"hallucinatory" poems
I'm lost in translation,
bound
by hallucinatory sensations,
found
between border and sea,
cold but free
like a continental breeze
that drifts lonely
to shore.
Still so unsure.
Then lost again once more.
This time she's lost like never before.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 10:20 AM UTC
Is not equivalent to a broken leg.
Who came up with that analogy?
Someone who hasn't experienced either
Seems the only probability.
It's far more akin to a giant spasm,
Contorting your leg against your will,
And stopping it seems highly unatural,
And each doctor prescribes different pills.
Nobody has fluctuating broken legs,
Or fractured limbs that cause them to count
The precise number of steps they take,
And despair if it's the wrong amount,
Or healing bones that turn reality
Into hallucinatory nightmares,
Or make you stay awake all week,
And start berating chairs.
But the worst of that analogy
(It drives me quite insane!),
Is that broken legs are quick to heal,
And cause a lot less pain.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
Abigail, Abigail, keeps haunting me
I don’t remember when it started
Has to be the first seed of love
That planted Abigail in my heart
And etched it there for good….
In Martha I saw Abigail, in Ethel
In them all I chased Abigail
They were good, all of them
Flawless, spotless, free from blame
Lovable, dependable, transparent….
Yet I kept seeking Abigail
With a hallucinatory torment!
Did ever my eyes touch her once?
In a dream woven with fleeting romance
Or her face shone once in the moon
And melted as dew drops in the dazed dark!
Abigail my perpetual phantom
I neither get her nor fathom
I age, Abigail is ageless
Always there, but beyond embrace!
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
Do you perceive the deep crack within the fulcrum of the universe?
Daylight and darkness blend into a hypnagogic and hallucinatory kaleidoscope, where the art of fantasy rises from oceanic depths in the form of a seductress who rides upon the wings of a horned god.
We could even enter into meaningful discourse, as we contemplate psychoactive echelons of spiritual intensity?
Are you hungry?
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
The woods have become denser
Where roots have gone deeper
Lost between the intricate mesh
Of the branches and that hold
Embracing each other in a synergy
Here the lost soul is looking for a way
To navigate between the labyrinth
Ideas and thoughts are not porous
Ground realities have become grim
Recoiled are the roots deep within
Looking to move away from the lacunae
As the woods come closer and grasp
This soul has no answer to the questions
Pertinent doubts are raised
No looking away from the harsh world
Feeling crushed between two realities
A hallucinatory phase feels so real
Nothing but prisoners we are
Caught between the woods of reality
Souls filtered us through travails
Here are the sediments seeping
Deep into the ground, where roots reclaim
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
*Winter, tricky entrapper,
cozy cuddler, night fiddler
nuzzler, tantalizer, whistler
sharp nailed cruel lover
seasonal unfailing seductress,
sprawling on the bed cloth of December,
rolling over a few months either side,
I would never take her for granted.
I see her peep through
the window curtains,
spying at the warm days eyeing me
and waiting for her to climb down the steps;
she is jealous, as she wants to linger
playfully riding on my back.
she seeped in to my blood stream,
like the narcotic effect of grass,
before I know it happens
little by little to make me
forget my other loves completely
even without my permission.
Her wiliness is stealthily at work,
to monopolize me fully
separating me from others
yes, winter is cleverness clad in white.
Now, I am at her mercy, completely
my fingers, chest and lips strangely
enjoy the cold caresses, she gives each!
I realize, she has taken over-
my body and paints my mind's canvas,
with bubbling hallucinatory white,
she wants others tightly on her leash,
my other loves complain:
"you act just what is her will
you always wear her fragrance,
on you what an influence she wields!"
can I help when winter my darling,
brooks no excuses!
She exposes me before others
I look like a pusillanimous one,
cowering and cringing before her
none, even my true love, has
such absolute control over me
like she exerts, it's a secret
but true that I wriggle to get out,
of this white net she tenderly knitted-
for my comfort, which is,
pleasurable I think, to an extent,
yet difficult to accept at the same time.
