"dextromethorphan" poems
"Sit down boy, you're tired and you must sleep"
The voice said to me as I walked the city street
Fuzzy steps taken to a bench I saw over yonder
Sleepily wandering, the streetlights I ponder
Passive disorientation, I'm lost it would seem
Consciousness becomes a trickle, as opposed to a stream
Dragging myself over shards of glass, paralysed and sleeping
A shadow 'neath the moonlight seems to be steadily creeping
Isolated in this park in the darkness on a sigma plateau
Dextromethorphan hallucinations are a spectacular show
I'm indifferent to the stranger, drowsy as he appears
Isolated in the nighttime winds, apathetic to his tears
Uncoordinated my head falling he takes a seat softly
Dissociative disorder makes me seem awfully frosty
Speaking of lands where the populace truly is free
Speaking unintelligible words, indirectly to me
The intrinsic disconnect of this generation scorned
As the sun rises in the sky, glittered clouds adorned
My head lulls lackadaisically, I'm feeling unwell
But my stomach is eased when I think of sweet Maybelle
[Hers is a Nabokovian tale of passion in proto-dystopian wastelands
The first time we kissed, I held her soft head tenderly in my hands
The serenade of rain pitter-patter on the ground, like her feet when she's near
and hearing her name is as cathartic as those old jazz records I hold so dear
But, oh my pretty Belle, your age is a concern to me (and the eyes of the law)
So to forget your sweet face, I pop pills neglectfully, passing out on the floor]
Lifting head slowly from the rough ground dampened
Four years passed and I'm wondering what happened
Fuzzy headed blues, clear my mind with OJ and ******
Walking fast to her house, cannot wait to see her
A rap-tap on the door with thoughts of romantic enumerations
What she said and what I saw defied every one of my expectations
My innocent Belle, with her cheeks rosy red,
looks me in the eyes, and wishes I was dead
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
i watch birds fly every day
i watch cars drive every day
i watch planes soar through the sky every day
i watch people falling through the ground every day
a few times a week i see children morph into nightmares
a few times a month i see my friends walk through walls
every so often i can smell a church burning down somewhere
every once in a while everything goes quiet
all the colors around me shift either 4 shades darker or 2 shades lighter
lighter
i want to be lighter
i want to be able to lift off the ground just like the birds
i want to be so light that i can slither through molecules
as thin as a paper
i want to walk through walls
i want to morph into something scarier than my nightmares
i want to remember what it feels like to not be scared of falling through the floor
i want to burn down a church
and then cry and beg for forgiveness at the feet of the lord
i had to, i'm sorry.
it was the only way to feel like he's truly gone.
i want to be high on the feeling of screaming at the top of my lungs.
but i can't find anything that raises me up enough to feel that.
diphenhydramine morphs children into nightmares.
dextromethorphan makes people fall through the ground and walk through walls
the devil himself makes me remember the smell of a
church
burning
down
but i've never seen a church burn down
perhaps it's just my mind manifesting my thoughts into physical sensations
Mar 17, 2023
Mar 17, 2023 at 12:34 AM UTC
Since adolescence
I have been an insomniac,
something sought after
these days,
by ignorance
masquerading itself as
open-mindedness.
An hour to me is not an hour to you.
The same standards apply,
only because those
restrictions can not be lifted.
Such a beautiful tragedy,
concerning a man made
mandate,
that dictates calendar years
and sixty second intervals.
The sound a scribble makes
at three in the morning is
a continuing story of dark circles
and ever slowly forming indentations
that are everlasting countenances.
The sound dead leaves make
as they're stepped on quickly
shows a path yet to be discovered,
leading to an uncovered face formed
by bark, mottled with sweat
as sweet as syrup.
A petrified face.
Covering a worn sponge.
One willing to grow and absorb.
A tired brain.
Swimming in Dextromethorphan.
Controlling a hand
that extends to yawn.
After counting
sixty sheep,
I'll start my next interval.
One nod to know
it worked.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
(I.)
Only a fool would try, in line by line
Of fair assessment honestly expressed,
To paint with words the finest of the fine
Beauties of which you solely are possessed.
No elegance would not seem spread too thin;
And he who'd try would never be believed,
For none would see as truth the truth therein,
But think it all a lover's eyes deceived.
So candid pics and videos must record
What speech could never adequately limn,
And would be doubted elsewise word for word,—
The evidence being hearsay and far too slim.
Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:—
All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out.
(II.)
Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares
Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose.
Your globby eyes find shade 'neath oxen hairs.
Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows.
