Communication is a series
of adaptive language games.

Hail science mage
and urban shaman.
Transhuman Cybran,
Posthuman Aeon.

From which reality do they emerge?
Virtual, surreal, liminal, total; well go on.

I feel this at night, 'cause
during the day I'm not alive.

My depression hides so much better than yours,
You're pleading for attention
and I hate that.
We've all got problems,
Ever think about that?
I'm never going back there
and I'd **** to ensure that.

I lie under these covers,
Sickened by love.

I gotta put the mask on
and my hood up
'cause the socialite within me
will not halt.
He's an unstoppable machine
powered by ego while seeking esteem,
Is this really the way it has to be?
Lest the people know what's become of me.

Torrential thoughts eat me away
while "the sun is shining everyday."

I feel the wind on my face
as it caresses my skin,
The breath of the world
as it whispers intuition.

I see the clouds unfurl
and vast expanses clear,
As a god's pupil dilates
bequeathing knowledge here.

I hear time draw quiet
as starlight is still,
Immutable undercurrents of
comprehension instilled.

All of this contained
the whole in my eye,
Every synapse in my brain
for a millisecond aligned.

Dripping in gold,
Basking in the glaze
of revelations untold.

I walked upon waves,
Physics torn
into a reality unfazed.

With such intuitive reasoning,
I pierced the maze
to glance at an age away.

It will find me again in time,
This power to define.

When indecision will leave me,
And the world will be mine.

Now dare to interpret any singular line.

At the end of Nimmo's Pier
on a mid-week evening in July,
I gaze across the bay
with the city to my back.

To my left a heron potters about
in orange lamplight, from my right
two lads' conversation drifts
across the harbor docks,

Behind me the city thrums
with its mid-summer's nightlife.
My over-stimulation from three days
of intense work fades, my solemn thoughts

I haven't been able to shake this
most recalcitrant feeling that the
best of my poetry lies behind me,
I know it's silly, still I feel it's true.

I don't know how to write anymore,
It is not composition to which I refer;
I do not have the will to express anger,
I do not have an interest in any treatise.

Even the depressive laments I transcribe
most ruminatorily do not appear to be of
any significant worth. Everything that I go
to transcribe I feel ashamed of. I lost interest
and have forgone my soul and all its contents.
Gone are the bashful stories
from my mischievous youth,
Gone are the great pondering
pieces I'd craft of the universe.
The poetry stalled, I am no use;
There's no meaning

"Up the 'RA!" It means
'be yourself' in Irish.
Up the 'RA? It means
'beat us up' in Irish.

Can't leave it alone
so we skin up a spliff.
Spark it, have a ****, pass it
and occasionally tip the ashes
of modernity into an empty can
of druids. Leave House and be done
with it, fly away/emigrate, the craic lives on
agus tiocfaidh ar lá.

I must proclaim
at this juncture in my philosophy:


Apotheosis is idolatry,
Entheos is actuality.

Their breath on the sand
was a Mescalito tornado
across a desert land.

That neuro-cosmic thunder
tore yourself asunder,

Thy nervous system
quantized the data.

You wander in wonder,
As the strings resonate
we remember, thoughts flow.

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.

Do we ever get to know?

I am decided, these experiments of Entactus
shall diminish.
While I may still dabble
the bulk of my research is finished.
The Empathion was adventurous, but now I move on
to (discovery in) The Psychedelion.

In conclusion I declare:
Sigma.
Humanity Is A Joint Effort,
Mastery Is A Sole Exploit.
But there is more, always more.

Comrades in ecstasy, I pray,
Hold fast (all through the sway)
in hopes of refuge, from the light of day.

Enough with these low doses, I feel like some real therapy.

A strong dose of some rather rare material, a designer dissociative
once highly popular, now virtually extinct: methoxetamine.

I disperse 47 milligrams into water and sup it, tentatively.

I feel the usual fear as a foreign chemical enters my brain en masse
and begins to alter the fabric of my mind.
It has a relatively long come-up, 45-90 mins.

In due time the chaos begins, I drift off into that aeon M-verse.
Eventually I get comfortable and listen to Skyrim atmospheres.