Let us part before long, not to make
our relationship much complicated,
I'll wait, till the next season arrives
you are in my list of periodic partners,
I'll be ready with warmth in my heart,
for your eventful visit, that leaves
an impression far too long to ever forget.*
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
Sky is a taut, grey net spread,
at its best in creating panic,
relentless day a brutish marauder,
drained of color of every kind, bleak,
even thought of you distant, my nectar
plays hide and seek, I am plunging
in a hallucinatory spin, down, down.
From inside a furnace closed
with a tight lid under which heat
in it's fiery glory permeates
like never before, a full- throated roar,
without any sound it travels around,
in waves after waves after waves,
to scorch every single thing under
the blood thirsty sun, on a hurried
march for revenge,green turbaned
trees and scarf adorned branches
changed all those embellishments
gone bone dry,now stand apologetic
like kids that made bed wet and caught
red handed, shrunk in shame and pain.
Narcolepsy reigns, drowsiness
day and night, like marijuana haze
follows.
This summer makes its name stick
in bad books,making T.S.Eliot look
shame faced for calling one past tame April,
uncharitably the cruelest of it all.
But this, this is an unbridled wild horse
none can in no way do anything to stop.
When even the last drop of water from
the pond evaporates,sunburn peels the skin,
sun stroke down people, who are unaware,
cruelty of April, becomes monumental.
Perhaps in few days time May could barter
that bad name from April,I'd easily guess.
Buildings , in rows and rows lie, til horizon,
like blood drained corpses all though the day,
the appetite for life, they evidently has lost.
Song birds on flowered trees, have gone mute,
doves scamper, dart in to the air, with hope
to get few drops of water from somewhere
Kindhearted few fill water and feed on containers
for stray birds,taking cue from the practices of forefathers.
Change in climate is an ogre, that could with bare hands
smash pompous attitudes and other human constructs!
Will there ever be a limit, to the red eyed monster,
avarice, we all pamper, within our inner courtyards,
that forces human beings to to do "Harakiri"
like a proud Samurai does with his own sword.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
a new vocabulary is driven
as the authentication of genius
one that convinces a migration
toward imagined conjugations
of constellated false inflections
mirrored words on camera
dematerializing radical mutations
interspersed with graffiti and poster sounds
words, sentences in cadence
framed vowels, recordings of consonants
a punctuated acceleration of the visualized
the scanned and the incalculable hallucinatory
holographics of a language in which
communication is not spoken directly
but becomes the audible interpretation
of a microwave
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
It's her, the woman of steely resolve,
who fills every lighted part
of my consciousness,so thankful, I am to her
The wife who never lets down
her man who faltered and fell,
love being the ***** in her armor
she is careful not to hurt there,
our eyes exchange texts, only
we could read and an instance
She was the one who found me out
lost from the neighborhood of her heart,
brought me back from the outback
from the jaws of the beasts of prey,
where i was stuck in a thorny thicket,
lost almost for ever bleeding,pale,
if only she didn't decide to conduct
a one woman adventure, a rescue mission
against all odds,with much *****
and presence of mind, one rarely see
even in alpha males,who habitually
boast aloud,of having ***** to stand up
against any adversity and fight.
For me it was she who did it and all alone!
Young and callow,
a bird of infirm wings still,
alone i flew long distances
circled around,hallucinatory visions,
lost my way, eventually went down,
my love may have failed before,
but she happened ,in the moment of epiphany,
otherwise would I ask her , without a second thought
to be with me all through the journey of my life?
It would not have been,but her heart listened
to my voice wistfully spoke to it, as if becoming weak,
caught in a storm lashed over the thicket and
she came searching at the right time, rescuing me .
Gun fights and volcano eruptions we survive,
even thunder storms, mad dog attacks and cheats,
broken hearts and misfortunes of every kind too.
