My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
We were told it had no practical use, and thus
our language was devalued, never appreciated
for the gift it was. We learned to oppose it, thus
we assumed a generational grudge, we felt it was
forced upon us, and understood we were powerless.
Thus the pain of his fore-bearers was re-inflicted on us.

My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
As an adult I felt The Inheritance of Loss.

Time is born
manifest of change,
In space we're caught
between experiential planes;
Yet thought goes beyond
said mortal chains, to which
linearity need not pertain:
Dare you treat with thy
hollow temporal wrath?
Breathed in to replace that;
The emptiness(-in-itself)
of change as a constant
and earth's cool breath,
Skimming oceans while
belaying their depth.
Thine reflection
gone in search
of humankind,
Tranquil sunbeams
doth remain aligned.

I cannot say
of the daydreams, why they come and go
so fleetingly.

I cannot say
how often I dreamt
of Columbine or suicide.

I cannot say
how many times
I took substances
to get out of my mind.

I cannot say how many nights I fell asleep
counting
compounds like most people count sheep.

All I can say
is that I sought relief;

Been to the summit before,
Now baseline calls me forth
and I gotta ask for directions.

We might last 'til the end
of this one-night-fantasy.

For the first time in over a month
I felt something worth celebrating.

Sometimes you don't know what you're ignoring
until the sun goes.

"The gentle background roar of the unsleeping city filled the sodium-stained skies and I stood listening for the river's dark liquidic music in vain".

It struck me out of my daze,
I felt a twinge of emotion today. What now, navigator?

All happiness is borrowed.

Tell us about the consequences
of love: innocence, guilt; danger,
Vulnerability; humility, humanity.

Can we ever truly know the reactions
our actions sow? Once I was warm, now
that darkness grows cold. Once I was alone,
Now loneliness is like home. Once I tread upon
fresh snow, now I ask you to forgive us our trespasses.

Forgive me for changing.

I used to be a night owl. For a time I thought I was happy,
Love threw down, engulfed me. I'm not out of it yet, come
drown with me, in happiness and darkness, with no regrets.

I've always marveled
at the aptness inherent
in the trivial meaning-making
which coined the term 'four-twenty'.
It speaks to the nature of the stuff.

Here's to 4:20, 4/20, 4.20,
We mark it a holiday In Praise of Idleness.

Who could have known the antics
of a handful of high schoolers
in San Rafael, California
should be the origin of this celebration
of cannabis culture.

All recreational drugs should be decriminalised;
Altering one's own state of mind is no injustice,
It only reflects the psychology of a given agent.

The majority of psychoactive drugs should be legalised
barring those with extraordinary potential to injure or
to be weaponised. Distribution should be state-regulated
to ensure that monopoly of the marketplace does not occur.
Vetting substances will require a series of clinical trials
and the health of our people comes before all other concerns,
Particularly business and religion. Freedom of choice is the
individual's burden, our mandate is only to provide information.


*"Under a government which imprisons any unjustly,
the true place for a just man is also a prison."

Were you ever somewhere so vivid,
At a place so sublime,
You felt you could just reach out
and catch the smoke trails
filtering through light.

I clutch at reality
because dreams feel closer to me.

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.

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.

Personally, "when choosing between two evils,
I always like to try the one I’ve never tried before."
Variety is the spice of life, it keeps our addictions fresh.

Some people want to
pretend they're better,
As if they never indulged
a single junkiesque tendency,
Ever.

Alas!
Show me a moderate
and I'll show you the hypocrite.

Hear my words, please, judge me
but don't underestimate the
violence dismissal does.

I have always believed health should come before
any habit we discover, but what will it cost us to
legislate over the bodies of unknown others?
None have right to do injury to another,
Nor do they have the right to restrict
without discourse. Any lifestyle my
siblings subscribe to is beyond my
power. Even when they do wrong
it seems all we can do is be impartial
in informing them, and hope they see
the benefit of respecting one and other.
I try to connect. Should they refuse then
we must leave them but let it be known,
It means something; what can we do but
be there for them? Every adult has
committed
hypocrisy.


I am no different but for the acknowledgement
and vivid proclamations of being neo-moderate.

I finally got closure
at four thirteen in the morning
eighteen months later.

I feel like I can stare
into the eyes of the future

For the first time in a long while
I could feel again: And it felt magnificent;
To be feeling things once more.

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

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.

Like a steam engine eats black diamonds are my pupils.

When I'm high, in this safety, everything's fine.

I'd love something apotheogenic to get me out and unto
escapism, like some speed or *****. Halloween came
knocking again, the memories of her were so far away
it didn't matter. Give me an apotheogen over love

any day, the comedown/withdrawal is
more tolerable, I wanna be blown far far
away, adjust glutamate and GABA to keep
those fabled excitatory and inhibitory forces
bent to my pain; for which I'm responsible.
I hate having to curb my own autonomy.

