Hippie song circles,
Twist and turn your fate
Show me what's beyond the eye
Taste the absinth and watch the illusions.
Mold me to this earth
And soak me in,
I want to be whole,
I want to be whole again.
Close your eyes and we'll place daisies
In your unbrushed, long blonde hair
LSD, LSD, oh, sweet drugs
Drink my soul and breathe me out as smoke
Dellusions, illusions
Take me back in time
I don't feel right.
Keep me in these guitar kissed
Hippie song circles forever.

Some chemical influences are necessary.
Experimentation is mandatory.

Skim the syllabus and you will see,
MDMA is chapter three.
Hemp is the strongest ****,
At least that's what I learned in Botany.

Biology came as quite a shock,
When the plants pulled out their *****.
English came as such a breeze,
The Diazepam brought poetry bees.

They pollinated the dopamine receptor,
Which greatly impressed my psychology professor.  
When the zombies rose for dead weeks droll,
Adderall and Vyvanse kept us cool.

There's always a place in the Union Bathroom stall
To do a dome some Coke before study hall.
Of all the girls in my dorm floor
Roxy and Molly were just next door.

Art history wasn't the most entertaining,
Until Absinth was my painting water.
Finals were such a stress, so I'll admit
We laced our gin shots with Xanex.  

College was an experience, I'll admit,
But Chemistry got me on the DEAn'S list.

I waited 8 periods, 7 hours, in between searching for you, running around the corridors,
Like a psychosis affected patient running trying to find reality through delusions,
But "planet", ironically you are my delusion, miles away from the brutal reality.
My excuses to see you were drying up; sprinting to the top floor that maybe you‘ll come across,
Ecstatic like a 5 year old kid, when his rents buy him a toy helicopter,
Disappointed like the poor kid as his helicopter crashed on the first day itself.
You’re nerdy, the only guy studying java and oracle with interest, enticing me with your mint and cedar scent,
This infatuation is eating my heart up, slowly and slowly, like cancer
I came today only to see you, desperately clinging to the belief that maybe you’ll come to see me too.
But I was left alone, with the burning sun as my only companion.
I woke up hours early, straightening my hair till my hair were singed, applying mascara till my eyes burned.
I fancied, that possibly you might think of me too, day dream of me too,
but darling  curse me for being a hopeless teen, as its getting me nowhere.
Everyone keeps telling me its never going to happen, I’m a junior and you a sophomore
& when your azure lids never glance my way, my face turns ashen, even during the Indian summer.
And who am I to even try to fight with the bitter truth,
for it’s always destroying our little fragile hearts and drowning them in acid and absinth
It was so silly of me to even give into these treacherous day dreams, to even let my pride escape.
I was absurd enough to even like you, knowing even then, that I will never be able to solve this Rubik cube.

Culture Vultures dining on carcasses,
a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream socialist monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness consumed by a constantly contradicting condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and marketed,
sold our souls so we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the mass media market did,

our collective memories and ancient traditions all but forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
want to end this madness but don’t know who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb Virtual Reality and ignore Actual Reality creating an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglecting the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent,
morally bankrupt lazy played daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
but no body has a DJ Clue or a Ty Dollar to spare still everyone’s got their two cents,
all opinions given with no wisdom taken from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time to listen we just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience and faux pas ambiance,

And it’s all almost over for our entire empire so every moment better cherish it,
white robes with Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’a when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for all the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which of course means no divorce from any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is star crossed colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations off every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
I write light before I become just another martyr for the Martian’s master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest in all honestness.

Here at the docks with assorted Goddesses and narcissistic walruses,
way up down under not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is,

we are cultivating a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
so stay up and keep your eyes open because the games have just started kid.

This is all honest kid.

And I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is and maybe we can solve it quick,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we all have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting *** of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes ***** dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our passing genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood clean as a whistle mixin’ with ***** Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats and religious rabbits in the crosshairs with deserted desert tortoises,
see these badlands will make the most professional professionals seem like just silly naive novices,
there’s nothing more to see here in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

my visions getting blurry bodies stopped but my mind’s still hurried this is what exhausted is,
and I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay because I’m not sure what my other option is…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the Culture Vultures overhead dine on as their dinner when feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Worldwide Bestselling Poet

Strøg ned ad strøget forleden nat.
En fredag aften fyldt med fordrukne gamle som unge tumlende rundt på brostenene.
Engang var de blanke, nu ikke så meget, men jeg nyder lyden af mine træsåler mod de sorte sten.

Alt idyl og selv stjernerne kan man se .
En mand med en sjov hat spiller en sang, han giver et smil som jeg går forbi.
Jeg synes jeg har hørt den før men ved ikke hvor.

