Another group of teens, enraptured
by whatever was at the heart
of their beating group.

So sure we were of what it was
that went beyond
mere ***, some drugs and few events.

Who can say how but from the depth
of boundless, sonder oceans,
We found you.

Amid all those faces, in the midst of
social coercion and amidst all this angst,
The friendships we formed
forged our personalities.

Some of us even found love
in between being lost, lonely
or ****** up; but together we

felt belonging, for the first time
in our insignificant, stupid little
lives, we felt alive, autonomous.

We had people to rely on
and substance to revive,
We might yet survive,

A bittersweet mixture of
empathy and nostalgia;
What does Skins
mean to you?

To me it meant a lot, it was about
pushing boundaries, the transitions,
Trying to live with them, rolling with it.

It was was about getting down and growing up,
Being young, feeling old and coming to terms with
one's soul; and of course, the vicissitudes
of a few foolish seventeen-year-olds.

Times, change and memory made manifest
is all that's left of us, them, those people we
call friends, they always have a place in my

heart; pass
us the skins.

Oh those cold, dreary, wet, winter days spent inside, warm and dry, looking out into the drizzle of these grey skies.
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
Lovers are patient, or so they say.
The quiet hours of our strange days
hold me close as hours pass and I look
into the clearing sky, a cold horizon falls
upon this tired denizen of the little
idiosyncrasies that life grants, such as
remembering, detailing, wondering what
atmosphere is and wandering down its path.
Follow your heart,
Consider with your head.


For awhile I thought innocence still lingered
in this old world. A fool I was,
That young word is used
against those who would
otherwise loiter on this old earth.
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
The future never arrives, plans contend
with the present just trying to survive;
We need be content, lost in sometime
and sometimes I do, I wish I was high.
I remind myself of someone,
I am so lucky to be alive
and when I realize
I am content enough to rest
for a time; sigh
What little of me did ever survive.
I wish I could offer you more
but I am selfish, I write
only for myself.

Aren't I a fool

and a gentleman
and a scholar
and a fool
once again
'cause sure
there is only a
single chance that

I'm getting out

...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.