I simply cannot fathom my own reason anymore
and it's conclusions are
killing me. "My mind
to your mind, my thoughts
to your thoughts". Of us three
which'll you trust? Psychonaut,
Dissonaut, or oneironaut. All this talk
of associatives, dissociates and spontaneity
has me lost. How will you find your way about?

It's like
we can't even pretend
to be normal anymore.
Can't  have anything in mind
without thinking of our next score.
Forgotten how to interact without them,
Lost all social mores.
Do we think ourselves better,
More deserving or special?

Feeling the aftershock, again;
What keeps us going?

Awake, warrior
who struggles; my dreams
spill over into consciousness,

The memory of a non-event has
me struck down with its realness,
Lists of hyponyms, this life hypnotic.

The moon forgives me for the issues
I did battle with;
The Oneiroi, Morpheus and Phantasos.

This 'wake oneironaut did not pause
to ponder at the gates
of horn and ivory.

An overcast autumn sky settled in
and fall let loose. Uncertain, lose it.
Lost,

Use it.
I had strange dreams of you last night
actually. It's been some time

since I dreamed about anyone
realmente. Bring out all the carotenoids and anthocyanins,

Bring down the foliage; America is an empire in decline.
X is the new Y.

The question of what next is put to my wandering mind.
I may meander through a couple analgesics, anxiolytics,
or tread cautiously through an odd assortment of spices.
Alas, there are still so many trips, yes, I hear the Entheon
calling, calling out my name: "Mydriasis, come home to me".

Lets reexamine this phenomenon, of entheogenesis, whyever
it should be so spiritual for some
but no longer for me

is our question: an ethnology.
Earendel; The pilgrim
sought Empathos, Psychedelos.

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.

I'd like to say she abandoned me
to the depths of sweet junkiedom,
But that place is yet to come.

I'm waiting for the fall
but I know I'll jump.
Anticipating my fun,
Planning the run.

The summer so far
is yet to come.

The following sentence is true. The previous sentence is false.
An eternity of infinite paradox.
Unequalibrium,
Unto itself in another universe.

When lies are all you have they become truth
and right now all I have is you.

Had a bump of hexen last night
and some heart-strain this morning.

I should probably worry, but I don't know
what takes precedent. To be politically incorrect,
I feel like I'm sick in the head
a lot of the time. It's who I am,
Who I had to become to survive,
To live, and even though
I'm through it
I struggle to forgive myself. I hope this is the start
of a better relationship between us, ourselves, I;

For the first time in a long while I felt
wholeness after poiesis, reconciliation, reintegration.

Some stuff happened to me this week,
More stuff will happen this weekend.

My newsfeed is full
of festival related statuses,
Proof that I live in a bubble but
it's a wonderful bubble to float away

in; the tribes gather
for Body & Soul.

We will dance and through each body
will shine a soul, every soul will move

to the beat of one body,
To the heartbeat
of our soul.

Spent the first half of my twenties depressed, just
like the first half of my teens. What a waste of life,

Unable to find love, to feel. I reckon there's potential
yet, I'd summon the will, tap the reservoir, let being
flow from my repertoire. What spurred this poem?
Spent today studying from my desk
while the sun was shining

and out the window
I could see a few kids
fooling about in fine

weather, slacklining
and chatting and enjoying
themselves, making memories. Wished I was out there
with them. Then realised they're not much younger than
I, and I thought them kids. Yesterday I was cycling home
and for a moment I thought: Soon I'll be old. Sooner than
I'd have thought it would seem. I'm 23.
Time is a construct
and age, a mindset.

College is quiet now
as dusk comes to a close
and the artificial lighting
fires up to clothe campus in
that kenopsic glow, those silent
shadows yawn as the night dawns
and darkness falls but the light above
my desk is a lone beacon. "I'm still here"

writing a thousand letters and
wishing for a thousands rests.

Woke up
still drunk,
I feel so sick
listening to Cigarettes After ***
while writing this.

These tears I held back
for a few years have
come and gone and
now I'm hungover.

I'm on fire again
and it burns like a dæmon.

I find myself reveling in this
feeling, feeling so much more
than I had before. I worry that
I'd lose myself in this
quiet inferno, or return to those
forgotten shores, that I'd bathe
in the Phlegethon or the Lethe
once more. Pyromancy and tranquillity.

“Everything has its wonders, even darkness
and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content”.

Time is a river whose waters we stand in,
Memory is the fountain which overflows.

Modern pop-politics
is rife with conflicts
over freedom of speech,
The use of language,
The shape of the narrative,
'Phrasing'.
Knowledge
is always political, language
is often contested, consider
the language of drug use:
'Addiction', 'dependence', 'substance use disorder'.
Nevertheless a compassionate idealism strives
to contrast the weighty realism of suffering.

Alas, who can say whether drug use
is a set of choices, or the pattern of habits?
Vying between these drives, I try a few milligrams
of methoxyeticyclidine. This mortal coil, it harkens Absurdia.

