"analeptic" poems
Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,
An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,
By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,
And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.
Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,
Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,
Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.
Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.
Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.
A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.
The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.
Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.
Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?
Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?
Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.
God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.
4k
I can't get the voices out of my head,
they hide behind a facade of analeptic lies.
Their incoherent whispers make me wish I was dead,
and their noise seems only to rise.
There is no silence or truth,
never has there been since youth.
They promise a happy salvation,
from my arduous, caustic addiction,
if I were to follow their word.
They speak only lies,
the same in a different guise.
The sound is unbearable.
Their morbid speak of ****
but I don't think I'm able
to take my ghastly fill.
Their lies seem so sweet.
Perhaps its not bad.
Not bad to stop a heartbeat.
I’m not really all that mad,
like you tend to repeat.
The only one I can trust,
the one that seems unjust.
The one that speaks utter nonsense,
might be my only defense,
against this rising murdering lust.
It’ll take some time to adjust.
Maybe though, it’ll preserve my sanity,
in this world of inhumanity.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
Everybody needs a *****
No thanks I can create on my own
My idiosyncratic thinking
Is bouncy as the suns atom
Looking for a reason to capitalise
On mind control apparatus
But read on please you
Can become my apprentice
Because this poetry can heal
Dimensions of the brain
A poetic analeptic that heals
When feeling down at heel
The bidirectional pulse wave
Of another person is not a desire
My encephalon is creative
Enough to excite you on the microwave
So adjust the frequency
Even try shortwave to find life
In space because this poet
Has no ***** dependency
My style is cramped with the BCI
Purloin’s my opportunity
To be unique in writing
Being a survivor & spry
The invasion of privacy is deplorable
Taking advantage of the poor you do
You have privacy so should I too
Reading people’s brain is irreconcilable
Don’t need two people to write a pen
I don’t want to be a ***** in the pig sty
And get ***** with other ranks of pigs
Every person’s brain is a personal den
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 11:54 AM UTC
Fine powder of the hour,
a blissful blue
Take a wiff
Just a sniff
Arouse-awake
gravity
Let us sink into the earth’s core and melt into the soil,
We shall grow into beautiful flowers and trees
At this hour
nirvana
Euphoric touch
humble momentum
docile caress from a drug
Analgesic-Analeptic
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
my violent ideations
quell at the presence of
you only
as you lean in for a kiss
i find myself again
in some analeptic bliss
my mind is subdued by
only you
but you stepped out from
my dreams and now
you haunt reality
and this love is just an addiction
that i can't help but feed.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
Crisp air, crisp air
wistful whisper
weeping writhe
Crisp air, crisp air
Pale eyes, dainty lips
Crisp air, crisp air
Thaw
amorous embrace
Flushed air, flushed air
wistful kiss, crimson lips
blossom, bloom
bloodless doom
Pleased ease from a faithful and analeptic ******
-Rouse, rise, awaken
just a delusion, dream;
Only musing
Fizzle
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
when shuttle feeds show the earth on fire
and unprovened ashes stray from the pyre
ammonium nitrate will still be there
to keep us unvitiated, cold, and bare.
not that we'll need it, the sun can warm
with its dying light it is no longer "aurum"
but "ater."
lying next to me, a body in destitution
rags and bones and circumlocution
no medicine can fix you, no analeptic drug
only the attraction of the gravitational tug
for when we are done with cosmic consorts,
we will be only sedimentary quartz.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
*nothing as reckless as a feigned indifference, reckless with a negative connotation- that is-
a pretended falseness and concealment of passion, obsession, a love….
inconsiderate of a universe’s ability to destruct, to ****** away any given scenario, to wipe clean the gravity between two souls, two minds, too much gambled. too large of a bet. high risk little return, no return.
none at all.*
we bathe in sorrow hoping it lightens to laughter.
ashing cigarettes on our skin, dexterity
laziness in us all
leaving coffee black
leaving ashes paraphernalia of the love I burnt
with fists that turned cold, so cold, unclenched
a melancholy weeping for the sighs of metal breath.
an injection of remorse, what’s it quenching? what’s it worth?
what’s it asking? what’s it taking?
are we sinning? are we praying?
where’s the Dying end, where’s it stop,
tonic, what’d it tell you? did your analeptic 'screaming-to-the-ceiling' testify to the woes endured by a life on earth, a life lugged through, broken by its intricacies
we’re all on hands and knees
singing, sobbing, pleading, throbbing
it’s a beauty in the dead leaves, the Fallen I feel badly for, a reaching sympathy,
beyond what my hands express
we embody selfish bringings
bursts of breath
balloons of noise of gasps of the lapse preceding death
is it hypocritical to enjoy the lack of closure, the abrupt ending, keeping bottles kept?
the myriad of leaving
the method to Drinking
heavy heaving
stumbling cross-legged through this party of contemplating Permanence, a greying breeding
*i imagine a man heading a room ceasing noise not having to demand it no, rather whispering, whispering streams of thought of consciousness.... or the lack of it
on buzzing fragments of philosophy and rationale.....
or the lack of it*
the lack of a sounding foundation
the lack of a solid grounding of a planned pathway of a plan at all,
bottomless to the Bottom of the top of the
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC