I feel fated to remain seventeen for the rest of my days,
And they be memorable daze.

Meaning in Perpetual Threads
Definition in Purposeful Thoughts.

Each of us is holding back the heavens
and thus we stand accomplished.

The things of earth will grow strangely dim
as we account for those times.

I'd forgotten the plural of anecdote is not 'data';
There are things for which no quantity will satisfy.

Trying to Get to Heaven
Before They Close the Door.

To make it, focus on an intention
and follow it as your guide star.

An infinitesimal, subtle feeling grows
as the beats change. Once again, dance
with some grace. Let the sway show just how
transitions attack and fade. By the stars, what

a heavenly place! I say it and shiver, half-scoffing,
Wholly wondering, whether I should wander onto
another plane. The other half always did reside in Hades.
In the half-light I lied, hear my chthonic falsity and decide.


I am not afraid but, there is so much work to do
and I don't think I can do it without you.

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

Humans few and far between,
I love you with all my heart
but when the poet's over
turn out the lights; like
all the things I've felt
throughout my life,
"This feels right".
The good, the bad, and
the meaningless. The time
spent wasted, happy; what's
the point of trying to recapture
this? This was written just to say
Bye and Stuff, 'cause it's not for the

last time that I gotta lay down next to
a ****** Bed Track; and I wish that
***** could breathe for me

but I feel there's something for me now
so don't mourn for your boy Mydriasis.

He found a truth, now she's on the path
to find his peace. Call me Aletheia
because I want to be truthful.

The rain is so frail, beatific
moment, dim precipitate on my bare arms
and wondrous half-light washing across the city sky.

Do I trust myself with CNS depressants, or am I just deterred
by the thought of those more eclectic GABA aftereffects.

Be yourself? *******, I'll be whoever I want to.
Be original? *******, I'll copy whatever I care to.
Be cool? *******, I'm so hot I burn fools on contact.

I've been quiet of late, had nothing to say;
I drowned in lethargy and was washed away.
My days turned to dust
and my months to ash.
This half-life scorned me
as my soul near collapsed.

I swear to you
I have never felt apathy so deeply before.
(Haha-haha-haha, oh lord!)
Was that contradiction a survivor
and the hypocrite my saviour?
I dare not hope any-more.

Cò̝̰m̱̲i̦̮͠n̻̼̮͈̰g̶̤̞̖̝͓͇ d̪o͎̣̞̟̜̲wn̷͖͕̠̭̟͉̣, after
your teenage years
you think you're gonna die young,
Well here I am, s̩͉͓̟̟͓̗i̶̮͉̜̯t͔t̥͉̹ͅͅi̦̮͠n̻̼̮͈̰g̶̤̞̖̝͓͇ h̷̬̗̥̩̝̫e̘̩̩͚͇̙͘r͓͖ͅe̵̞̳, w̦r̖̝͖͍̣i͙̹̳͖̤͓̘t͖̲̠̲͙i̥͍̠̪͞n̻̞̕g̴͈̺̯̞͚̭̼
t̮̬̲̫ḫ̻͓͕̱͕ͅi͈͠n̫̗̗̗̲g­̲̝͕̪̪̰s̩͉͓̟̟͓̗ that don't make any sense.
T̹̜̥̠͍h̷̬̗̥̩̝̫e̘̩̩͚͇̙͘r͓͖ͅe̵̞̳ ̙̱͡i͍̥͍̱̭̟s̵ ̸͕̩ n͍̟͉̜ò̝̰t̮̬̲̫ḫ̻͓͕̱͕ͅi͈͠n̫̗̗̗̲g̲̝͕̪̪̰, n͍̟͉̜ò̝̰ o̤̠̼͙͎̺n̷͖͕̠̭̟͉̣e̢͉̻̯̦͖̟ i̖̻s͝ cò̝̰m̱̲i̦̮͠n̻̼̮͈̰g̶̤̞̖̝͓͇.

We had to grow up and pretend
like there aren't any of these problems
burning onto one's soul, eating at us

like fire around a coal;
Judgement and disbelief
are among my greatest fears

yet are the subtle expressions
of this fickle palimpsest, composite
of our longest years.

Thought I was creating something,
Detailing feeling and knowing,
Dedicating experience and growing,
Thinking of something better than me
in the hopes that it would better me.
I am not ashamed of myself-consoling poetry,
I had to try, that's all I ever meant by it.
If anyone should notice, and gods forbid they do
actually read this, then I'll admit it: I am Mydriasis

Eventually the festivities drew to a close,
"Back to reality" we jested yet 'twas no joke.

