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Harry J Baxter Feb 2013
It was a funny night
the boys were out on the back porch
eating sandwiches
of nutella and magic mushrooms
the girls were all upstairs
snorting tiny white lines
crushed prescriptions
and it hit me
a wave of light
pouring over me
again and again
"look at all the directions
we could go tonight"
so we went on a walk
through a winter wonderland
a sky divided
northern lights green
mars red
streetlights carrying rainbow halos
and these streets are paved with stars
the bushes bloomed with clouds
"there is no God
but I believe in love"
******* that was deep
falling deeper and deeper
whatever the opposite of being
comfortably numb is
they took the cigarette out of my hand
entranced by steel blue spirals
making their way into the thick night
"It's burning me"
humans seemed a whole lot more
worthwhile
and that rug felt like magic
on my bare feet
everything being so perfect
it made me wonder
if life isn't the hallucinogen
Nigel Obiya Apr 2013
PLANET NAIROBI (When the sun goes down)
Nur…
They were on the verge of losing this battle… it was only a matter of time, and he knew that. Through the window, he saw them advance, with a fierce swiftness that would have put anyone opposed to them at unease. Trembling uncontrollably, he reached for his weapon and held it firmly, ready to martyr himself for his family’s honour and legacy if need be. For they were not, and never would be known as a family of cowards, they were royalty... and he would rather go down fighting than cowering, that was the bottom line. But he knew that his sword, as well forged as it was, would be no match for Rath and his five hundred man strong battalion. So, biting his lower lip he waited for the pounding footsteps to reach the top of the stairs where he stood, the one solitary guardian to the throne. Martyrdom was his destiny.
“Let he that stands between Rath and the throne fall like the city walls!” Rath’s dominant voice bellowed as it got closer, too close for comfort.
He braced himself.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. And Nur... Prince Nur, finally got to come face to face with the scourge that had terrorised the lands of the sea for so long. A man of whom he had heard about from stories as a child growing up. A man that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. Nur realised that he had always been afraid of Rath, long before this moment, how was he supposed to fight this man when he was clearly at a disadvantage? For it was common knowledge that to go into battle afraid, was to go into battle prepared to lose.
Rath was a gigantic figure, and exuded the air of one who was accustomed to crushing his opponents and hadn’t experienced defeat in a while... if not ever. This man stood at almost eight feet tall, with rock hard muscles that seemed to pile on top of more muscle, threatening to tear through his dark skin. His long locks of unkempt hair fell over a face that could only be described as menacing. He had a permanent scowl that was complimented by his black, soulless eyes. And as they stared each other down, Nur couldn’t ignore the presence of sheer evil he saw in those eyes, a shiver of dread ran down his spine. He raised his blade.
“A child?” Rath barked, “A petulant child? Is that what this Kingdom’s defences have come down to? An infant?” He waved a dismissive hand at Nur.
“A prince!” Nur responded defiantly, raising his blade even higher and more confidently. This man may have been the epitome of terror, but Nur would be ****** if he was going to be talked down to in this manner, this was his palace.
“A prince huh? Prince Nur I presume? Your father was a brave man, I respected him. Even if I met his acquaintance only for a couple of minutes, before I slaughtered him. But I do respect a king that fights alongside his men, as opposed to other cowards I’ve had the pleasure of killing that had barricaded themselves in their chambers and let others fight their battles for them. King Thur was a rare breed... but a dead one all the same.” He laughed remorselessly as he said this. “And soon you will get to join your warrior father foolish one.”
Nur lost all sense of fear. Infuriated, his nostrils flared as he swung the blade with all the ferocity he could muster, slicing deep into Rath’s right forearm. Time slowed to syrup as he saw his adversary’s blood stain the sword, but realising that it wasn’t a fatal strike, he turned around swiftly, switching his stance just in time to see Rath’s massive blade come down on his head. Then there was a deathly silence.
The afterlife was nothing like he had pictured. It smelt of... he couldn’t quite place that peculiar smell. It wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Then he turned around and saw her. He deduced that she was probably the source of the smell. He noticed that smoke came out of her nostrils and mouth every few seconds after lifting a sticklike object to her lips. Nur mused at how wrong the high priest in their kingdom had been when he spoke about the place in the sun... the afterlife. It wasn’t anything like he had described.
But wait a minute! He realised that the sun was still above him, in the sky. He could see it. He could feel it on his skin. So WHERE WAS HE? He felt dizzy, unable to comprehend. Only a minute ago he was in the royal palace, facing certain death. And now he was... he didn’t know where he was, or even what he was. Was he dead? Transcended? Was this just his soul? If so, then how come he still had his senses? All these questions raced through his mind at the same time. He turned toward the lady, who seemed unaware of his presence. She was tall and very light skinned compared to him and her hair was tied in ponytail at the back of her head. He couldn’t make sense of her attire though, she seemed to wear a lot of clothing, garment over garment that covered her arms and legs. She was also extremely beautiful and had a slim womanly body most warriors would **** for, he noted, and felt himself flush. He tried to see what she was squinting so intently at and concluded that she was just staring into space as she drew, he realised now, on the tiny stick and blew out more smoke. That was when he noticed how high up they were, this palace stood almost five times as high as theirs. It was overwhelming to say the least.  He got up and walked over to her, deciding to leave his blade behind so as not to come off as a threat.
“Greetings?” He said politely. She jumped as if she had just seen a ghost, dropping the stick she was holding. He had clearly startled her, so he took a step back lifting his hands in the air to signify that he meant her no harm. She breathed rapidly and began to speak just as rapidly in a foreign tongue. Nur couldn’t understand what she was saying, but the hostility in her tone and her demeanour was hard to miss. He took another step back, ready to defend himself from an attack if need be. He had heard tales of an island with warrior women who could match, and beat, even the strongest male adversary in combat. He decided to tread cautiously.