I have an epistmic vision, a vision of human knowledge as
increasingly ubiquitous, in line with the proliferation of modern ICT.
The use of tools, of signs and language is a gift unlike any other.
That we might imagine the past or a future. We are most fortunate
to have these stories, concepts and imaginings,
Things that allow us to venture beyond our home;
Things to remind us there's something to come back to.
They ask us what we want
and we answer: to share in this.
It asks me what I want and I answer:
To contribute, to feel this wash me away

such that I am no longer marooned.

We’re the kids your parents warned you about,
We've lived more than most adults.
We scoured sensation,
Soared high across the planes of elation.
Society’s scared of us,
Can you blame them?
People cross the street
just to get away from us,
Strange, we're ubiquitous.
Jealous?
Come join us;
I implore you
to explore you.
Find it within yourself
to go out and find yourself
(among us), should you so choose:
Realize you're alive,
Make something of your time.

Take the plunge,
Throw yourself into the thick of it;
Into the breach.
See things no one could ever believe
in the deepest dreams of REM sleep.

I walk these streets thinking
"this could be the last time",
She whispers to me subtly
and I know she's kind;
Lost thoughts ripple,
Abandoned to reflection,
Zer0-summing throughout all time.

Mine is the voice of intuitive reason,
Bearing the words' intricate mechanism,
Surface dripping with such subtle intention,
I am become the human difference engine.

Hear my words,
This statement made:
All is dust,
Even stars and rain.

"Rise and shine,
Rise, and shine."

Ashes are adrift
on a glazen beach,
Time is passing
while you're asleep.

"Not that I wish to imply that
you have been sleeping"

Glass was born
of fire and sand;
Forget not
what you owe the land.

"And all the effort in the world
would have gone to waste until,"

Perfection,
This statement made:
I am here
to create and crave.

"The right man in the wrong place
can make all the difference in the world."

All is dust,
I find comfort in that;
Naught but ash,
No constrained path.

"So wake up 'Mister Freeman',
Wake up and smell the ashes."

Life is memory,
And that I crave;
Better not to ponder,
This statement made.

It's kicking off.
That feel is in the air
and I'm back chasing dusk.
There's quality in the sky,
The forthcoming night.

I find it strange that autumn is so beautiful
yet everything is dying
as we approach the year's end.

Janie saw her life like a great tree in leaf with the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone. Dawn and doom was in the branches.*

Ah know exactly what Ah got to tell yuh, but it’s hard to know where to start at [...] Ah was wid dem white chillun so much till Ah didn’t know Ah wuzn’t white till Ah was round six years old.
...
we looked at de picture and everybody got pointed out there wasn’t nobody left except a real dark little girl with long hair standing by Eleanor. Dat’s where Ah wuz s’posed to be, but Ah couldn’t recognize dat dark chile as me. So Ah ast, ‘where is me? Ah don’t see me.’
“Everybody laughed
...
‘Dat’s you, Alphabet, don’t you know yo’ ownself?’

“Dey all useter call me Alphabet ’cause so many people had done named me different names.
Ah looked at de picture a long time and seen it was mah dress and mah hair so Ah said: “ ‘Aw, aw! Ah’m colored!’
“Den dey all laughed real hard.


But before Ah seen de picture Ah thought Ah wuz just like de rest.

Dear friends and fiends,
Those who'd weave poems
and lose themselves in dreams,
Let me tell you of the places I've been.

The hour of my writing
is late, as always, and tonight
I find myself trawling through
the deep dark web.
Seeking out the dark
stuff, I cast out the net
to catch a glimpse of fate
and to contemplate the death
of patterns that lurk inside my
head, gleaming all but nothing.

I will have the night always
and I'm wondering what
worth really is. Blasted
signifiers and infernal
meanings! Why can't
it all just go away?

So I spend some time in the darkness
until the end rears its eventual head
and I am left here, blind, grappling
in the dark. All we are, all our
shadows are; beautiful, ugly;
Powerful, ridiculous;
Virtuous/viceful;
Good/bad, right/wrong,
Off/on; it's all the same really,
Tell me which side of the coin
becometh unseen?