Kigger til højre, hvad fanden sker der??
En måned til jul med hvad ser jeg?
Overflod af vulgært julepynt i vinduet.
Vinduet bliver smadret i skærmen for alt er dækket af røde og gyldne kugler, julekugler!
Med glimmer og balloner og en nisse til 495,-

Jeg strøg ned ad strøget.
Gamle fordrukne mennesker som tror de stadig er 20.
Den ene øl efter den anden og så en flaske af det røde.

Unge fordrukne BØRN som ikke har lært en skid.
Stramme hvide bukser og en breezer i hver hånd.
"Undskyld men hvor gammel er du, din refleks er ved at falde af".

Men selvom brostenene protestere i foragt, mens de drukner i absinth og bliver kvælt i bræk, vil de smuldre af overlast og stadig lade som om de er nylagt.

Jeg strøg ned ad strøget og vidste ikke hvor jeg skulle hen.

How harmonious the amber creeks,
Rocking smoothly from mine chair,
Sipping wormwood, mercury and jupiter tea,
Ambrosial be the air watched from west the shores

Found I, him when my years be only few,
Brooding, betwixt toil and melancholy curses,
One whispers, the other answers,
But, knowing not the suffering be here

‘And, I struck deep his heart fitting proper a jester,
Secrets mine loyal is laughter,
O’ how sweet the mind on Elysian Fields,
Yet divine his despair, so sad, so fresh

O love, I die in your star filled skies,
A sun jewel sinking on velvet drapes,
Dulcet my lonely vapoured song,
Dying, dying, dying

A kiss after death, rotting upward from the netherworld,
O Death, O sweet, wilt thous know immortal passion,
Before pocket and pride?
Drunk of absinth, through hazed did ye love thee?

Mercury sparkles in pools below the chair,
And mine fancies be sky glow worms pulsing near,
Cave hulled labyrinths of memories time passed,
His soul rose into mine blood

I loved thee weaving golden in rocking chair,
Dancing with warm Nile winds,
Flanking sky dragons after sun sparkles,
O he thought heart diseased of loves adoration

Improper the vex was touted, time precious before thee
Of fifty I must be, with magick death and lust I shall be,
And thine so effect lives on in me, a mere trifle ye,
His pastime, dreaming of the skies to be

And still a secret dreaming sweetness in the sea,
He looked upon mine crown of Tao and gold in glee,
Mystics glory in a bed of moonlight death,
Found I, an angel mused he, to call thee fooled

Dreamed I, none be spring, and summer neither more,
And thorned a new crown, the fool his winter dawn,
His claw deep a finger bled, his glory shadowy form,
So, dearest, thou art thy likeness wise dead cold

His darkness uttering shadows, beautiful with thee,
My darkened ways, take Ravens wings ascend yee who read,
Love be, no single tear, yet binds mercuries silver rivers near,
The old amber chair rocked to and fro, grey her hair,

Mortal hands weaved, love runs silver

── whence ever death be near

© Arnay Rumens 2015

She could have been a Mediterannean goddess;
An enamoured artist’s ethereal muse.
Golden tendrils meandeared across her  visage ;
Her eyes greener than absinth ,  darker than the Black sea.
She was a daughter of the Tigris.
That burning serpent,
churning the blood of her brothers.
Infidel!  devil-worshipper!  they called her,
As they, burnt and ravaged all that she lived for.
The moon turned a shade of ochre,  like it was made out of dust.
Of the brown ashes of  Sinjar . Her vanquished motherland, that  fallen paradise.
She prayed and prayed, to the Peacock angel;
with eyes closed, and a heart clutched in terror.
So he would spread his wings and save her.
But when she opened her eyes, the Da’esh loomed like death,
All around her, like vultures;
who wouldn’t spare the last shred of flesh on her bones.
They had scavenged her like a piece of trinket,
From the great pile of rubble, her land was reduced to.
She was their spoils from the war,
Her golden hair, her green eyes ; all theirs.
Their ravenous eyes like augers; spewing venom,
They were traffickers of the soul, to the most unholy depths of the inferno.
She was meant to be a goddess;
To rise to the realm of the Peacock angel.
If he did’nt release her soul, her spirit would rise to meet him .
She only smiled, when she took her life.
She smiled, till her last breath seeped out of her,
Death was ever so merciful, tenderly lulling her to sleep.
The Da’esh could plunder to all their dark glory.
But they could’nt fetter her soul.
Jilan, she was the fallen angel.

