Acceptable self-harm is drinking a pack of off-brand biscuits
through several cups of tea
every other evening.
Acceptable self-harm is binge-watching an entire season
of whatever's hooked it's tentacles into
the reward pathways of your brain
in one sitting.
Acceptable self-harm is buying into vicious ideology
because it makes you feel deep connection while
othering.

25 years old, Nothing Owed.
Could get out of bed
or just do some more 4-**.

A day for the world.

Ate some moxy,
Can feel it.
Want

nothing more
than to make music.

A swan cruised down Lough Atalia
as midnight struck this brisk November
a second followed in its wake.
Sparse weeknight traffic sews by,
Woven into the quiet breeze of a new Wednesday.

I listen to a few tunes as I cycled down The Line,
Pausing to note this moment
and gaze upon G-twn.

My ventures into substance, be they
pharmacological or pharmacopathic, have me;
And I, ever-curious as to their nature, sought counsel
in psychoactives as if they were an extension of myself, being.

Were they, those instances, representative of a coupling
that bears upon my cognitive system, or was I engaging
in pathetic fallacy on an altered scale.

What's that intuition
some of us have come across in our travels, that
each mode of hallucination
shines a new light on abiogenesis, and on the end

There's a moment in the adult
as it's grown, where the wonder
that was felt as a child
has been supplanted
by a routine knowledge of the world;
World as structure
rather than as process.
When curiosity is replaced

with expectations and patterns
for us to retrace
into the tender night.
"Literary or scientific, liberal or specialist,

All our education is predominantly verbal
and therefore fails to accomplish
what it is supposed to do.

Instead of transforming children
into fully developed adults,
It turns out students of the natural sciences
who are completely unaware of Nature as the primary fact of experience,
It inflicts upon the world  students of the humanities who know nothing of humanity,
Their own or anyone else's."

What a strange Halloween week,
I am underwhelmed, I did not
overindulge, despite the
list of things I ate:
MPA, hash oil, 2C-B,
4-**-MiPT, escitalopram.
My head is not sated, I can feel
a sensation of unanswered cravings;

I query the belief
that I do not use drugs
for the traditional reasons.
This belief entails crafting a morality
and there is nothing as perilous; good, bad
and evil. I hold that psychoactive substances are
inanimate. I'm not sure I can distinguish my use from
another, but now I'll write otherwise.
I realized in the shower
my reason for continuing down
this path. Clearly no longer recreational
or spiritual (even though its origins are there).
Neither therapeutic notions nor addictive patterns motivate
my wanderings anymore. No,
My interpretation seeks to push the limits
of what I feel as human.
I am willing to test the conditions
of our humanity.
I sought the threshold
at which we are animal, and
in this willingness to lose my mind
I'd found something
Else;

"i'm ok" in the lower case
conjures such an image
of intensely fragile
emotional states.

Sometimes I feel so stricken by choice,
Yet constrained by an apathy
I wasn't born with.

In the quiet I keep watch under all the stars.

As they cradled each other
Rue and Jules turned the world 'round their scars.

Frustrated at myself;

But feel I need say more
than that
about these serotonin fumes
I give off.

Ye Ye - Daphni,
Heard it before
hon'. Where's the sweetness at,
Where've you gone?

As one ages it can become difficult to see
that beauty in the world, I try
to remember to look for it,
To enjoy simple aesthesis when possible.

Listening to Ocean Eyes
and I feel older inside.

Realized how alone I am, wondered
whether I haven't been clean for too long.
I keep forgetting
I don't have a substance use disorder, I keep forgetting
I'm not currently a drug user.
I gave up that life, and
can't remember why.

Take enough benzodiazepine and you can time travel,
But only forward;
Was never really too bothered with benzos, 'cause I just
wanna go back

I am somewhat disappointed
in myself and those old habits.

I did not intend
to drink or smoke
or take stimulants
last night. Alas, my former zealotry took me by surprise.

I was happy enough just being around my people,
Talking with them. There was no need for me
to be as concerned,
To champion
the cause.

This I regret
for I was far too drunk
when the 4-Fluoroethylphenidate
came out, and its nuances were lost on me.

The human cannot return to nature,
There is too much beyond us which we cannot return.
Signs, tools, and above all, promise.
To promise is to prescribe a duty, and offer one's reputation
as collateral. It implies trust, it assures
that one will act in accordance with their word.