Nasim...
Nasim Naikuni was beyond peeved. Who was this ******?  He had scared her half to death and almost made her fall off the roof, not to mention burn her favourite grey, three thousand shilling trouser suite when she dropped the cigarette. And what annoyed her even more was that he didn’t seem to register how ******* she was. He just stood there with a blank expression on his face, like a schoolboy waiting for his mistake to be explained to him. Nasim couldn’t stand slow people, they got under her skin. She was yelling at the top of her lungs, which was taxing to say the least, seeing as she had been smoking just seconds ago.
“Are you slow?” She shouted, tapping at her temple repeatedly. “What makes you think you can sneak up on me like that you fool? You almost killed me. Do you realise that?” Then she stopped and studied him, out of breath. She noticed that he seemed unable to understand English and so she switched to Swahili, “Nini mbaya na wewe?” What’s wrong with you? Still there was no response.
She gave him a once over. He dressed strangely. His large, golden brown pants that fluttered in the wind seemed to have been made from an expensive material, though it was like no material she’d laid eyes on before. It bordered somewhere between silk and suede. His shirt was also made of a similar material, but leather brown in colour, matching his leather boots that were laced and reached just under the knee. He stood an inch or two shorter than she did, but she guessed that was probably because she was in heels. He had long hair that seemed to fall halfway down his back in one long braid. He looked almost exotic as he tried to communicate, but she couldn’t place the language or his ethnicity, for his skin-tone was chocolate brown but his hair looked almost like an Asian’s, dark and straight. He spoke in a tongue she had never heard before. There was also something really classy about this boy, whom she guessed to be around eighteen years of age or so. It was like looking at a darker, more pampered version of Sinbad the sailor.
Nasim relaxed a little and decided to give the fellow a chance to introduce himself, in whatever way he intended to do so. He seemed to pick up on this and started explaining something to her, making a couple of gestures, and at some point she thought she saw him mimic a fight, and then  point to the sky. Nasim still didn’t know what he was talking about, but felt a semblance of communication begin to take form. He directed her attention to another part of the roof, probably where he had approached her from. And she saw the blade! With catlike agility she swung her purse at him, the blow caught him square on the jaw with a thud! The bottle of perfume she religiously carried around in it serving a different purpose on this day. He hadn’t seen it coming and so had no chance of stopping it. He staggered backwards as she made a run for it toward the staircase but felt a hand grab her ankle causing her to tumble onto the hot cement floor. At that moment her heart sank, for she knew that she was done for.


Nur...
Nur was perplexed, he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve the assault. The lady had seemed to be calming down, but all of a sudden she had lunged at him with a weapon he had first assumed to be a bag. Though, she didn’t strike with the strength that a warrior would have, and also had made an attempt to flee. This told him two things. One, she wasn’t accustomed to combat... and two, she had attacked more out of fear than strife. Which meant that she posed no immediate threat to him. Also, she was the only person he had met so far and his only hope of figuring out where he was. He couldn’t afford to lose her, not just yet, so he decided to try something he was ashamed he hadn’t thought of sooner. Nur spoke into her head.
‘I mean you no harm.’  He said, and waited. No response. He tried again, concentrating harder this time. ‘Can you hear me? I mean you no harm’
‘LET ME GOOO!’  Her thoughts screamed.
He could understand her, they had made a connection. Progress...