29/12/2014

Is this an outer-body experience
Or a pretentious subsistence
There’s a dog barking at my built-up wall
Forming a pattern of careful consistence

I’ve never broken a heart but
I’ve broken every plan I’ve chosen to mess with
I’m slowly downing this regret and distrust like it’s freshly poured absinth

The sickness comes right away, which I oddly knew to begin with
I say that I’ll change someday, but I think I’ll probably stay this way

After all, I’m happy
When the salt isn’t in my wounds
After I’ll, I’m happy
When I’m sitting here with you

I need to **** myself inside.
Just drinking this bottle to be sterilized.
Feels great not to feel.
To be completely numb.

I am all ****** up inside.
God, I need someone to ****.
Just a complete stranger.
No strings attached.

Am I drunk enough?
Good, lets get this started right now!
Don't really care if blonde or brown.
I think I see her smoking at the bar.

"Hello, princess!
What a pretty dress!"
(and awesome *******,
8 out of 10, I guess)

"Did someone ever told you
how beautiful your eyes are?
Bright and yet so dark,
like streetlights at night."

Her tongue touched her lips,
another shot of absinth,
lets get some ***** mixed in,
wrecked, like I've never been.

"Boy, you know how to play the game,
lets have a smoke outside" and we went,
half insane with lust, bit afraid.
Drowning in stupidity of youth.

We smoked ***, cigars,
talked about gods, religion,
wars, crimes, lies,
electric chair, death...

Trials, nights, dreams,
our bodies touched,
nightmares, blues, insanity,
we ******.

Right there,
behind someone's car,
under the stars,
screaming in ecstasy.

Like in some surrealistic film,
went into a public toilet,
the smell of **** and ****,
the smell of her filterless cigarettes...

We went to my place,
wanting to **** again,
and again, and again,
endlessly, until we die or faint.

Her naked, trembling, sweating body,
graced by night, graced by all saints.
I scratched her back, bite her neck,
inside, she's all wet.

We danced like mad,
hearts beating fast,
dissolving into each other,
taking the final breath.

The last hug of love,
that never existed,
last kiss in the dark,
and I will leave you there.

I woke up, vomiting.
Feeling so cold, dead.
Took a shower to wash it all away.
All, the memories, kisses and sins.

Counting the scratches,
remembering wild flashes
of yesterday's coma,
tears, tearing heart.

Last night,
fire was burning bright,
but like the cigarette's ash
we fall apart.

There will be no calls,
no pretentious drama of love,
no fading away back into the night,
No nothing, get lost!

Son of A Gun in The Wild West

Culture Vultures dining on carcasses,
a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
or both no vote only the onset of mainstream socialist monarchism,
a subconscious stream of consciousness consumed by a constantly contradicting condition of consumerism,
an avalanche of retail therapy and the avant of avant-gardism,
doesn’t have to be a better product or improved edition,
just has to be better packaged and marketed,
sold our souls so we don’t own anything anymore not even our own cognizance,
just look what what the mass media market did,

our collective memories and ancient traditions all but forgotten,
designer jeans symbolize a degenerative disease like Parkinson’s,
want to end this madness but don’t know who started it,
so who can we blame but ourselves in all honestness,
as we absorb Virtual Reality and ignore Actual Reality creating an occultism of Oculus,
Rift we drift into thee abyss of dark indifferences…

Neglecting the blueprint everybody’s a studio gangsta these days just ask 50 Cent,
morally bankrupt lazy played daisies try to copy Jay-Z’s blueprint,
but no body has a DJ Clue or a Ty Dollar to spare still everyone’s got their two cents,
all opinions given with no wisdom taken from the Grand Architect,
what good is good advice if we don’t take the time to listen we just dismiss it quick,
showing off trophies donating charity checks,
acting like champions we bare and beat our chest,
wearing fool’s gold and blood diamonds but we’ve won nothing yet,
honestly feels like we haven’t even started yet,
still we feel exhausted from this rat race for dominance,
slaves of an alien race we pledge allegiance with our obedience and faux pas ambiance,

And it’s all almost over for our entire empire so every moment better cherish it,
white robes with Chipko flip flops we hold the reins to Her Majesty’s chariot,
whipping the 500 horses faster in the fast lane will get you buried quick,
so I try and pace it and not get too wasted still I feel very sick,
when captain screams “You move too slow sailor!”, that’a when it’s time to depart this ship,
but you can’t rush good art and I’m an articulating artist for all the artisans,
in a constant state of affairs is why I haven’t married yet,

which of course means no divorce from any or all of this,
so I continue to translate transmissions without prejudice,
love is star crossed colorblind and my wonder mind is in wonderland’s luminescence,
as I illustrate illustrious illuminations off every edifice in this hedonistic eden like Edison,
with an ample amount of ambiance this is this rebels renegade Renaissance,
I write light before I become just another martyr for the Martian’s master plans,
my words are honest sonnets on tablets of mono-cultured monograms,
mono-glyphs that shine like a beacon on the Tower of Babel atop a cavernous monolith…

This is all honest in all honestness.