I remember thinking this all could have been a dream,
Oh sweet, lost memories that we struggle to gleam.

Body & Soul, mind or psyche.

I became unsure as to the correlation of knowledge with meaning,
And happiness.

“There’s always a lighthouse.
There’s always a man.
There’s always a city.”
There’s always a question,
There’s ever a quest,
There may be an answer
but never an end.

Experience everything,
Be anything,
Forget nothing,
Become something;
This is existence.
There’s no turning back.
The unexamined life is not worth living,

But the over-examined life loses meaning.
All we can do is grant each other equal significance

Put your cloak on,
Pull your hood up,
Get your cypher out.
The internet is become
a more tangled place, the
world wide web spun out
of users and systems, of old
protocols and new connections,
of simulacra to animate the nexus

with multifarious intentions.
Quantum Artificial Intelligence
approaches, and we are

less cybran now, more dopaminergic
automata, surrounded by robotics.

Eyestrain my dull mind
as I wander through the village.
Wandering through memory, listening.

I pause and feel gravity, feeling it
as a loss of control
and for a moment this thrills me
as I lean back
and fall into it; I return home

and fall asleep, to dream
of simple human connection.

I enter a house, brought there by
a friend to make new acquaintances.
The ambience is party-like, lighthearted
but quite excitable. A mash of bootleg pop
pipes out the walls, I recall
elements of Diving Faces by Liquid Child
interspersed with strange rāga leads.
My friend and I relax, lying side-by-side
as if resting. Tentative kiss, and I kiss back
before waking to that

fading sensation. I lay there for a time, hoping
this vivid hypnopompia
would just go on.

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;

Apotheogen
n.
A psychoactive substance that induces alterations in perception, mood, consciousness, cognition, or behavior for the purposes of subduing personal drives in a profane context.
The functional opposite of an entheogen.

From the root, apotheo- (apotheosis, to deify) and the suffix -gen (genesis, to come into being).

Apotheogenesis can be understood as
the act of concealing or obscuring the self
through the singular focus of one's will onto a pattern or substance,
Raising it to a god-like position within their ideology.
The individual is thus subsumed by it, distracting from
dissonant parts of the self which are incongruent
with the whole. Such parts become hidden
though their drives remain in conflict.

Not for lack of knowledge, I languish.
Not for lack of wisdom, I'd indulge.
Would lusting after apotheogens
make it any less anything? I can

administer those transhuman
Cybran stimulants, posthuman
Aeon dissociatives, and atavistic
psychedelic trips, but my longing
for harmony and synchrony might
bid alchemy and witchcraft farewell.
Ambivalence, comfort, a perfect static
in which the Anemoi are bottled, swirling.

This auld warlock does continue to ponder
the mysteries of quantum metaphysics:
The study of the smallest constituents
identifiable in an act of cognition,
An effort to identify the process
of quality and likeness.

Back from the county town, my past lives
collide with my present course, I'm tinged
with nostalgia, memories of my upbringing;
Coming-of-age, young adulthood, in-between.

I can't shake the place I was born and reared,
A town so submetropolitan.

Back from the capitol region, upstate,
I ponder an alternate life that never was
under the flag of the United States; dream
of whoever I would have been.

I can't shake the cultures I was brought up in,
A healthy moon, a rose so paracelsian.

Back in The Fair City,
I am absolved ♃ere.


♑︎herefore this instance
of being in the world,

I find myself dreaming of strange tides
and awesome shores. I mix some ***
and ginger, in my headphones I hear
a storm. Now everything goes dim

and I feel it. Drink is a writer's drug,
It allows one to lose their poise and swim.
Remember when we cared less and felt more.
I lost this when I yearned for a normal life, but

it is in my nature to seek this thing.
It is within me, it will rise again.
I tried to forget about a world
but the world remembered

and said:
We are lost,
We are lonely,
We are forgotten,

We are ephemeral,
We are the next gen,
We are the algorithm,
We are the new ****.

That feeling like
you've been
meandering through
this whole life.

Know in yourself what ain't true,
Yet can't help but feel it
as black turns to blue.

The Warp rumbles
as the young gods stew,
The Necrontyr slumber
whilst the C'tan renew.