Never do I forget this dear face of courage,
the woman staying firmly behind me, a sturdy rock,
sticking to her faith on me and a prayer on her lips,
with the staunch belief that I'll come out a winner.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
Whimsical reason where are you? Come back to me!
Please tell me what happened to all I always believed.
I lost my direction, goddess of love, she is all I can see,
my muse, my addiction, my love, my reason to be.
Despite that it hurts me this fire inside,
I’m not willing to fight it, I just want to give up.
I'm losing my mind, I shall recognize,
she happens to be the beat of my heart.
Stunned by her beauty, the moon has to hide.
Softened by her voice, cicadas shut up.
The swans on the pond come close to admire…
the hallucinatory aura she’s leaving behind.
Who am I to be fighting this divine force?
Wasn't she created to show me just how
the blessing of love is granted to those
who dare to fight their judgement with their soul?
I'm bound to accept there is only one choice…
To let go on my pride, to be honest to me,
to surrender the keys, to accept to rejoice.
to take off all my shields and to let my love be.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
The new family dog
sits at the table
with sugar in his cereal
I talk to him so he won’t be lonely.
I ask him how his day was.
He looks at me
through his brown dog eyes
sitting in the chaos
of a hallucinatory disease.
I sit at the sidelines
of gradual Death.
I babysit him on weekends
and even from the shore, i can see him
on his island
chasing the tail
of dissipating thoughts.
He wasn’t always a dog.
He had a big bushy afro.
And a truckers moustache
that got him attention from the ladies.
He managed an automotive parts franchise
and travelled often.
He owned twelve of the worlds finest tobacco pipes, and
smoked *** out of all of them.
He married the love of his life
at 19 years old.
When the doctor told them, she would never bear children.
But he watched
four boys become men.
And only two were adopted.
He became a grandfather
and every passover, he sat in the throne
of a kingdom
he built.
His grandchildren
loved him
unconditionally.
When he tells me these stories now,
he sits behind glass, where he watches the kingdom.
Without him.
Sitting at the breakfast table, I want him to know:
I love you, I can’t help you.
I love you—
Goodbye.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
she’s got the Oxycontin blues and an appetite for Ritalin
a body made for fixation
Wellbutrin XL 300 MG to cope with hallucinatory voices
little lonely, melancholy mollie keeps her gloominess away through raw physical exertion
Prozac to highlight her manic side
she lacks emotional stability
****** to walk her off the end
2 ***** bottles and some ******
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
i.
Last eve', whilst mine Filipino rose
Was falling deep into her slumber;
I started to doze off, into hypnagogic state
I wasn't sleeping, nor was I fully awake.
ii.
In the midst of this hallucinatory reality
I couldst discern a tender mild voice, betwixt this actuality;
The strong yet forward word's spoke as this to me
Brandon, "doth thou want to cometh home to JESUS CHRIST" ?
iii.
As tis the word's JESUS CHRIST were in italic bold font
From the way it was saidst, it was sung as an angel wouldst singeth his name up in heaven; someone, not knowing whom, asked if I wanted to cometh home, was this an angel, or a dream?
iv.
Ive hadst encounter's with demonic being's daily, as tis I've had angelic encounter's as well, wouldst twenty seven be mine last;
As I've thought of this a many whilst's, as tis every musician of mine I've loved died at this age, as two plus seven equal's nine.
v.
Nine, mine favorite number, mine sport's digit always chosen as a boy, nine, the number meaning completion in all religion's;
The figure representing the completion of life's own cycle, as tis so many star's completed their journey at 27, was I being called?
Ivi.
Didst someone asketh me to cometh home? Back where I belong? To the star's? To God's son? Number's alway's meaneth something; in mine bible, in all religion's, in all thing's, as tis angel's speaketh in front of thee or in dream's, was that mine angel? Calling me?