One year later. Nasim...
“Good afternoon people? You’re hangin’ out with me Nasim Naikuni on your favourite show Voices, where you can throw any question you have regarding life... and living it, at me and the voices in my head will answer them for you... yeah, you heard right, the voices in my head. I’ll be takin’ your calls for the next hour. Let’s begin shall we?” Nasim spoke into the microphone just before a voice-over added...
“NASIM NAIKUNI, THE ONLY RADIO PRESENTER THAT’S LITERALLY GONE BONKERS!” And then was followed by some rock music. ‘So what?... I’m still a rock star... ’ Pink’s lyrics belted out as Nasim removed her headphones to take a breather before she talked to her first caller. A breather... and also to have a bit of a chat with the voice in her head. She walked out of the studio into a corridor where she was out of sight, and concentrated, her eyes crinkling from the effort.
‘Hey, are you there?’
‘Uh huh.’ The prince replied.
‘Okay, we’re on in roughly three minutes. Make me look good babes’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘True dat. What are you doing?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘It’s one in the afternoon... ’
‘This is not my planet, therefore I’m not obliged to follow its rules. I can have a one o’clock breakfast if I want to.’
‘Brunch.’
‘What?’
‘Brunch, what your having would be brunch. Breakfast... aaand lunch?’
‘You see? You get all high and mighty on me about this and you even have a name for it? If it is so wrong to have breakfast at this time, then why would your people give the meal a name? I’m just saying.’ Nur said mockingly.
‘I give up’ She replied with a sigh.
‘Nas... Nas?’
Silence.
She walked back into the studio.
“Caller... you’re on air. Shoot.” Nasim said softly, leaning into the microphone.
“Hey Nasim, lovely job you’re doing by the way.”
“Why thank you dear, but I don’t deserve all the credit you know?”
“Yeah I know... you and the voices in your head... ha-ha! Anyway my name is George, and I’m kinda’ in a predicament at the moment. You see, I have a wife and a family... two kids, but I kinda’ got into this relationship outta’... obligation as opposed to real love...”
“Obligation?”
“Yes. I met my wife five years ago in uni’ and we dated. But looking back, I only got into the relationship because I felt I’d led her on and she loved me soo much, I just couldn’t disappoint her. So I got stuck in a phony relationship, at least on my part. Next thing I know, we are pregnant and... It’s been we ever since.”
“So you want to what? Get out of your marriage?”
“I want to be with the person I truly love...”
“Hooo... **! Scoreboard! Now we have lift off. And how long have you known this person that you truly love George?” She said this with a tinge of amusement in her voice.
“Six years... and we’ve been going out for the past two.” He sounded ashamed.
‘He sounds ashamed.’ She heard Nur say observationally.
‘No kidding.’ She retorted.
(In the past year or so, Nasim and Nur had come to an understanding somewhat. After she had struck him with her purse and the little scuffle they’d had on the rooftop, and after convincing herself that she wasn’t going crazy... or that the cigarette she had been smoking wasn’t laced with marijuana or some other hallucinogen, she finally gave in and listened to the voice speaking to her in her thoughts.
‘Please, just give me a chance to explain. I need your help lady!’ He sounded desperate.
She felt sorry for him, but still suspected she could be going nuts.
He continued. ‘I don’t know where I am. My father is dead and I don’t know where I am or how I arrived here, and you’re the only one that can help me right now...’
Nasim, touched now, replied. “How am I supposed to do that? And how are you doing this telepathy thing? Are you really doing this?” She shook her head violently, like a wet dog trying to dry itself, “I’m very confused right now.”
He looked even more confused. ‘Talk to me in my head, I think it is the only way we can communicate with each other.’
She didn’t know how to.
‘It’s simple, concentrate.’ He said reassuringly.
She tried. Still nothing.
‘I could hear you a moment ago, I don’t understand. Let’s try this slowly, repeat after me... Nur.’ He told her.
She heard him, and was thinking what?
He repeated, ‘Nur.’
She tried thinking the word he’d asked her to repeat as hard as she could but he didn’t seem to be getting anything. She decided that the cigarette must have been laced with something. Here she was, on the roof top of her work building trying to master telepathy, with a stranger who just happened to own a sword. This had to be a dream, a nightmare.
‘I must be high.’
‘Yes! Yes! You’re high!’ She heard the excited reply.
‘What?’
‘You did it!’ Nur said happily, ‘you figured it out. And yes, I was also meaning to ask you about how high we are.’
She had done it. Nasim could hear him and answer back, she felt oddly proud of this accomplishment. Then she asked puzzled. ‘High? You get high?’
‘I am high.’ Came the naive reply.
‘Oh...’
‘Why are we so high up? The palaces on our island are half the size of yours, are you that many in your palace that you need to build it so tall?’
Then she understood. And laughed... ‘Who are you? And how did you get here?’
‘My name is Nur... Prince Nur... how I got here? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ He was being honest.
And thus begun an adventurous relationship between the two. Nasim took him to her apartment that day, passing curious and disapproving looks all the way. The most difficult part being trying to explain to her boss why she was coming from the roof in the company of someone who dressed like a ******, as he put it. She made up something. And he gave her one of those I’ll accept your story just because... looks. Nasim found that hilarious. But she was glad she had asked Nur to leave the sword behind to be recovered later. That would have been a tad difficult to explain. They got to her apartment block and were met by more disapproving looks from a group of nosey old women, the type that love to mind everyone else’s business but their own, as they walked to the lift. And when they got into apartment F6 on the second floor, she introduced Nu
Planet Nairobi… wrote this a couple of months ago, it was turned down by one publisher and awaiting other publisher’s feedback. However, it’s been a minute so I decided to share it with my peoples… if you like my work, this one will get you going… it may have it’s flaws, but hey… I never said I’m perfect, I’m just a writer.
Reece Dec 2013
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay

That interim between dreams and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
When slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

Your scattered thoughts betray reality
and you
question everything - now waking
Smiling chief, chirping loud
Your body gathered and prepared
under torchlight in dusty tents
Ingesting iboga and that old familiar numbness overpowers
You've been here for a life now, looking back on your life now
hatasha hullah - dey
vey, okay, huttah, ulay

Witch doctor, tribal medicine, fanning smoke from a wild fire
flashing imagery akin to memories of when life was decadent
you remember the taste of stray rain drops on your upper lip on muggy British summer days
and waking on a beach, bloodied as the sand at your feet is the next recollection, how powerful
the act of reflection, as you recall the mirrors of the sea and your torn body weakened and inept
The gathered village chant in unison and splinter groups fall off beat only to rejoin intermittently

Remember the Burmese boy far from home on the Gabon shoreline
and he informs you of your own death,
and asks you why do you breathe still?

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey

On some beaten path lost in Angola you carried two packs, food for the world
but you fell starving and spluttered on the rock that looked like your home
Rebels run wild in jeeps black as night, your supplies strewn on rubble grounds
- hatasha hullah - dey
Taken in a flurry, twittering birds in far off trees betray your trust and fly away
in the opposite direction, and the juggernaut jeep catches air over uneven tracks
You were scared and crying under blindfolded eyes and captors jeered, captivated
- parablah nuh parrah
An orchestrated mass of military garbed children with rifles gather you abruptly
when the car stopped with a rumble
And tied to rusted rigs you're gagged and stripped, bloodied your face now
as they beat you and laugh
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
Congolese giant man, sword in hand and grimacing through bared teeth
Making bold gestures and speaking some inscrutable language
You cannot answer and fear is now in control, you shiver in the ghastly draft
On failure to answer you must be beaten, your back is lashed, repeatedly
- narralah, narrah, nutay
You remain silent but cry in disparity, after shrieks of horror finally escape your barren lips
Through stinging eyes you assess the surroundings after hours of torture when they retire
to their leather beds of shame and innocence faltered, try and remember how to live
- Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
Months must have passed, survive off insects and morning dew on the muddy floor
This African wasteland, time forgotten, child soldiers and lack of humanity is trivial
Always scheming, recollect the armament and through door-way shack trapped light
you see a clear path, and it is good
- ley hatasha hullah - dey
The pinnacle nightfall anticipated arrives, and your skinny wrists released now easily
(their faltering lack of knowledge and abundant braggadocio betray them)
AK laying in moonlight illumination, a sign of God perhaps, but experience proves otherwise
(How cruel the dreams you had of such a gift)
When they spot you leaving, the night lights up, wild crackle of gunfire, heart beats, tribal drums
(To massacre children, such proficiency, the dreams were mindful)
No lapse in concentration, you may ruminate on objective morality in due time
(Crawling through blood and bodies of children, so pure, cadavers tell lies)
The clearing ahead in giant trees, you run and don't look back, praying for no pursuit
(Another genocide committed by a white man, justified perhaps this once)
Weeks pass and you falter only to slurp rain water from Congolese sipping cups the leaves
(Blacking out somewhere in the Republic, or on a border or who cares, as you died long ago)
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
  ley hatasha hullah - dey