What was it I endured for three tears throughout
these years. I hate being a man, a man so Othered

by virtue of who I am. Took a holiday from reality
sponsored by a thienodiazepine, the rebound anxiety
may have got to me but I wanted to be ou'r it, to

be outta my mind, just like the first time. I felt
like I deserved it because it granted me such relief
and that felt so perfect; to remember I'm just a human

trying to escape her human plans.

I've never been so clean
and always I crave opia.

Perhaps I wondered too much

in the past
and now I must
let my mind be silent.

Or perhaps it is that series of events

which molded my mind.
What I grasped from experience
is dulled in comparison to what's past.

I wish that by chance I would come across some new

experience as vivid as the past.
Though we only remember what strikes us,
I wonder why these days I often wait outside striking range.

Oh, to be Anonymous
in that sweet darkness.

Ah, to be Philalethes
in the pursuit of truth.

Joy, to be with Pasithea
enveloped by relaxation.

Sorrow, to be a **** Lord
that never to comes-down.

Such inarticulations of thought
as I meander, sometimes
lonely, longing for
company yet

content in emotion.
For when I quiet myself
I hear the world's rhythms
and their harmony;

I see dim summer's twilight
through heavy-quilted rain-clouds.
It is something to cycle through

after dusk, a time like no other,
About the town
ever-dear to me

How many of us are there, out there:
Wherever are those poets in all their
graces? Whose life story might they
find, trial by fire to test the will and
condition the mind. Who'd outshine
even the most illustrious noble man?

Above lies an awful brick of a verse
if I do say so myself, I 'ave not yet
mastered the art of grace my-lord.

The supplicant whose life story shone
might yet demand attention but
"I'd prefer not to".

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.

A dream of three parts the more significant.

On campus but I felt lost, deceived, confused;
Visible to many people, few of whom I knew.

In a fantasy, we searched littoral gates, scrub-land
and trekked across frozen mountains. I argued
with my old master in Isengard, and lost.

Transported underground to an oracular room,
Colorful shadows on the wall show visions of
the far corners of this middle-world. I turned
away from those portentous scenes, to a staircase
that towered before me. Half-a-dozen chests perched
upon its odd steps, tragicomedic faces enameled into them.
Atop sat a grand piano, two saplings sprouting from its strings
and reaching up toward an attic skylight. From this lofty window
a voice uttered a strange, soft dialectic incantation, and a light shone
bright enough that I could climb out
through a ladder wrought of sunbeams.

During the holidays we'd spend some time
on our university campus
tripping.
I'm sure the total amount of time spent there
under the influence of psychedelics
would surprise
a few of my lecturers, but I know that
places of learning benefit from
the open-minded.

The city is quiet
on this stoney
Sunday evening.

Some students are hungover,
Some carry on the ReSession.

Dusk; and the streets are zen,
Clear-skies and lamplight
shining down as night sets in.

Who's on the recovery buzz,
Who's keeping it going?

The pines' silhouette a dusk sky.
Suburban streetlight glows in silence.

I cycle 15km to a rave in a quarry, take MXPr
and dance for several hours before cycling home.
I like dissos but they make me feel afar from people.

I want to be close with them, but a poison wellspring can
no thirst quench. At 28 I question if I'm borderline,
And some of it makes sense. I take my eyes
off the ground, and see clouds;

Each of our
human disciplines
seems to have their epistemic
crutch to lean on, whether it
be Science and objectivity,
Politics and democracy
Philosophy and truth,
Psychology and self,
Religion and faith,
Law and reason,
Logic and truth,
Poetry and
meaning,

We stray
from epoch
to epoch, from
paradigm, milieu
or scene to moments
we share Between Two
Worlds; we'll stand in time.

The whiff of peat briquettes
and glow of sodium-vapor
carry echoes
of this evening's Angelus,
It peals across satellite estates.

December's early darkness
dispelled by old streetlamps,
And the draught of winter
yet to solstice
held back by dreams of escape.

We swept through an altered town,
Familiar faces, I met someone I knew
but cannot remember; what would it mean
to experience a moment
without prior?

Bureaucratic. Timocratic.
Stratocracy is not something
I was ever interested in. Is that
why I enlisted? Put these notions
to the test, challenge my philosophy,
And perhaps even change my worldview
which I had assumed was in opposition to this.
The institution, a cult of the state before which
I am canine.
The use of drill
to temper a group
in dynamism, to meld the pack
in subordination, to suppress reactions
and perhaps even tame critical thinking.
We are dogs of the state
and I should not be able to question so well.
My philosophical training may prove
troublesome.