What should make this anything other
than an elaborate set of signs
used to measure
the value of other humans?
An intricate social tool, as it were.

In promise there is a prescription of duty
towards another, and an invocation of hope.
In promise there is subordination, implied trust.

The thought struck me,
How long it has been.
How long it seems,
But I wonder

whether it's that
you learn to live with a cleft heart
or that you replace a part here and there
until it no longer resembles whatever you once felt.

Memory's at the chasm. Guilt,
I wish I'd been better. Say I look better. D'I feel better?
What to do other than write ode to GABA, one for the Irish.

Earlier I took a low dose of phenibut,
Three-quarters of a gram,
Perhaps equivalent to a pint.
Mild result, tired now, my eyelids
are heavy with the experience of it all.

I wondered a lie, it is my head.

The culture within me seeks solace in
substance, and I wonder
why my mental health won't stay wholesome.

It is hard to hear that genuine, innocent voice
anymore, to hear it put words to my mouth.
My head pounds with nervous aftershock.

I was quite manic today. It is clear to me
I was not in control of myself

and would do well to seek help, or administer something
that'd reconcile with myself with
these sways.

Hatred. My heart burns with it.
How can I forgive myself?
Part of me
wants to watch it burn.
Is it okay to write that?
To admit to living
in a world of one's own

sins and torment;
A survival technique:
To look toward a dark future
spent living in the past.

I'll not shy away from
reasoned discourse, nor
should I go willingly into my pain
thinking it'll save me.

The next day I took a single milligram
of 4-chlorodiazepam.

Sometimes I'm afraid
if I were to be gentle with myself
I would break.

I write down this thought
I had in the shower, and after sitting with it
realize I'm not broken.

Old friends, forgotten habits.
Last night I drank some things:
100μg of flubromazolam,
100mg of tianeptine,
And cream soda, among other things.

I quest, I'd venture, that sense of wonder.
I'll find answers.
Seeking to cultivate my contentedness; that existential

Part of me is gone, stolen
from my psyché. I lost my tribe

and with them, my raison d'etre.
I lost my anthem
when I settled for normalcy,
When I stopped believing I was special.
When I ceased questing for ventures curious, and

considered sated my cravings most fiendish.
I lost my anthem
when my writing diminished,
When my exercise withered,
When my drug use slipped
and my demons pleaded.
I lost my anthem

and it's left me
plenty of memories
I can no longer pronounce
without a tone of condescension.
Those misarticulated metaphysics have
timbres' as junkiesque.
That'll suffice for a sentence in G-twn. Heaven.

The things that tumble out
may ring true, but
in uttering them become a reality.
"Whatever my reasons,
Were they strange or I the stranger, I feel"

how my mind misled me
and misplaced my will
to discern my desire.

I hear the nightlife scream its thrill, raucous calls
of unadulterated glee.
Drunken voices resolve, then pass, fading
into their night.
I realize love lost for a city I dared lay a claim to.

Keep me awake and I'll finish this poem. I'm into some
serious sleep-debt. One problem
is being too willing to see the other side.

Despite misgivings that've run amok, I trust my ethics enough
to study the dark arts.

I catch myself
daydreaming;
I wish I would
just be.

I'm hungry,
Unfulfilled, I ache with potential;
And (stand) still
I catch myself

Strange world, my mad head cooled
after a breath of jungle spice;
That acrid smoke, I
feel better
for having inhaled.
Less than 20mg of DMT
reminded me it's OK to relax;
I forgot that it's good for me,
That it can help with my mental health
and thus my productivity. I went without
for too long, tortured myself out of curiosity.
Today I renewed my love for psychedelics,
Exchanging respects with them.
It remembers who I am

I notice that the motions of my mind
are changed
by practices I engage in on my devices.
I observe alterations
in the fabric of my reward system, I feel
movement in reward pathways
that trace back to application content and

all the screen-time. I feel plastic, at a loss

for time, these patterns and tasks. One

could use the help, nevertheless on.

Among the company of heroes

in a city of villains.

Being there, immersed
in that strange world, living it
meant something for a time, albeit brief.
Now ask ourselves
what's left?
Vonnegut said "We are what we pretend to be,
So we must be careful about what we pretend to be",
But if you're too careful you'll just become your anxiety.
Whatever of pretense, we question
what is spent.

