My sadness is closer
to the surface, I can feel it
tugging at my mind
but my gut won't budge
and all else is quiet.

All I can hear is my own
lonesome heartbeat
as I wonder
whether it's possible
to die of a broken heart.

I don't know why I'm sad,
I have so much to live for
but I set the bar too high.
Guess my cardio isn't
what it should be.

*Guess we could blame
the N-Ethylhexedrone,
Hexen does seem to pressure that *****.

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 ache but
when the music begins
everything bad
goes away at an instant and
I can breathe again
for just a minute, forgive myself
for it, feel kindness.
Be asinine without reservation, brave
like a fool but ready
to fall in love, maybe I'll even stop
wishing for contraband
because the hurt is gone and
I can see light at the end of
my darkest hour, just for
a minute I realised that
"no man is an island"
and I am not blind
to my own needs.
Here's to an ℓP
of empathy

Chained to the sky,
Bound to the air,
As a child I thought
the world upon his shoulders
represented what we are born to bear:
The burden of consciousness;
Is each of us
holding back
the heavens?

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

Months ago I awoke
to an almighty hypnopompic brain-zap
provoked by dreams of lisdexamphetamine-laced cereal.
Forceful, shocking, agonizing; strange to have felt this
when I lack any acquaintance with Vyvanse, and
when I am clean of residuals. That a dream
should cause real pain, such reaction
in my being, I wonder how
my brain contoured
the experience.

Weeks ago I grappled
with a prolonged tension headache
so I administered paracetamol, ibuprofen/codeine,
And buprenorphine/naloxone. Those opioids
provoked strange daydreams, to countenance the many idioms
I've grokked over.

I used to think my superpower was depression,
I'd go around seeking pain
because nothing else would sooth me; and with each pang
I came a little closer, chasing it
like a true addict, savoring my damage,

Exalting in my lonely conscience.

When I awoke the opiates were leaving my body
so I lay in their dark waves of intemperate sensation
among what thoughts etch onto the inside of my skull
and found myself driving with a concussion
towards a home for misanthropes.

"Teenage angst has paid off well
Now I'm bored and old.
Self-appointed judges judge
More than they have sold",

There's no right side in any war,
I'll go back to being a lurker.
I may erase my past from memory
but I can't retract the actions
that haunt me. All I can say is
what I'm sorry for. "Serve the
servants, oh no.

Serve the servants, oh no."
That legendary separation was such a
bore. It may not be worth mentioning
but I enjoy the apparent irony of the world.


I'd listen to Teen Spirit all day long
while I waited to move on.

I felt so much, I
could not control it.
I had to close myself off
from the world of experience,
I had to make it stop, lest hyper-
empathy tear myself apart. I had to

stop. Judge me, please, I only wish I
could be strong enough. For what
it's worth know that I always
ask whether the pain is
worth as much as this
sanity I've bought.

I miss who I was,
I've nearly forgotten;
I'll be happier when I'm lost

in the darkness
and in thought

where I belong.

In my quieter moments
I sometimes think:
I'm just a boy
trying to make my way in the world as a man.
Who knows what I really am?
Living in progress.

Strains of charisma,
Strands of thought,
Variants in society, lost
in a world so big, often
I just don't know what I'm supposed to be.

That's ok,
Life is about discovery.

I wish to be carefree like I once was, and not feel this badness.

With nothing to lose, you'll take chances.
You become fearless, a false confidence.
You beget pleasure, gain accomplices.

Careless longing, nostalgia,

They say "...people who are homesick for infinity
find it more or less in all drugs",
So come a little closer, like I once was.

I feel like a sheep in wolves' clothing.
Afraid, angry, hungry, but more than
anything
I am lonely.

Though each day
may seem long,
Life is short.

Kiss slowly and
savour each breath,
Love truly; remember.

Laugh uncontrollably,
Especially at yourself.
Life is short, forgive
quickly, no regrets.

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.

A glass heart and thrown stones,

You fractured mine
but I am whole and alone.

The first loss I loved to the bone.

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

Knossos, birthplace of the city.
Argos. Athens. Damascus. Thebes, Luxor.

"It is just an illusion we have here on Earth
that one moment follows another one, like
beads on a string, and
that once a moment is gone it is gone forever."

So many societies,
So much time.