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
do I possess an inner reality
one of hallucinatory psychosis
and if so is it
incorruptible
immutable
does it float on my breath
confiscating my words
is it a projection of my self
like watching a movie
disconnected
yet caught on the edge
of a dematerialization
which reflects images that mob my head
causing me to think of rats
that slink out of drains at noon
and whispers in the mouth
like a static interference on my mind
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
As a man, I contemplate my thoughts just beyond the boundary of breaking waves on the shore. An endless symmetry stands before me. The ocean with its crash and calm takes any and all forms. Yet though it morphs its shape, its nature always remains. To be life and to contemplate life. A mere thought that has enchained the minds of greater men. In the grand symphony of time, we find ourselves in the 21st Century. Where there are those who postulate the Theory of Illusion. Each of our own odysseys reduced to the hallucinatory will of my brain. Tell me then, how does one illusion contemplate its own existence from within? My gaze refocuses out to the endless blue horizon, and I imagine the shape of it all. Though we take many forms, our nature prevails. Social animals some would say. I prefer a different metaphor, shepherds of knowledge. Though our collective knowledge flaunts many costumes, our true nature perseveres unfettered. Through the ages we carry all human ingenuity, meanings, and purpose inside some unspoken tome. It does not erode against the battering winds of time. It can not be sunken to the depths. It endures in this very contemplation. My wandering inquisitive mind cannot help but wonder what abstract thought will be captured in this very spot a thousand years from now. For some this conjures a mysterious existential dread, but I can only stand and smile. My mind lets me step outside the binding flow of time and watch the world unfold. Campfires under the crescent moon to villages etched out on verdant ground, and here now to the grand gusto of modern cities. Endless forms and shapes pushing towards our ultimate nature. To understand that purpose in the universe if left by our boot impressions on the mud. The cosmos is our endless ocean. Out there; waiting, for our contemplative minds to shape it.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 2:54 AM UTC
I've been away for a long mystery walk
When you knocked at my locked door.
Far away, under a smiling sky I was waiting
For a red rose to open her eyes fully,
To appreciate her beauty and breath in
Her fragrance, that'd prompt me to wait
Till you visit after all those stormy years.
But see what did happen instead,
A miracle that should not have happened!
You have come seeking me, how can I put it,
'Against my wish?' Am I right there?
I was expecting to hear your footsteps
Even when you step out from your cloister.
My hermitage was eager to hear your knock.
Much much earlier, but you put it off
On account of some unknown reason
But where did I go wrong,on your arrival?
Even if I am as swift as wind we won't have
A chance to embrace each other....heareafter.
Time is the juggernaut that decides the laws
Of the hallucinatory world we believe ours.
When the time ceases at a big crunch
We are free from the hallucinogen we are fed.
Feb 15, 2020
Feb 15, 2020 at 12:27 PM UTC
Baby, as ancient as you are
your naivety worries me,
or is it my own? Thinking I
could ever have you again.
Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees
again to set eyes upon glory
of man named Antonio Guadi,
his Sagrada De Familia.
Is he finished with you yet?
Will he ever be? Would I want it so?
Artisans carving sanctity to sky,
what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done?
Do, continue on forever, give me
chance to return.
Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian,
with pollished rellics of former
architecture found in his beaten grains.
I long to melt there once more, in awe of
noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes
taking witness to painted Catalonian
women, ******* with holy devotion
dipping faithful fingers into your
waters, and signing the cross before
dipping into blueness. Good Catholic
girls they are. And handsome Gods about,
oiling each other and bearing wittness
as well. The ice cream boy, is he
grown now? Does he walk by open
mouthed still, where we left such
imprint in the sand for all to see?
When? If, I arrive again, will we walk
Las Ramblas, stare at human
statues, dance with gypsies, drink
Absinthe and be taken by spell of
Green Fairy? Will we then not care
that pretty pick-pockets rob us
blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory
love of it all! Hold me in your fortress
walls forever, should I ever, return.
My Barcelona Baby, take me back.
PJ Poesy
p.s. I never left you.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
Porcelain astronauts waltz across the cosmos
they gather stars in their skirts
and twirl to the beat of heady pagan drums.
Filmy petals unfold beneath their pastel feet
and chanting begins as the heavenly cords quiver,
with manifold breaths.
The respirators hum
surrounding engines that putter along
with the crashing of wagon wheels,
who carry these fragile seraphs,
these willowy cherubs
- no longer cherubs but voyeurs -
along stardust trails and porous bone bridges.
Enormous broken knuckles swell to cages,
dust marbles the starry effigies,
and a slightly hallucinatory green glow pervades it all.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
detention lasts an hour,
how many times do you think
i'd write the statement?
this is before the dark-web,
before Contraband Anonymous,
oh hell, i can write you Orwell's
1984 in nanoseconds,
about how you should drink and not
ingest hallucinatory drugs,
not least the pharmacist quotient
available...
but prior to... hmm... the N.S.A. is
still my friend, they have the conversations
of the culprits, and Tsar Putin jacking
off to the sound of Apollo 13's mission failure...
and have i the ***** to say it?
i think i do.... unless a Martian descends,
or Jupiter encrusts into a ball of hot
cranium of fire, then we're left with Pluto being
the penultimate ice-ball before
the thing that killed the dinosaurs comes
along in hookah Kiwi haka style
for a fantasia of the Parisian catwalk...
chew wee a mega fibia, aye Scotch,
aye Ben Nervous - mega choo backpacker
and mm, hoo see the Nedtherlands!
and then we all get to nibble on our excited-lower-lip
the French revolved around to hark:
oriental in Romanian: h = r = haaark!
agling to a gagging too.
poetry - you make sounds, you don't
intend to make sense... it's your *******
tongue as a trumpet... what else?!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC
*it’s not perfect... but **** me... there’s a life to be lived... even if it’s just defined as walking the dog, or drinking a pint! let’s just rearrange the solar system spheres with a game of snooker to make summer random with winter of the least expected follow-up.*
you catch me playing with my fox / cat
purring his ***** slingshot
arousal
just where the spinal cord in music begins
and the evolutionary testament ends...
you catch me there in the drift of night...
and i’ll bet you 5 quid to have found quantum physics...
a particular instance in a universe of innumerable
stasis plurals of decipherable energy
to pluck and theorise, like autumnal flowers readily drifting
from the tsunami of green of summer to brown mahogany of autumn.
here’s one for the puppet engineered to dance
tugged at with its tail the solitary cursor;
paw print dot dot dot? i had my two thumbs on it,
squeezing out the hallucinatory juice of neglect,
with scoffer ready bouncers of peeled wallpaper about to
tattoo me in political conversation of slime slogans to shout!
i heard squatters were about... i didn’t hear anything from newcastle,
i guess the second mongolian invasion / investiture
came from the north... rather than east anglia / saudi arabia.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
a wisp of smoke curls up--heavenward
until it disintegrates into nothingness
a burnt tip-- alighted by an orange flame
that flickers quick from a cheap Bic lighter
the cigarette dangles tantalizingly
between two fingers-- index and middle
it's a balancing act--
to stay away from the ashes
and to not drop your sustenance
dark red lips slightly parted
nearly purple, but not quite
as if a speeding car halted at an invisible border
the arbitrary line between purple and red
she exhales
the smoke coming out in elongated ohs
once the smoke clears
she is gone
after all,
she was
a hazed out,
high-defying,
hallucinatory,
dream
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:47 AM UTC
I came to your hometown team
inserted in hallucinatory dreams
inspired sweaty with fused realms
Is it real that you stole Mona Lisa?
At the heart of Louvre in 1911
Is it true that you sneaked her?
was it for a muse or a lover to use?