Part of me would like to go back
and delete
all the pain
and suffering
hastily transcribed
by someone looking
for that real betterness;
But I'll polish it
and let it sit here. Shh,

It's OK
to be in the past
for a time but, what's past
should remain; makes me feel unsafe
when things creep into the present's domain,
Things to make me heave and sigh.
I rest on this chair, in the glib darkness, and
hear the city breeze
of automobiles' afar off accelerations
become those comforting rustles
that carry through the wind.

Are you still there?
A spacious question
asked of the unoccupants.
Empty was the domicile,
No answer, response.
The uninhabitants
had to ante up.
Wasted, deserted,
Kenopsic borderlands.
This is what's left. It is so;
Vast, immense. What
temporal question

Walking through The Square
I could hear anger and anguish
spill out of two drunk quarrelers.

They look about my age.

They're facing each other.
Instinctively I fear for her.
I can make out their words
and that's all it takes.
In an instant I realize
their unfathomable pain.

"I'll never see my child again" she wailed
and he screamed "it doesn't matter",
Their past clinging to them;
Couldn't look away.

"He was so small", she despaired and collapsed
while he stormed off but only managed about 10 paces
before he too threw himself onto the ground and lay crumpled

at the foot of the dry fountain-bed.

"On my temple in Delphi there are two words written:
Know Thyself.

It's good advice,
Know yourself. You are worth knowing.
Examine your life. The unexamined life is not worth living.

Be aware that people have equal significance.
Give them the space to make their own choices, and let their choices count as you want them to let your choices count.

Remember that excellence has no stopping point and keep on pursuing it. Make art that can last and that says something nobody else can say. Live the best life you can, and become the best self you can.

You cannot know which of your actions is the lever that will move worlds. Not even Necessity knows all ends. Know yourself."

And suddenly, for just a second, I saw it
again, beauty in the world, in the sky,
After dusk. Where've you been?
I've been singing, and it's
come back to me;
Kindness begets calm, and
right now I feel like I'm worth it.
Everyone deserves peace. The summer's

approaching, and there's nothing to fear.
I see the glow of streetlights appear as
the last hues of twilight begin to fade
and uncover the stars. It is good to

feel so human
at this point in time,
To feel the return of my
soul into my mind, psyché

The phrase "a broken home"
attaches much value to
the nuclear family.
As if to ask
whether the people
themselves

aren't fractured
in some way. Were it
intrinsic, we wouldn't last.

The phrase
is indicative
of a shame I'd
reject, but

There's such a strangeness about meaning, knowing
it may be of no significance to others
but is the world to you.
Can anyone else feel this, can one communicate, what's
stopping me from feeling you?
Am I locked-out of your experience, or locked-into mine?
The soul-ache to escape, serotonin pangs.

Longing for connection, the body wanes and the town's fallen.
Hopes and dreams, aspirations,
Wonder without reason. I sit here,
Looking over the river, upon the university campus
where I spent many days studying, and a commercial boatclub
where I spent many nights raving. I sit on this rock
where I read The Tempest and write for myself
and listen to compositions of my own hand.
I think how selfish I am, experiencing
A World Alone (- Lorde). I am
sorry not sorry. I swear
I haven't forgotten
what it means
to be human.

The rain and the wind, ragged and wet weather
unlike any other out in the forlorn West.
We go at it all the same, buzzin'
in the soaking precipitation.

That night I saw a man realize he'd spent years of his life
wasting around G-town, and'd naught to show for it.
The lure of endless craic and perpetual sessioning
had ensnared him and he'd lost himself to this place,
Became a character in the local scene that recited his lines
and acted out his part.
What was all that he felt?
Were it at the behest of his
town, the jester himself
knows this place well.
Artsy-types, buskers,
Hippies and jugglers,
Crusties, line-backers
Shams and knackers,
Sesh-heads all.
Passing students, wanna-be teens.
All pretending they're larger than life
or whatever, in this way they almost are
but in-keeping their company you'd easily

become a fixture of the town. Ah,
You can't blame the city for its nature,
Though you may certainly curse it some.
After all you're the changeable one, being.