Say what ye will about nicotine,
Alcohol's our neurotoxic queen;
God love the Irish, we just want
to "forget
all the hurt
and pain in life". The legacy left us
by imperialism, the colonial mindset,
The abject hate of our own system, sure
they built it and we just plough on, brush
over the fact that this 'system' is ours; watch
us **** it up, 'cause we just love to get ******
up. This penchant of ours toward getting
Hurricane Drunk, we found a way
to banish it, blow everything away,
Drown in it, "'cause we can do this
until we pass out." Submerge both
of us, we'll give in
to thy accursed thirst and let loose
this loquacious cannon upon the world
'til the liquid disinhibition hath run afoul
of us, fearful and mordant mornings become
of us and we realize that last night hath ran amok.
Tell me, what d'you think we do this for? D'you think
this craic is fun?
Are you wrong?

"In you I see *****"
histaminergic days' break,
"In you I count stars"
while melatonergic nights' fall.

"In you I feels so pretty"
those mirror-neurons pause.
"In you I taste god"
that oxytocin calls.

"In you I feel so hungry"
glutamatergic excitation begins;
GABAergic inhibition ends,
"In you I crash cars".

Addiction is a longing for connection;
Dopaminergic seeking,
Serotonergic emotion,
Cholinergic reason.

Only I can save me
so I'll pray to me
and let praise be
giveth to neurofeedback.

The nadir of humanity walked into the room,
Radiating unconditional misanthropy, he felt
everyone's eyes swivel to look at me, watched
them dart back to their original viewing position
a tad too quickly.

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

Consciousness is chasing your dreams,

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.

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.

I am the darkness,
Because they can't hurt me then.

Thick face is a stately art,
In the pitch-black I have hidden my heart.

Recurring dreams fall unto the stars.

Intoxication is in the air, and I wish to get spectacularly drunk
like so many of my kinsmen on this day of our nation,
A celebration that lacks class, brims with drama,
In honor of our patron Saint, Patrick.

Paddy's day, Lá Phádraig.
My wishful thinking was not in vain
but 'twas vainglorious in its promotion
of commotion, debauchery, devotion to revelry .

We are only be ashamed
by those who cannot hold their composure,
Those who don't know how to sesh responsibly; 'ara
sure you need to know how to let loose without letting go,

You need not know what the future holds to stave off despair.
Hold fast, hold on, I clutch a rose-tinged glass shard of fluorodrone
and a white parachute of pentylone. In this day and age
we do not simply drink our troubles away, stimulants
push past the brink of our limits.

It is not a simple day of sessioning,
It is a day of reckoning.

As I once said:
This is the beginning,
There is no end.
On the banality of perception
does all depend.

"Baby it was real
and we were the best."
Didn't we have it all?
But what is we
in the context of it all?

Have you anything to say,
Any phrase to call?
"Baby don't hurt me
no more", it's been a long haul.

We can become one, ever and all;
Just hold my hand while time stalls.
"Come on baby
(Don't fear the reaper)".

There is no end,
This is just the fall.
Pendent on The Deadpoint;
Know śūnyatā, feel all.

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.

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.

I stood facing the wind
and felt like a teenager,

For the first time in years
I had felt something, again;

And with that it began to re-
-solve and I felt much better.

"Dark have been my dreams of late"
but things look brighter in spite of this.
I held the torch at arms length
and let its light pour out upon darkness,
Illuminating what was once in shadow.
There is hope, something worth fighting for.
What had I been looking from? Sometime ago
I ceased gazing into reflections cast onto mirrors.
Often it's just loneliness; I am still healing.

On the sesh, surrounded by friends;
Bottle of buckfast in one hand
and a joint of hash in the other,
Talking nonsense with the best of 'heads.

It is the best feeling in the world
for a man dreaming of that connection
and wishing for a loss of memory
rather than regain those moments.

Trying to survive
the long road home
but if you want to live
you ought find a new way home.

Talk to yourself like you would
someone you love. High places,
Low stations; can't place the hour
as I walk through these suburbs.

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.

Nevermind my unjust maudlin,
It's been a while since I've been
back here again.
I don't know anymore has been said before
so nobody dare call me out
or so break my word.
Tell me we don't know anything about them,
Or anyone. This one? Son of a gun! I caught him
out on the plains, burying someone.

Gotta be honest now for a sec:
I just want to feel again;
It's been a long haul
and I can barely remember
anything at all. After all,
We had it all;
Might as well
enjoy the fall.