With microscopic mites your shiny skin
Glints, like a hanging fruit's with aphid flies
Flitting around about and out and in,
Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry's.
Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth.
Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan.
Oh! oh! to be that rubber soul beneath
Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can!
But here again the painting is askew:
It lacks that certain something that's in you.
Yes, rubber soul.
*
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
He stands, backs away, gazes,
Maybe...
Choosing from the stacked shelves of colour, sweet and sour, shining over, in, out, around. Tempting a step forward like orphans waiting at the ready to be sold to the mines.
Maybe...
Two arms but a thousand choices. A hundred? A thousand to choose.
His friends have moved on from his isle, to toys and foods, baking stalls of fish and chunder.
Buzzing fluro hyper-emotive lights, his shoulders naked and bare for the world. Not yet lashed and ***** by tendrils of the ****** society. Eels in soup, you know, squirting with thirty boys in ************ to the beat. A dub proposed, seconded, played forward and blasted through fender-box for the dextromethorphan eye to behold.
Bass, Blues and Angus and Julia ring out through the cavernous space in our floating head. A gas burner of sweet Mary Jane keeps the balloon floating high above. Two ***** hang from its base while the **** has long since fallen to the peoples below, blotting out the sun. Shocking pictures of girls, boys and gear sticks. Two babes one pacifier, the new viral hit. 3, 2, 1 your 15 minutes are up and you see no more out of those big naive eyes of yours.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:52 AM UTC
late at night
when the dextromethorphan
turns on me
I can't get your name out of my head
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
this is what gothmess says, in 140 characters or less..
on going out, and going home:
"just can't be happy tonight"
"so I left. unwilling to be anything but alone"
some things are better left forgotten:
"forget what I was going to tell you"
about to pass out:
"radio silence"
cough medicine:
"dextromethorphan"
an autobiography:
"if you like what you can't have and the smell of stale cigarettes
you're sure going to love me."
"and that's dedicated to somebody"
a confession:
"theres an awful lot of rapid life changes being thrown at me & so typically I've decided to sleep more and smoke more and be lazier overall"
"additionally I might add that all of my friends have discovered how infrequently I get laid and have decided to comment about it"
"so that feels nice. okay goodnight"
on relaspse:
"puked my throat out. the taste of loneliness is the taste of failure"
on alliterations:
"migranes and mixed feelings today"
on fine dining:
"stir fry is the best way to eat your feelings"
death cab for cutie references:
"tiny vessels from the other side of the microphone isn't great"
on setting goals:
"tomorrow I will wake up new and fresh and young and me"
"replacing all meals with green tea"
and not quite accomplishing them:
"old habits die hard"
"I didn't wake up new or fresh because I woke up me"
missing MySpace's "current mood" feature:
"tired and jaded and bored to tears"
potential comedy ideas:
" "my easter hickey" "
on having a hickey:
"tiny vessels *******
on alka seltzer cough and cold medicine:
"no such thing as a half dose"
"orange carbonated salvation"
on life outlook:
**** 'em"
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
The first time I kissed a girl her tongue was coated in morphine and I’ve been chasing that high ever since. I tried to replace it by soaking my brain with prescriptions: codeine, dextromethorphan, etc.
A chemical storm raging in my brain; a storm that’s aftermath is present to this day. I still feel the bugs under my skin at night, sometimes the room spins and I remember the revelations I had.
the one most prominent being that this is Hell, that there is no place better or worse than earth, we are in an actual living Hell and that comforts me just as much as it kills me.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
Two and a half years clean
and I still miss it every day,
it used to be hard for me
even to know there was a
bottle in my cupboards,
now, it’s just a lingering
thought, an ever present
"this is an option"
kind of like suicide
but suicide I’m much
more grateful for,
not that I want to die,
but that I want that control,
I’ve been saying so since I
was thirteen years old
that I’m not afraid of death,
I’m just afraid of not
being in control of it.
- S.G.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
It's an original sin, incandescent,
an absolutist's balloon monsoon,
but Eden's air comes in whipped cream cans;
the serpent had no need for names.
Blood hits the ice,
and the dextromethorphan hits too,
and yesterday, tomorrow, a crystal glows
briefly, never to be seen again.
The concrete tunnel is filled with spiders,
chewing at my brain as they suffocate,
beneath the weight of expectation.
And now, beneath this jellied tree,
I see the God I've ignored all these years,
and I bask in the artificial glow of LSD
before I realize my mistake.
Because when homeless men that went to Harvard,
smoke **** with you, hungover,
out of an Apple,
why change a thing?
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 4:06 PM UTC