Cut my wisdom teeth on a bass synthesizer.
As the day of our green patron saint approaches
I'm indifferent to thoughts of debauchery that once
invigorated my soul. This town has changed and I've
lost faith in the session, these memories are so pointless,
I'm somewhat manic, surely a result of excessive stability.
I think this is my prime reason to get out, but
my love for G-twn remains; part of my soul'll be always buzzin'

The backspace on my keyboard has been broken
for well over a year.
I drank beer, *** and orange.
Smoked hash spliff. Felt better about this wrongness

that surrounds my view of the world.
Desperately in need of some chemical respite,
Serious consideration given to antidepressants as
a way out of this and into fitness, all the viable options.

Ah, perhaps some poems should leave well alone, but
this is the truth
so bear with it. I don't feel like I choose to see what I see,
Nor think these gossamer thoughts.

'Tis fierce mild out, said he to himself
one mild February night, breeze so bare
and an atmosphere to match that cool air.

At a later date he went east, out on the town for a night
in the Big Smoke, the next day thought to himself:
What pleasant languishing the coke had left

in thee, though tenderized the 'auld cardiac muscle some.
Awoke another day, some time after noon, and thought of how
he'd dreamed again during those couple months with her. Now those

nightly travels were less remarkable, an immemorable mush
full of fading oneiric sensations, a hazy sleep, it'd returned to
that somnolent jumble; the vitality, gone. This clue, to notice it

has been missing from thine mental life. It is a strange tiding
when one realizes how awry things've become; oh yes, dear
retrospect will you ever succumb to a more prudent future?

I know too well the drugs which captivate
my soul
and have held me spellbound since youth.

Aye, there are ways to regain what's lost, to
recover what's missing, but interactions in the world
should be the cause of dreams, their form and content.

It worries me some to suppose other than that. If it was
some other world or part of the soul that imbued our dreams
with meaning, that would imply something has cut me off, or out.

Even were this not the case I think the implication still stands.
I mean to say that the presence of those who are known to us
in waking life may carry over in dreaming, forms transmuted

and content apparent only as metaphor. I should think there are
too many coincidental symbols, ah belay that,
I shan't dismiss post-hoc interpretation. All I wish to say is that

the presence of persons weighs heavy
on the scales of horn and ivory.
As we get older it's too easy to become

The epicurean experiment is over.
The absence of pain is not happiness.
The consumption of ******* need not be
inherently bad, but for the present state of affairs.
If the condition brought about by a chemical could be
held in mind, its mindset prolonged, then redosing need not
be so gratuitous. Indeed, pharmacological determinism is false.

Indeed, all one wants is the good
(and would presume to better).

Indeed, there are faults in theories
and flaws in character.

Indeed, we are here
and by virtue of our similarities

He had sunk into mediocrity, the inward facing tone of his poetry over the more recent years was proof enough to convince him there was nothing great about his purported foray into post-modernism.

Lilith craved Ficus carica,
Mr. Robot brandished
a branch of Olea europaea.
Would either care to comment
on the state of the world? Their intentions
clear. Is it that "all the world's a stage"
or that all we are is a mirror?
Should it matter that I feel the motions of my mind, and
long to escape without the aid of their counterparts.
Subtle contrarian. Every reaction has its equal
in emotion; each moment has its fulcrum.

Been awhile since I felt reason to type at 5am.
I've been so quiet this past month. December left me
enough to remember 2018 by. We're not out of winter yet

I feel lighter, a warmth I'd almost forgotten kindles in me.
She said something that struck me.
"Ya there literally is so many layers to me. As cliche as tht sounds... and its like sumtimes just unravelling all at once so can get soooooo confusing.
Or sumtimes i am so focused one idea
I am determined just a complete organised chaos hahaaha"

She speaks with such freedom
and soul that burn brightly
to the sound of techno.

I had such a dream, it ****** me up.
My first girlfriend, the vitamins; I came
to so confused. I quit my job the next day.
I've hated myself, but no longer. "The world
was on fire". I wonder what's left

since love was quenched.
In the spirit of Four Tet, I believe
There Is Love In You yet.

Mydriasis took stock of a reflection, an outline of a body

drawn by the dim light of an LED bulb
fading through the visible spectrum.
The outline of that body
is given false relief

in an oval mirror, positioned above a small desk.
The room's in the partial darkness, and in the half-light
a pair of eyes wander. Their saccades spill
over the figure’s torso. The darting movement
of both pupils take it in, lingering
on a pair of long but simple chains that hang from the neck.