Here at the docks with assorted Goddesses and narcissistic walruses,
way up going under not trying to be negative but the only thing I’m positive of is,

we are cultivating a culture of artist that,
act as if everyone is targeted,
and we are whether bisexual or bipartisan,
so stay up and keep your eyes open because the games have just started kid.

This is all honest kid.

And I’m open to discuss everything except religion and of course politics,
so if you’re having issues then tell me what the problem is and maybe we can solve it quick,
and please don’t blame the Dalai Lama or Obama’s broken promises,
see we all have soiled wings just like these vultures that pick at our carcasses,
as we dine on Soylent Green served hot from the meting *** of concubine colleges,
wrong right black white day night see everything has it’s opposites,
so even the kindest animals will turn into carnivorous cannibals when all that’s left,
is blown kisses well wishes ***** dishes corrupt princes and spiritual paralysis,
this is the age of the dawning of Aquarius and the end of our passing genesis…

But what do I know I’m just a Son of a Gun on the run writing this mystic futuristic hit-list,
dressed to the nines with a bottle of moonshine and a bunch of empty cartridges,
in the Wild West with Clint Eastwood no Kanye clean as a whistle mixin’ with ***** Harry’s pharmacist,
The Good Bad & The Ugly drink in acid rain and eat magic cactuses…

Howling at the full moon with peyote coyotes absent minded off the absinth mix…

Alive right here left for dead insane and out of practice with,
no clean water in the canteen and circling are the vultures just above us,
this teenage wasteland has no purpose with,
riff raft rats and religious rabbits in the crosshairs with deserted desert tortoises,
see these badlands will make the most professional professionals seem like just silly naive novices,
there’s nothing more to see here in this mirage except my rusty gun as it tarnishes…

my visions getting blurry bodies stopped but my mind’s still hurried this is what exhausted is,
and I’d escape if I knew a way out but instead I stay because I’m not sure what my other option is…

See I knew I would go I told you before everyone is targeted,
so soon it seems I’ll be just another rotting carcass that,
the Culture Vultures overhead dine on as their dinner when feeling peckishish,
terminated no terminator but like Arnold said, “I’ll be back.”, like I just started this…


∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Is this an outer-body experience
Or a pretentious subsistence
Like a dog barking at my built up wall
Forming a pattern of cautious consistence

I've never broken a heart but
I've broken every plan I've chosen to mess with
I'm slowly downing this regret and distrust
Like it's freshly poured absinth

The sickness comes right away,
Which I oddly knew to begin with
I say that I'll change someday,
But I think I'll probably stay this way

After all, I'm happy
When the salt isn't in my wounds
After all, I'm happy
When I'm sitting here with you

I tried to find peace
I tried to find sobriety in your absence
But I drank nectar from your garden
Gorged myself in your absinth

Now my body aches, head swells
Tongue bitter, dripping ammonia
Withdrawals I'm too familiar with
Caused by a golden gods ambrosia

Cold night spread it's wings
I walk alone in a luminous mist
November's breath caresses empty streets
This is where I found you
And signed my death list

I kiss a vision of an absinth dream
With the eyes of embers fire
Now I count my seconds to the witching hour
When the dark is torn by the funeral pyre

Tonight all my wishes will come true
My death has never been so pure
I send you valentines
In the death of night
And spill my blood on a dotted line

I found my drug of choice
Body is a flame with the devil's voice
Decadent beauty in a false light
When I am right beside you
All the wrong feels right

Apocalyptic opportunity operating on obversely open,
oblong abortion-addiction, analogous of an upturned
episodic aporia apprehensive about obtuseness-
an opportunity inimitable in essence,
its assiduous attribution apparently evident
as economic edifices advertised as assistance-appeals.
Obviously, opportunities as enriching are essential
on account of existential affirmation,
otherwise all's apoplexy, ethanol ornament,
an altered evocation understated and escalated
obliviously; absent absinth; am armor arrayed
especially as assured; aerial oogenesis;
asymptomatic aphasia; acts of elegant appetizing.

..there is home..
       ..gone wild with me..

enjoyable..clear..honest..

no..no..no..
        ....and yes..

where's your home..the thing that you pay cash..
                       ..wine..cigarettes..poetry..

of course..

             ..all of those..
..and more and more and more..

                     ..electricity..psychosomatic..waves..

childhood..
           ..when everything was everything..

                   ..narcotics..Lsd..whiskey..virginity..
         ..woman..man..
                                             ..and then..

                                   ..nothing..

..get drunk whatever it is..wine..*****..absinth..
                 ..what ever..
            ..but get drunk like
                      Mr. Baudelaire kissed for you..

no memory..no tomorrow..

                                        ..just now..now..now..

                          ..and then some..

..and now..