No one's listening!
Insignificance is a powerful asset
given today's crazy, contrary world,
It serves as well as any sartorial shield;
Or, rather, should I say it is insignificable?
I am a being thinking no one's bothering
to listen to me yet I do much listening
and even reflecting. I'm not complaining,
Reliving seems a better choice of word.
I do like listening: I listen to the
quiet before morning and after night;
To the hustle and bustle when bathed
in that artificial light;
To other humans who
speak Other languages
in all their idiosyncrasies,
The content of which I'd not
grasp but the form of it I might
understand, from sweet Italian
to feisty Spanish, haunting Irish
to French's romance, the only tongue
I cannot see such quality in is English
because instead I see in it everything,
Some of which I'd rather forget, under-
lying meaning, miscommunication, dis-
information and each mistake and error,
Destroyed etymologies, broken referents
and the tyranny of endless signification;

Everything and Nothing,
∃xistence and ∀niverse.

Although I like to listen
I cannot help what it is
I hear. I do not control
perception though I try
very hard to fool the seer
into ignorance, to ignore
the pessimism I'd otherwise
embrace, to swallow those itty
bitter blue pills I'd otherwise taste.

God love every parent and sibling,
Friend, enemy and other acquaintance
for each of whom I have many mixed
multifaceted feelings but who I'd listen to
nonetheless for the sake of their heads, mental
wellbeing can be such a chore. I really don't know
anymore, I've no real purpose, I'm just a data-*****.

Not a chance nor even a hope of finding
work or love with hobbies like these, and
this for lounging-list of habits that I keep;
No meaning, or at least nothing significant.

Went to a rave
under The Quincy,
With an urban campfire
going
and an ambitious young selecta'
playing danceable tunes from her decks,
A can in my hand, warcoat on my back, among
friends;
Down by the riverside
we were all under
the one bridge
raving.

Lets go down to the docks
and throw some stones off the pier,
As the sun goes down we can cheer;
We made it this far, down by the Dockyard
(B Seite) - Paul Kalkbrenner knows
what's going on: Right here
is what's going on; Right now
it's going on, so go on, listen to music,
Take in the lovely tunes, bring some of
them good vibes home; "****** my mind
and you can have my body, find my soul
and I’m yours forever."

Everybody wants to change the world but
nobody wants to change themselves;
Let me

help you. Won't you please
change me.
Chain me.
Deface me,
Erase me.
Replace me,
Scorn me,
Reform me.
Conform me.
Destroy me,
Enjoy me,
Rebirth me,
Begin again.
You start where you ended

and I'm unchained again.

So often it seems
we forget the importance
of wandering;
To be with our thoughts,
If even for awhile,
It eases the burden
of being a conscious individual.

There is an experiencing and remembering self which
the emotional and rational human condition envelope.

Memory's a hidden thing in sublimation,
Energy flowing upon a chemical medium,
We harness it to receive our vision;

Did I spy? Eidetic
childhood took me by surprise!
While the world is all but a dying light:

"Knock the world right off its feet
and straight onto its head, book of love,
Will long be laughing after you are dead,
Fascinated by the look of you and what was said."

We can remember so vividly
yet as easily doubt our recall,
I guess all's fair in subjectivity
with its many mendacious tendencies;
I maintain there's more to memory
than this most lachrymose ending
(after which I'll say no more),
For surely we can doubt
just about anything because
*thought is exempt from being.

We are always interpreting ourselves,
Interpreting our actions, thoughts
and even those interpretations.
Will becomes the extension,
So too does it look upon
itself to ask where
the arbitrary line
should be drawn.
Where do I end,
Where does the machinery
of my intention take the place
of the unequivocality that I saw.

Summer's end,
September appears.
The passage of time is

unbelievable. I'll leave my home-town
and travel far away. I wonder what it is
I'm running from. The inheritance

of madness. I went out last night
and got off with someone.
What am I afraid of?

Would I sell someone to their destruction if they asked me?
Here lies a question that haunts me.
It's their choice really,
Have I any right to discriminate/impede?
The truth is I don't care about the money,
Memory takes precedence over accessories.
But what falls in-between;
That which is mind-altering.
How much would you pay to dream?

If I was to disgorge what I think
I'd say you are your own being,
But to hurt anyone is to forfeit your freedom.

We must be informed correctly and clearly of what we receive as responsibility.