It is oft' discipline without clear intention,
Values that lack coherent articulation,
The inheritance of a moral order
which is antiquated at best
or at worst entirely ill-suited
to the modern world.

If this is the soil from which
the crop of leaders are chosen
it's no surprise what's to follow.

What truly strikes me is the humor,
Which sometimes is incomprehensibly forced,
but as they say: hurry up and wait.

In my city,
                 All I know is,
                                      All I want is;
I love you.
                 Sunrise over stone.

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.

I see the reflection
of this world
and a reflection of myself,
Thy dilated pupil
sealed its glass envelope;
We consume and produce everything
that ever is, was and will be
simply by perceiving,
It exists regardless
but we give it meaning.

The dominant drive is the handle on the reducing valve of consciousness.
Consciousness is not merely received, it flows through us,
And one's body is its conduit.

Being has an active role in its synthesis.
It is from this vantage that pharmacophenomenology dares to ask:
Is there something the components of neurotransmission feel like?
For example, what commonalities are felt
under the influence of serotonergic drugs?

What sensate invariants are to be found
in the actions of other neurotransmitters, endorphins and hormones?
Can we identify these felt sensation with those naturalistic concepts?
Could we map the structures and limits of experience from the inside out,
Using neuropsychopharmacology as a cartogram
and the phenomenological tradition as a pathfinder.
Would that be so noumenautic?

Mindlessness empty me
into the environment.
What is this heaven
where I rest easy?

Unconsciousness dissolve him
into a solution. Were he to bathe
in delta waves then perhaps
we would be cleansed.

Dreamlessness obscure us,
Our mind is hidden
from the 'I'; how
does self cease?

Emergence, order
from chaos, resumption
of the gestalt. Why do I continue
as a process that runs wild when I am lost

to those enthalpic thoughts.
Though part of me remains
connected to the Entheon

Sometimes the clouds crowd
my mind, they cast shadows
in which my fires seem more

intense, and sometimes I find
myself uneasy, it is difficult to
sit with the abstract headiness.

I take N-desalkylfluarazepam.
I take 3-Fluoroamphetamine.
I might even take ketamine.

It loosens me up, a sense
of otherness is familiar
and perhaps it is the

possibility of escape
rather than escaping
that give me comfort,

To know the tools are
there, to feel as a ward
of their potential lore.

Took half a milligram of bromazolam
after a long week, thoroughly enjoyed
the anxiolysis. Fifteen hours later
I can still feel its metabolites
at work, yet that feeling
when the world became a friendlier place
is unyielding.
I wonder how long I have before the rebound hits.

Odd to crave the lightness of something so apotheogenic,
Knowing full well
it's darkness.

Flaws don't absolve us of responsibility, yet they erode our agency
by compromising one's decision-making ability.

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.

The pace of life quickens, recognition
dawns in the dark corners of my mind,
To come alive, it's been so long, too long
to feel some; embrace these sways, to seek
eternity. Town
was such a remnant today. I could sense that
buzz hanging on the dusk: electric, ecstatic, but
I did not give chase.
Is it anhedonia when one's pleasures become mere
intellectual pursuits: my love of pharmacy, of music?

That recognition flickers
like a candle in the dark,
It was lit for you.

Consciousness is a projection
existing in another's projection
which we presume exists inside
an ultimate projection, the universe.
Why stop there? When there's no context
there can be only infinite regress.

A more convoluted box you'll not
find than those pandoran trips
that the psyché left behind.


"All these infinite universes  . . .

There's only one of me out there
but there's a few of me in here.

I need to sort some **** out
and I might be a while.

but I'm bone dry:

Saw that pain smolder in my eyes, I kept it burning
until the scene could switch
and sand morphed into tiles
as a burst of sunlight filtered
from the surface to illuminate the words on

these old pages;

Flicking through a book in the deepest end
of a swimming pool, it is so tranquil
down here but now it's time
to come up for air.

I break the surface
and there are storm clouds
above me, it starts to rain as I get out
of the pool and walk away into the garden

soaked to the skin.

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

I find myself strongly desiring intimacy
yet fear its consequences. Sometimes I feel
emptiness after connecting with others.

The group are among a few of the only humans
I've ever felt to have known authentically.
A sense of belonging, fleeting, sempiternal.

A little ****** up, a lotta genuine.
I'd've been lost without 'em.