Feel that bass-line push
us off of base-line; beauty
and the dynamical sublime.

Raise us up 'til we're amazed,
Praise be The Apotheon
in all its daze.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah
Not here to praise ya
Just here to raise ya
Fill you full of nails"

See the Monday's crucial difference to
today's flaw of apotheosis; we deify
this 'maze' and give ecstasy praise.

Hallelujah, hallelujah!
Let successive beats flow,
Amplify empathy; take it.

"Oh sweet sensation",
"Closer to all your dreams";

"I wish this was real".

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.

Love-Amphetamine to keep feeling,
Speed-Amphetamine to keep moving,
The come-down from last New Years
had me left in a hoop, spinning.

This New Years I feel like a mental hospital
is where I ought to be; the dizziness of freedom.

Bubble-gum MDMA,
Strawberry 2C-B,
Apple 4-AcO-DMT,
Blueberry **-MiPT,
Blackberry Brandy
MethAllyLescaline
and Birthday Cake
-flavour DPT.

How many chemicals will I taste tonight?
Psychem Surprise, no one knows!

DiPropylTryptamine, eucharist
by the Temple of Inner Light;
The godflesh of psychedelia
made manifest, an entheogen.

Immanention beckons with open arms.
I go willingly, to lose myself
in the embrace of The Entheon.

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.

An old friend learned the path to immortality,
I think I'll follow him there.
It feels like there's nothing for me
in this mortal world. Maybe there's one,
If she's brave enough. "If somebody's got soul
you gotta make the move,
Make a move."

Movement/Moment.

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.

Speak the phrase "Civis Europaeus sum"
and safety is guaranteed to one's data
when traveling through the internet.

I would not identify myself as religious, perhaps spiritual but if you were to ask me what of spirits I would reply: psychological projections, merely memory. So perhaps I am sentimental rather than spiritual.
I acknowledge all pantheons and can respect their traditions:
God, Allah, Brahma; their prophets, Gautama Buddha and so on;
But a god is a construct of the mind and the prophets were enlightened men of their time. I would call this belief Henotheistic Constructivism.

I do enjoy some drugs recreationally yet I also find spiritual elements to the use of some substances. Some people encounter these elements when they pray or meditate. I find it in the use of psychedelics. I see little difference in the method used to access this mode of consciousness, whatever you call it: divine, spiritual, mystical, religious, and so on. We are all looking for/towards the same state-of-being.

I do not discriminate between drug abuser and religious fanatic: both search for truth, propelled by belief, finding meaning in their seeking. Both drug use and religious belief should be conducted responsibly.

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.

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.

October looms.
Autumn is here,
I feel an eagerness

to leave and change color.
Cycling these medieval streets,
The scent of **** and rain-clouds

float through the town, NewDad plays
in my headphones. Think I'll skip winter
this year, travel to the southern hemisphere.

The end of the calendar draws near
to close to this bitter-strange year.

March was marked by a quiet,
No parades, drinking or revelry

to mishonor of our country's patron
Saint. Silence gripped the land, I float

though a ghost-town
and feel the kenopsia
of society abandoned.

Spring blew into summer
which passed quickly to
fade in the fall as winter
begs darkness, inevitable.

October was dead, no signs
of life save the reappearance
of some old friends, symptoms
of the muse. The annual festivities

were quite subdued, and it will surely
be a questionable New Year. Luckily
a shooting star crossed my sky as I

cycled home on the estival solstice.
For me that marked the end
of the year two-thousand-and-twenty,

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

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?

It feels as if I'm sinking
into the deep end again,
Mulling over the particulars
of nothing, I find myself
longing; wanting, things.
I stare out my window,
Curled up on its ledge
like a feline, discerning
the character of lamplight
and the quality of shadows
cast on a row of houses and
the sidewalk. I am this lost broadcast
of resounding consciousness,
I am a lonesome psychonaut,
and it's possible I'm an apostate
because I do not use drugs much
anymore. I love the dark, the rain

and the tranquility found in a storm.
I am a human with a quiet addiction.

I am a silent fiend.
I am too old to care
and too young to die.

I've been running the shadows. Seattle. Berlin. Hong Kong.
I learned the hermetic arts, got chromed up, and lost my crew
after a corp caught our industrial espionage. The astral planes
are fraught with activity from a new plague. Best to hide out
in the matrix 'til things calm down. I'll write about past exploits
and can continue my ventures in psychonautics. Last night
I tasted a couple milligrams of alpha-Pyrrolidinohexiophenone
and stayed up until 5am watching Euphoria and writing.