Each chain-link is different in length,
The only distinguishing features on an otherwise plain male chest.
The longer one looks as if it was onyx
in color, but most of its coat has been worn away
to reveal burnished copper. The silver
chain is slightly shorter, and less worn, a tiny spoon
has been attached to the clasp at its end.

The shifting light of the room drifts out a half-open door
to the left of the mirror. Mydriasis’ eyes meet their reflection.
As they take stock of the impression  they began to wander.
The gravity of those  black holes in the mirror cast a moment
endless as sky. These eyes bask in the half-light, maintaining
their stance but wandering in mind, hallucinating
accent and relief unto the image
until color and texture balloon.
This game they play is but a leisurely swim
in the everflowing Lethe.
They do not shy away

from depth, emptiness. What lies beyond
at that moment implores them to be patient.
Pupils twinkle in the darkness, glittering with praise
for something even darker; yes, they bask in this.
A moment so courteously extended between
the drives of this individual. In that moment
an accord is met. Purpose, given, consciousness
extends by virtue of its immanence; it comes to be
across time, a living memory.

It may not be
who I wanted to be
but so often I find it is who I am, so I take what comfort I can
from my identity. Still, I feel shame for being this way.

I believe I can transform my darkness it into a force
for good but I'm not ignorant to my own corruption;
I believe I can focus my intensity to achieve anything
but I'm aware when persons find this disconcerting.
I believe this is why I burn so slowly, and let shame
destroy me. I don't want to hurt another, so I look
inward
and chain myself,
I cast off my being,
Shave each layer off.

It's a fair exchange, time for experience, but
I feel robbed. What's been stolen from me, that
sense of wonder. My curiosity's been left to slumber.
Has knowledge failed me, or I it? What of discovery, or
the ventures my older poems did venerate? Where is that
mindset gone, where'd it go roving, with whom'd it abscond?
Perhaps I should settle for the present;
I hear the brief patter of rain, interspersed
beyond the soundscape of my own ambient
marmalade. All I care for is music.
Music is the antidote.

Twenty-four
orbits of this earth.
Now I notice my energy
dwindling while the wanderers
carry on, heedless of my
human struggles;
Of survival.
I hear that briefest patter of rain.

Some people get all dressed up
when they go out.
We don't have to try too hard,
It's who we are, but
we have our fun all the same.
Desperation always
is in fashion. For a while there
I thought I could change.

A man of strange substance
that knows not why he does
this to himself. The chance
that he might be someone
who'd experience something,
But without the drugs that
give him a grand illusion
of power
over chance,
Over a bundle
of drives that rule
fate. "Whoever fights
monsters should see to it
that in the process he does not
become a monster. And if you gaze
long enough into an abyss, the abyss
will gaze back into you." Grand so.

Some hexen and a few cans? Grand.
Some 2C-T-2 and DCK? Grand.
Some more 4-MEC? Grand.
What'll we have today?
Will it make any difference?
Who is this person at the reigns?
This alchemical dabbling, these habits
of mine, there's something right about this
curiosity
among all the despair and wrong decisions
that surround it. Of course, I've made mistakes
in the past, let slip this and that;
My composure recovered
but my self-esteem's
been beat down
by others, and that's
why I first turned to these
things. It is a pity drug use is
not so well-respected as a practice
when it extends beyond the jurisdiction
of medicine, there's more to psychoactivity
than poison, remedy or scapegoat.

This passion of mine spans from sacred to academic.
Please extend me the courtesy of recognizing intellect.
We are, all of us, thinking beings. I am merely trying to make my thoughts more apparent, to clarify this thing we term experience.
We are the interesting animal, creatures of language and game.
Where does all this fit in, those things we may choose to do?
That's all I ask. That's why I do this. I wonder where it is
I am headed, but the only thing I spend too much time
questioning are my instincts. I must trust in myself,
How else does one succeed?

These refractions of character
are a tiresome habit, but necessary.

The Oran rain patters against my home,
The wind breaks upon the house
and I lie in bed
feeling comfortably alone.

I need to sort my life, move on from this town,
Need to stop being on my own, want to give myself
away, want someone to take me
far away. I'd willingly lose myself
to another, a city or a person; the other,
Me. Is this narcissism? Can I just be happy,
Or must I change so radically
in order to escape?