Incorrect views, lies and fault
all fueling further incoherencies,
Sometimes I feel as if all of thought
has become terribly misplaced, removed
from its immediate context, it loses any sense

May your word be supple with optimism
and may their cognitions follow suit.
I took a little 2C-D tonight
and prayed to move

Stripped skin,
Get your intoxication on;
Night falls after dusk dawns.

I can't justify it,
Only explain,
It's on my mind,
Choice, Change.

Less than three,
More than words,
Under the influence
and high on her.

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.

The plateaux and caverns which map
my cognitive landscape correspond
by virtue of something; something
determines the salience of beliefs
and their ability to traverse this

Immanence is spirituality derived from reality,
Transcendence is when the spirit moves beyond this reality.
Emancipation is in the life of love, and in the struggle to remain young.

To understand is to become; "We are what we pretend to be,
So we must be careful about what we pretend to be.'

Choose your fate wisely.

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've been fading,
Nothing respects itself,
I am a piece of work, don't even dare to dream
anymore but from way down
deep the memories slip
through while I sleep
and then I can lose
myself to anything
other than all the things
I could be. The things
I write now
are so different
and I'm so confused
by the changing
things, voices
said to me that
"*** is something
to be respected".

I found it hard
to reconcile this
with my past.

I hope one day
you'll forgive me.
I hope one day I can forgive myself
and forget my faults.

Memory always gets me,
I can't help myself, I fall
into its music and lose myself.

Perhaps they no longer excite me as they used to
but I am still fascinated by the compounds.
It is a life-long passion of mine to understand,
And a personal project to document psychoactivity.
I attempt to cultivate some objectivity
towards those molecules, though it may be  unrealistic
to expect this of their processes.

Consciousness is itself a process.

I fell from a sunspot
to the darkest reaches
of our coldest moon
and from there I observe
with the patience of a god
until it's time again
for me to fall.

Relativism does not usually trouble me,
That our knowledge is perspectival
and our morality, cultural;

I do not think this precludes communication,
We can still share in cause and meaning.

Physics and metaphysics can prove
the unity and continua
of matter and energy,
Of mind and body,
Of one and many,
And of opposite
properties, even being
and becoming, essence
and existence.

A relativism of the self
is something entirely else
which I find quite troubling;

Should one's experience change
uncontrollably, and of course
it will. That drastic instance

it diminishes one's choice.
That afternoon I took MPT,
An obscure base tryptamine.

Psychedelic compounds do not reveal truths and such,
They reconfigure mind to make associations potent.
I am concerned the intimate sense qualities of
this mental life are precarious, beckoned
by contextual substrate, they submit

What things I've written
over the years, I wonder
what will they remember,
What image will be left for
those I leave behind? A few
weeks ago I had an intense
realisation. What would I do
if I were terminal?
I'm still wasting time trying to
come to terms with my question
and to find some strength from it.
I remembered to breathe today
(so often I forget). I had a couple tokes
and got a little ****** but I don't miss it
as much as I thought (though I miss the times
and the humility of tripping). I avoid work like
an expert, lapping up the sun while it shines and
buying synthesizers; I did just finish
8 months of therapy.

Another realisation, or rather
the application of knowledge
I already possessed, a cause is
merely something we construct.
Supposing how and deriving why
are a useful set of fictions to abide by
yet they cease to serve when I assume
it's my fault and I should be able to make
a change or difference.
I persecute and victimise, recuse myself from
my own life, wondering whatever could rescue
the person I was
as a child.

Like glass bottles kiss the pavement,

The Kωκυτός (Cocytus) and
The Ἀχέρων (Acheron) broke
around the stone I stood upon.
A mephitic fog enveloped me as
I left, it urged me to forget myself.
I ran from the mists of oblivion and
afterwards I swore an oath on the Styx,

Reminding me to let life
get under my skin and run
through my cavernous veins,

Some people are so alive and full of life,
Some people just want to die
as the world burns
around them

because nothing is
so warm.

You know,
I could have told you

so much more
if I weren't so afraid
of the stars and those lives
that I left behind all those closed doors.

Ha, just let it come.
Let it take me up
in one grand wave.
I would; heaven, haze.

There's blood on the tracks.
I derailed a train.

Let it rend.

My mind,
My thoughts,
My paradise lost;
Only you
dearest
reader
dare I let glance in here,
The corridors of my psyché echo
with the voices of friends and family.

My voice resounds in its chamber,
My thought reverberates on these planes,

I tell myself, the only reason I live is for others
because whatever would they think if I died.
Sometimes I wish I didn't exist, which is futile
because I know I am privileged.
Oftentimes I feel I died long ago.

Now I bask in the shower, its stimulus, the hot water
pelting down my back, I feel selfless, egoless, empty,
Questioning existence, bliss, I enjoy it before I turn
down for what, to the coldest setting,  step into it