I put on some Boards of Canada
and begin searching
the dark web.

I forgot how much time I spent here,
Perusing boards and forums,
Running the shadows,

Turning over dark corners.
I put on some Carbon Based Lifeforms
and continue researching.

For those in society who have been displaced,
For whom no bell tolls,
For ware no refuge is safe.

Hackers. Dealers. Journalists.
Dissidents. Whistleblowers. Anarchists.
It's all very strange. I put on some drift-wave

to study them, their stories.

I wake up every morning
and the sun is shining
yet my head's heavy
from dreaming,
Groggy from
sleeping;
But this
fades.

After giving up psychoactive substances
for a long while, I hoped I might find my
definitive baseline but all I can conclude
is a lack of one. Only in contrast
to an altered state of mind
can we really judge one to be at baseline.
I tried, I really did, sober for months at a
time. I would not eat properly when I was
studying and it would be most unpleasant,
Restless and irritable, I'd say I was 'hangry'.
This hammered home one thing, one thing
alone: as food metabolizes certain nutrients
are absorbed into the bloodstream, some of
which may permeate the blood-brain barrier.
Deficiency or excess of common compounds
contained in food can affect our consciousness,
For example, postprandial somnolence.
Lack of nutrition causes contrasting effects and an
aggravated excitation manifests in a hungry human
just as sleepy sedation occurs in the sated **** sapien.
I do wonder what effects diet has on neuroplasticity.
Vitamins and rich-foodstuffs must have some effects
on cognition. It should hence be essential in building
a nootropic stack that one keeps track of their diet so
that every calorie can be calculated and tallied. Thereby
we might more efficiently measure our natural baseline
and hence perfect a method of stacking.

I'm trying
so hard
to be human
and that
is where I
keep falling
down. It hurts.

"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.

Ego death is what I'm searching for,
Śūnyatā, zero-summing;
I am not.

I hope to reverse-engineer Nirvana.
and rather than nothing, become one.

**** is an axiom.
**** is our axiom.
Hence, **** your axioms;
We're gonna get ****** up.

When perception is refracted
laws and theories
become fractured.
We use it to our advantage.

Covet the strange days of adolescence.

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.

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

I caught fleeting glimpse
of her throughout the day,
She lingered by the water's edge,
with another group, their tale yet unsaid.
A megaphone blared brazen attitudes to the air,
A bottle of Buckfast was her chalice to bear;
She supped that viscous liqueur,
It's contents  not as dark as her charcoal hair.
By the Spanish Arch as daylight subsided, we drank
and wandered among the intoxicated.

Then the guards came
and chased us all away.

A street-party was going down in The Latin Quarter.
Tides of people made it hard to get around. Deftly,
I waded through the massive crowd
to find friendly revelers in the tavern above.
Later, across the way in our favourite pub,
She resurfaced, megaphone still going,

Her eyes spoke volumes of venturous exploits,
This night but a chapter in a tome of conquests.

Those pupils that glimmered
had something magic in them:
A soft disregard for the world
and calm anticipation.

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.

Who is the substance for language that we will into existence, given to the pattern of signs and functions which comprise it?

Certain propositions can cause alterations unto our
suppositions, and even our very modes-of-cognition.
Emotion is the propagation of altered states, modes-of-affection. Own it.

I'm here, so many years later,
Entertaining foolish notions
that I might go and just quit
everything, fearing my time's
up, I might have to renounce
all that I did love,
All I've become,
All of the work;
All for nothing.

I can't quit,
I spent years
crafting who I am,
Or who I thought I was.

Quitting the session almost
sounds like quitting on life
to an Irishman, I feel like
I've gone and quit
being who I am.

Thy time will come again,
When the world need be rethought
in the lair of some gremlins.

"I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch,
To wrap my arms around her and sleep.
Not ****, like in those movies.
Not even have ***.
Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase.
But I lacked the courage
and she had a boyfriend
and I was gawky
and she was gorgeous
and I was hopelessly boring
and she was endlessly fascinating.
So I walked back to my room
and collapsed on the bottom bunk,
Thinking that if people were rain,
I was drizzle and she was hurricane."
-Miles

I peered out of earthen eyes,
Before him an open plain spread out.
As he breathed in I recognized that petrichor
we had prayed for and felt this was it.
That moment was like
the wholeness of
ember depth.