The real work must begin,
This aimlessness must end before it becomes
ceaseless in its expansion. All I have are words
and melodies, moments in experience that will be lost to all
time. I might as well craft an album, and nod to all I've felt
and've left to feel. Music keeps me alive, 's the only thing
sometimes.

Why are my feelings so complicated?
Things should be simple.
Did I relapse last weekend?
I can feel the hunger, the drive
to consume substance; apotheogenesis.

4ll these wor1ds inside 3ach of u5,
4ll just wyrds in 7ime.

Ate some Syrian Rue after breakfast,
Peganum Harmala, its alkaloids act as
reversible inhibitors of monoamine oxidase [RIMA].
The principle active alkaloid is Harmine.
RIMAs prevent the break-down of
some neurotransmitters.
Consequently it interacts
with most drugs, and even foodstuffs rich in tryptophan.
An informed and responsible user
can safely manage their diet to minimize adverse effects.
I must say I enjoyed that day I could feel,
Though the day after had quite a few moments of doubt.
What's more, it was interesting to get higher
as a result of simply having a meal.
I am happy with the experience.

Threw a couple benzos in the mix yesterday
which was very unlike me, but it paid off;
The time was spent at a good friend's house.

Started with clonazolam (not to be confused
with clonazpam), this designer benzodiazepine
is as potent as xanax but with a longer duration
of between 6-10 hours. Abuse often leads to blackout
states and it has been dis-affectionately nicknamed 'clam'.
Being cautious of any compound active in the microgram range,
At first I ingested only a fifth of the illicitly pressed tablet.
It had light but noticeable effects which cooled my mind enough
that I consider dipping my toe in my preferred class of compound.

Perhaps an hour later I insuffulated 2mg
of 2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylthioamphetamine,
Better known as DOT, the first of the Aleph series.
This produced a bare threshold of effects, including
minor thought acceleration (to counter the benzo)
and a hint of warmth throughout my body.
I left it at that. It is a good sign for future inquiries
into that rather mysterious series of compound.

Later still, I wrestled with whether or not to try another benzo
which was gifted to me when I mentioned I had never tried it.
Chlordiazepoxide, in this case going by the brand name Librium.
Prescribed to treat anxiety, insomnia and symptoms of withdrawal,
It has a half-life of between 5-30 hours. However,
An active metabolite of chlordiazepoxide (and also diazepam)
is nordiazepam - active for between 36-200 hours.
Can you imagine taking a drug which lasts eight days?
Hence my hesitation.
After some consideration (fifteen minutes of quick research
followed by fifty minutes of feeling the psychological weight
of the pill on my palm), I ingested a small black and blue capsule
marked "LIB 10mg". Of course, such a small amount
would not be in my system for so long.

Shortly thereafter two of us went down to the shop.
I floated through the isles, settling upon a carton of apple juice.
A slight but nonetheless uncommon feeling of happiness struck
me during our walk back. The fresh air was good, I could feel
the vague comfort of distinct experience. Perhaps this reads
as if it's nonsense, and I know it, but a sensation reached
out to me from my past, recognition of the pattern of being
I was currently pursuing, a mindset.
I suggested we split a small dose
of an exotic trip I'd been saving.

It's duration was appropriately
short, 3-6 hours. We ate 7.5mg
of 5-Methoxy-N,N-diallyltryptamine,
Commonly referred to as 5-MeO-DALT.
I believe I have had the honor of bestowing
upon it the colloquial name Foxtrot.

It probably did not effect us much,
I certainly could barely distinguish its
effects in the mix. Silly of me really, I don't
even like benzos, I had just been in a bad place
recently; this session reminded me I did not need
to escape anything, everything I once loved
is within reach. I'd give some credit for that insight
to the influence of psychedelics, despite the
quieting presence of axiolytics. Ultimately,
Insight is not a product of any drug. It stems
from experience, and no substance can dispute
the immutable metaphysics of mind,
Whatever its form may be.

There's pain in me still
and I don't know how to
feel it. I don't blame anyone
except myself. I tend towards
sadness over anger, default to it.
Every morning I wake up and feel
my own judgement swallow me,
Only to spit out my dreams
and tantalize me with
undischarged tears.