That numb, unfeeling sensation became dear to me, a state of mind accompanying serotonin depletion which meant I could no longer feel. A part of me misses
its darkness. Halfway in-between
checking myself out and going back
to those few, all-too-brief years spent
in the throes of junkiedom, it struck me:

It's the things people don't do that they truly regret.
You can laugh at how awkward you were,
You can't laugh at what never was.
No point living halfway,
All or nothing.
"If I don't go crazy I'll lose my mind,
I saw a life before me but now I'm blind,
I want to go to heaven, never been there before,
I want to go to heaven, so you give me some more".

Give me a decent cloak with a proper hood please.
Merci beaucoup.

I see red stars sprawled across this spacey cascade,
All ready to rain down upon the soft parade.

Don't cry, there's a war going on.

This mortal coil hath become electrified,
By a thunderous soul-storm gone haywire.

Smile, the world's burning again.

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

Follow the white rabbit
out onto the ledge.
Take a long look
way over the edge.

I'm alone up here on this battered rock,
That orbits the earth, keeping watch.
Through the looking glass
I spy
your every pretension.
On this satellite forlorn
I am comprehension.

The red pill or the blue pill,
It's a choice to choose.
You have to decide
and you can't lose.

I keep my eye on the planet below
because nothing here
ever grows old.
The tides syncopated to my path,
I wax and wane while the sun laughs.
All while my eyes gander
through to the looking glass.

Take the plunge,
Say goodbye.
Kansas is gone,
The end is nigh.

Zero Cool,
Welcome To The Machine.
Fool's Gold, Self-Esteem.

Then nothing forever;
Silence returns,
All is quiet.
Endlessly silent,
Zero cool.

When asked what my drug of choice is
I could only narrow it down to this list:

Music or words,
Tea, ***, dreams
and the internet.

That mammoth architecture
of a midnight city, it keeps me high.
I feel more machine than human sometimes.
Cybran eyes,

Aeon mind.
What more is there than this Arcadian dream
in which I dare believe.
Our cerulean being we've come to crave,
Away from the sardonicism
of our heart's 'maze;

Its Love
Here.

I titrate 20mg of 2C-T,
A substance I named Tesseract.
The effective dose is supposedly
three to fives times more than mine
but I quite like it here. Warm, benign
headspace, not altogether insightful but
friendly (and
we all need friends at times).
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylthiophenethylamine,
It was the first '2C' to have a sulfur atom,
A realm of possibilities opened up from there:
2C-T-1, Tesseract. I wonder what of
2C-T-2, Rosy. Or
2C-T-7, Beautiful. Or
2C-T-21, Aurora. Per'aps
2C-T-28, Vesper. I'd go on,
I do wander so often upon
these marvelous compounds.

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.

You lit me up with just an ember,
My lungs were on fire
that day in December.

You set off a raging hurricane within me,
When the storm landed
my breath billowed
like smoke from a chimney.

That lovelessness, condensate
near killed me.

That archetypal, clichéd feeling
I can't seem to shake. Once again,
Write with some grace. Flux shows
just how much I'm missing of myself.

By the gods, what a dark place! I say it
and shudder, half-laughing, wholly afraid.
The other half is lying, it always did prefer the shade.
In half-light I spied a shadowed face. It whispers to me, I


hear its divine abuse
as it shouts a cruelty.

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.

I've come to ask
how subjective is time?
Not the pieces we keep
but the changes we define.
A second is objective, measured,
Yet a moment is held in the mind.
We perceive reality through patterns
which can be expressed mathematically,
Relative to what we conceive, as chances
cohere to determine our chosen state of being;
The question has been: do we actually determine?
Or is it just endless reflection! Can choice shape teleology
and is it more than just mere binary, perhaps a continuum
of infinitely/eternally collapsing wave functions in computation
as the brain strains itself to make sense of this oncoming reality;
Do we lose all semblance of existence when that magnificent ***** is destroyed and at what point does this occur if it gradually degrades? I shall now state that truth, meaning and belief are three sides
of the same coin. You've got three choices
but only two chances,
Not that it matters;
T'was a toss up between genius and madness
but it landed on forlorn and simply rolled away
down an alley into abandon, longing and sadness.

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.

The trick to surviving hell
is not to suffer from insanity
but to enjoy every moment of it.

Laugh at absurdity,
Laugh at surreality.
Laugh at yourself.


I've been to some dark places
as I'm sure y'all can see

and I'll find my way back,
if ever I let me.

I feel lost right now.
Come find me.