Sometimes I think of
Montauk, or of other
memories I somehow have,
Then I stop thinking, start
listening, let memory
lose its continuity
and live in the imagery given;
I have never been to Montauk.
How now, odd as nostalgia
enthralls, he quietly asks:
What would Percy do?
That son of Poseidon
remains a favourite hero of mine.

Might as well love the rain, its
pitter-patter upon my window
comforts today's aches
and tomorrow's pains.

I spent far too long striving to be ordinary.
Previously, only when nothing mattered
did I feel truly free. What does it mean
to say this? I try to remember not to care
too much but
I must be sure
to love more than enough. Atardecer, amanecer.

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.

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

These social somersaults make me sick,

I find I am inconsistent in my thinking,
Depending on my present company.

My internal dialogue is so messy:
Everyone's talking, nobody's listening.

Sometimes I feel as if each of us were stranded
on our own island, and our only way to communicate is by

shouting across the straits
at one and other

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

Counting electric sheep
as I toss and turn and sigh.
I'll pray to Chronos if ever
I get to sleep tonight.
If ever, whenever, whichever, little heaven.

We lost another one
or so it would seem.
She left us High and Dry,
Walking On A Dream.
I'll wander my memory
under the covers (of sleep)
and remember so little
of that which I dreamt.

"Et in Arcadia ego";
Even in harmonious Arcadia
there is death.
So practice those words
which Epicurus left.

It's impossible to be serious
once you consider
the absurdity of existence
so keep in mind
his letter to Menoeceus.
Staring at the Cirrus clouds
as they drift by, Pan
(paniscus) is by my side.

I talk too much,
I don't say enough;
Nothing is the answer,
Everything is a question.
Freedom of thought is a lie
if it is unchallenged, freedom
to manifest a thought-pattern
means nothing without a will
to stand against these tides.
Reject that homogeneity
imposed by the socio-
cultural overmind.
We are too easily

led astray by our
persecutors
so we must adhere
to The Way
as supplicants before
hallucination.

Psychonauts,
Dissonauts,
Oneironauts; we are
all of us cognitive dissidents
practicing configurations of consciousness

“The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it”
*-Galadriel

I'm damaged,

When things become difficult
I am not afraid to turn towards the source of pain.
Thus I asked: what is your greatest fear?

Failure is a path to learning.
To err is human.

You can never be abandoned.
Solitude is a blessing.

Damage is the chance we take.
It is the most genuine fear

known to all wounded healers.

I was standing at my laptop, tripping, when the thought hit me: the reason we're so infatuated with technology is born of our yearning for control. What a lovely illusion to cherish, knowing does not detract from its merit; it sedates me wonderfully.

Ah but perhaps that's why Facebook is so addictive, as it lies in between ours and others spheres' of control. We push and pull, trying to hang on to these puppet personas. It's unendingly stimulating.

Virtuality offers us everything, and it's easily abused. So,
Here's something to always remember about the internet:

Once you put something online/out there it is no longer yours.

Yes, this applies to your words, you cannot control interpretations
nor can you prevent the theft of your world. Unlike reality,
Virtuality knows nothing of material scarcity,
The limit's the bandwidth and there be pirates aboard.
What am I if not begging for someone to come steal me? Take me away!

I don't have a name, all you can desecrate are these emotions I crave.
I'm writing these things because it stops me from killing somebody but
by all means, appropriate me, my work, my words, my world.

Maybe you'll add a bit of value to it, and god loves a data-*****.

On a final note, sometimes I am really afraid to be myself
because sometimes I think I'm a monster;
But I am getting better.


So there you go.

Time changes people,
Power chains people.
What changed in me?
Whatever chained me!
Oh subtle judgement
and standard teleology,

Tell me:
Is the world
worth pondering,
Or is this all just
time wasting?
Thinking,
Longing;

Ruminating over purpose,
Contemplating loneliness,
Tell me: what am I typing?
These poems used to be my
escape, my passion, carefully
constructed as words were con-
-verted from temporal lifeblood
into digital ink which still I spill
over, the words trying, to find
something worth posting for
but sometimes it feels as if I
am not obsessing over these
sentences enough to pick up
the pieces, unapologetically I
throw out another uninspired
verse. Poetry's best not thought of
as work and therein lies the problem:

Me,
Writing the same poem
for the umpteenth time,
It feels like we've been
here before but can't seem
to remember; of which this piece is
a perfect example, disinspiration.