She would have viewed you sideways
then make love to you at the coffee table
Her beauty enthralled yours in entirely
blending on easel with pencil onto a canvas
Her palate would have swooned your palette
Her very kiss would have paralyzed in ecstasy
abducting your perpendicular in angular zones
Then you framed it on Guillaume Appollinaire
The poet play wright whom face you just forgot
under the oath, in the sweet name of freeing art
from the prisons of extortionate museums fixtures
the same exhibitions holding your name and fame
charging fees for a walk around the rhythm of art
a melody not each an every artist will be granted
You made the goddesses and then reduced them to dust
Fernanda soothed the childhood nightmares to lust
Olga the ballerina whom you couldn't share the assets
Marie-Therese the 17year old who hang herself to death
Dora Maar who fought so hard to get your affection
Francoise who left law school for your immortalisation
Jacqueline your passion who you wooed with a dove
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
Fragments
I am zip-lined in fragments
Hallucinatory
Un-full
Quixotic
Unredeemed
I bite
My
Tongue
And my
Thoughts
E
X
P
L
O
D
E
Like fire crackers
Whacking and zipping
In that dense blue sky
Heavy with my thoughts,
Your feelings,
Heavy with the world’s conscience
But projecting out that
Blue light
Like some kind of
Innocent
Inner
Inside it
I drive a nail into my heart
Slipping
Dropping
My brains all over the place.
Soul shattering in shards across
The quiet grass.
I make noise
I’ve made noise
We’ve all made
Too much
******* noise.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
Oh it's true that I've left myself slipping into this weird sensation, this hallucinatory feeling of security and self-reliance.
This feeling isn't all it's cracked up to be, in fact, it's completely devoid of what I thought it was supposed to be.
It's all upside down what I feel here.
Confused, I ramble the deepest desires I have to myself to keep focused on human goals.
I know that I'll never see space with my own eyes but I still have hope to experience isolation on my own.
It's such an incredible thing to perceive life the way I have, and the way you've yet to experience.
Somewhere we'll find each other in the way that it was meant to be, until then of course, we'll live life the way we best know how.
Life will be displayed in a thick red, exposing the flaws that flow to the surface revealing holes in the atmosphere that allow for indifference and carelessness.
"Manifest Destiny!" I shout from my pedestal, proclaiming that everyone has their own possibility and action, when I know that truthfully we are all just reactions, impulsively driven to the actions that shape who we are and what we are to become.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 12:15 AM UTC
*this isn't exactly absinthe! and yes, i was once accused of writing a "word salad" conceptualisation of said language... personally i just think the said language is, a bit ******** of course not on a per se basis, but simplified by people who speak it, at said time, 2017.*
what's this washing-line doing
in my bedroom?!
is this what you call secondary blinking?
seriously! what the **** is this washing
line doing in my bedroom?
is this a bad joke about drying pancakes?
god... i've been watching too
much hotel transylvania;
either that or i spent this afternoon
hanging clothes and bedsheets on the said lines
hence the millisecond's worth of hallucination,
what, you can't be serious,
a milliseconds's worth of "seeing" a washing-line
in your bedroom?
if i'm going to "dry" my pancakes
i'd use a napkin to soak up the fat from the frying...
oil from pancakes wouldn't drip, or i.e. drool
like dog's bother for excess saliva...
and if i spoke to a child of mine,
i'd say: i really need to explain the concept of ikea to you...
which would be much easier than any
talk of ***
but no, i'm pretty sure it's too much hotel transylvania;
and it's this: snapping out of a dream, or a
millisecond's worth of hallucination;
shortcrust l.s.d., and i'm basically blinking out of:
a washing-line in my bedrom;
so we have the underwear.... what's hanging on it?
underwear, bedsheets, shirts, towels...
i'd love to add: napkins, handkerchief,
bowties... but i can't... it's enough for that millisecond's
worth of blink and hallucinatory conjuring of the washing line
in my bedroom to riddle me for the next two days;
what did a critique of the famous grouse
turn me into? ignition for a madhouse?
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 6:47 PM UTC