Life, and other drugs;
Feel the love, and stuff.
You've got the right to get
****** up. You think I'm out
of line? Don't worry, I feel fine.
For reals.

Urban tiger on the prowl,
"Welcome to the jungle,"
Where everybody's a night owl.

Nocturnal habits
of the after-party crowd.
"You're in the jungle baby".
T'survive here y'gotta be proud.

I want to touch sublime, surpass divinity,
Exceed apotheosis to new beginnings;
Extra-terrestrial narcotics binge.

I found that writing worked best for me,
Like taking ecstasy, it let me be intimate
not just with others but with myself.

Ek-stasis,
Meaning to stand outside of oneself,
A removal to elsewhere, for the time being/a while is enough.

Now mark my words, what worked for me ain't necessarily
what will work for ye, after all,
Some people prefer drawing.

I find that music, dance
or any kind of exercise helps,
At the end of the day we're all just looking for what works best.

With strange things at my back
I tread softly, wandering
to find déjà vu waiting patiently,
But you already knew that.

I wonder will I escape this view:
"...the viewpoint of absolute truth, [where] what we feel and experience in our ordinary daily life is all delusion";
But you already knew that.

I wander through memory,
Against a dark background.

I wanna feel your heart soak
in lake control,

Unreadable with
beautiful abandon.

I remember when sleeplessness quelled the light,
I could feel consciousness flicker like a candle dies,
I should see The impossibility of human superposition,
I would know nothing and be totality in This juxtaposition,
The brain was in standby as I caught a glimpse of It without light;
I choose not to to through That Door,
May It haunt me evermore.

I shall explain why, I was reminded of something Alice's friend said: "Finally, they must agree that, if an opportunity to go over the threshold into death presents itself in the trance state, and they're tempted, for any reason, they are not to do so". Quite specific for a threat so vague
(considering the common-sense rules which did precede).

I dare not declare said unscientific thoughts
to be paltry to anything I believe in
but I did experience an event
detailed as a memory;
And so I say, I stayed
'cause I was trippin'
and far too afraid.
You must let that emotion
wash over this rational poem.

The following sentence is false. The previous sentence is true.
An infinity of eternal resolution.
Imbalance,
A condition of this old universe.

I never knew I’d live long enough to make it back
so I’ll thank you for that.

Like a steam engine eats black diamonds are my pupils.

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

DEPRESSED.
Feel like it's stamped on my forehead.
Do they know?
I'm such a try hard.

Mask your face with a thick shroud,
Pour your black heart on the ground.

I've seen it tattooed on her arms,
She didn't use ink.
I almost gave my legs a third-degree fresco,
Playing with petrol.

Smile away, fool ‘em all;
The realm of indefinity calls.

I chose not to feel. I abandoned
all my emotion, I left love
to gather dust
and let memory sustain;
I ask myself
am I so stained?

Friends go trippin' through the night
on all sorts: acid, 4-AcO, Mescaline.
We smoke cannabis blended with
oregano, and we freebase DPT.
I wake up on indigo Sunday
and sit across from them
before walking home.

Feeling that division
(Vivere Memento)
between the world of techne (these abstractions
of data) and the world of virtue (those intuitions
and stories). Those more meaningful, self-fashioned
but unscripted, a-textual. These to quantify
what is authentic, original, genuine.

It strikes me as near sacrilegious,
Intention mining,
Sentiment analysis,
Would it disenchant us, and profane
our living narratives. They would strip us of those
vestiges, and even belief: cognitive liberty
is the freedom to believe
in your story,

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.

Their voices ask:
What do you want?
(Or, what should you.)
Loyalty, ***, social recognition?
No, something else eats at me.
The conditioning words of those voices
made me think it wrong, that I long to say to her:
Lets be alone together,
Understand each other.

What do I crave? Just her,
To be with her for a moment.
For me, that moment is eternity.
Is this truth really so alien?
A single sentence takes precedent:
Rainy daze in winter ecstasy.

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.

Born to say "**** it!"

Cleanse it all,
Wash away the innocence.

The eternal party rages on,
We could never subsist.
Driven, haunted by youthfulness.