starry heavens clothe us,
Impatient for thy coming line,
To shtall off tha morning's ****-light,
Hear our tchoons pulse thru the night,
We'll chant a sesh-head's song.

Sesh-heads are we
whose lives are pledged to sessioning,
People have come
to us from places all over,
Sworn to rave,
No more our ancient seshland
shall shelter the anti-craic of the state.
Tonight we house the gap of danger,
In session's cause, comedown or ****,
Bass cannon's roar as we dance,
We'll chant a session's song.

Let me tell you what once was
and what has come to pass,
We skip over the names
of chemicals ingested
otherwise we might be here
forever, boring you
with the finer details of our sorcery.

Some psychoactives were ingested
and they had great effect, but
as that garrulous fiend
lost himself to/in guileless babbling
about some concomitant companion,
A friend, an event, special he felt
in the company of a human
who made him feel like an adult,
Selfish octopus
what you must think of me, but
why should I care/does it matter?
I do because it's what humans do
and there's some human left in me
yet (hopefully.) Tell me what occurred
on the banks of the Lethe?
Don't answer that.
"Not what but why" was actually asked.
My, this has been
a most meandering
experience said the
author who promptly
resigned and fell asleep
doubtful how anyone who
actually bothered to read this
most prosaic mess should have
managed. It does have a fine name
if nothing else, and undertones
of narcissism always help in
the casting of a fair spell.

Floating down this
preserved memory,
Way down on
the banks of
the Lethe
where
memory
dares not
ordinarily
stir (up whatever
does occur), therein

we find ourselves asking
why

Spring to Summer;
Degrees went by
as he remembered
how we lay there
some hazy days
ago, down by the Shire
in a place in the Wesht
near a canal,
A cathedral's
oxygenated copper dome
poking out, rising above
trees taller than streetlamps.

Winter from Fall;
Degrees went by
in memoriam of
a park, occluded by mist
breathed in to form the fog of
Aetherius, patron of our territory.

Other gods fought for these lands
we'd otherwise have forgotten
but for they were sacred

and us, abandoned.


Degrees went by
Degrees of memory/days,
Degrees of amnesia/haze;

Contemporary democracy is a flawed system we cling to
because we've nothing better with which to build consensus.
Perhaps the resurfacing of fascism was heralded by excessive
neoliberal efforts towards political correctness and as it became
too much to behold the people began to throw stones. Or perhaps
it is due to inescapable socio-economic concerns. Ultimately I think
we have to ask three things:
1. Is libertarianism right, (surely its left but) is it fair, cui bono?
2. Is democracy good, is it viable, is the oligarchic disguised?
3. Is representation really all we can offer, does it work or
does pretense to transparency conspire to fail politics?

All I can conclude is that we don't know how to govern ourselves because we don't know ourselves very well.