To awake from hallucinogen dreams, and cruel memories linger, it's painful you agree
Witch doctor still sings, lonesome now as the tribe apply ointments and silently pray
The fire still dances to some incredible song and your scars redacted, physical and other
How incredible the mind feeling fuzzy and that insane dream is just that - a dream
You black out again, a common occurrence but upon waking you're free, no tribe exists
With a sheepskin rucksack full of cassava, plantains and sugarcane and cocoa beans
Months pass and you make it to the North, when you leave Africa your body is new
and your mind is stable, no lingering cognizance or frightful thoughts of a forgotten ordeal

You arrive in Turkey, to partake in ***** with nimble girls
and I see you floundering on silken sheets,
My memories were fresh as the nymph on your lap
I write to you a note, and you turn alabaster, moon faced being
I was there always and saw every moment
Your ideals on morality are hazy at best, and to your behest I detest all that you stand for
Is your afterlife so pure, now that bodies litter the forest floor
and do you believe that I am not (a) God
and is this mere poetry, or an indictment of your folly and a warning to all whom engage
but do you not also see that every reaction was an action taken to your original action
and when all is said and done, do you no realise that from the day you were born
you were born a God and that God was born dead
and this is just that interim between expiration and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
when slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey
Mos Jun 2018
The tangible entity of consciousness is fleeting
Scene:
A elegant party but not quite extravagant
Clinking wine glasses echo through transparent walls
Twenty-two hundred lulls over the city like that of a shadow
This isn’t an ungodly hour nor is this a typical night
It starts when She enters in a red gown that elongates her figure
A pianist smirks in the corner — a grin that’s almost sinister
The clinking of wine glasses abruptly stops when its replacement of grim notes fills the glass house
The attendants still seem cheerful
(How peculiar?)
A stranger pulls her into a waltz but his eyes look hauntingly familiar
Unbenounced to her, He too dances with a stranger
Both on separate sides of the glass room
Both dancing with the unknown
Yet each pair seems to recognize some prominent feature
Nostalgic for what has never been
(How do you preserve a memory in reality?)
Through the glass house mirrors sit in obscure angles
One could see that within each reflection He and She were projected into the other room
Each glance towards the mirrors posed no questions
For both pairs seemed identical
Now their lives may have been content in accepting this dance with a “stranger” I suppose
But that was not the plan of this party
For guests grew tired of sipping on Beaujolais and listening to solem tunes
The pianist presented a different song, more lively yet equally eerie
Their feet paced with the new rhythm which called for a spin
(An act as dramatic as such was only proper for the scene)
With a grand gesture She turns, finally seeing the glass barriers
And for the first time that night He and She were face to face
A perfect dilemma to entertain an audience
In a frenzy She tried to speak
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
But each plea for affection deemed futile
For the grin on His face became that of the pianist
Her emotions were a downward spiral of gray shaded confusion
And with a sinister laugh He (or he) smashed the glass, shredding all source of reality
He was the hallucinogen and She was angry at him for making Her feel
And each guest cheered “bravo” demanding an encore
But this tragedy, dear friends, has come to the end
She’ll never know how the stars look where he is
(Is such a loss truly a loss?)
This poem is for two people
Met this easy chick that don't **** ****, she a no brainer
I said **** my duck and she said "What could be lamer?!"
Defamed, I went home cried and smoked some ******
Watch teletubbies in my ****** like my last name was schiefer

I went to bed and heard a scream
like R.Kelly I peed my sheets
Turns out the ****** was laced some sort of hallucinogen
I'm worried that in my bloods a carcinogen
decided not to worry cause whats the point
We all die so chill and roll a joint
I'm hitting my stride here ja feel?
xx Jan 2016
I am not your breaktime deed --
That cigarette you roll
Between your fingertips.

I am not your black bow --
The one that you wear
When you're on call.

I am not your alcohol --
That bottle on your lips
And your face to the floor.

I am not your suede shoes --
Your night time glitter
In your daytime locker.

I am not your perfume --
Bottled and locked,
Always consumed.

I am not your secret --
A kept thought
Inside your head.

I am not your personal thing --
You neither own me
Nor use me.

I am your drugs --
And I brim your head
With what you think
Is true.
M Jan 2015
I was always told to avoid drugs at all costs,
but what about the one that brushed its fingers against my neck?
that got me addicted with words
injected itself into my bloodstream via soft, slow lips
how do I stay away from the slickest poison of all,
the poison that has poured heated breaths into my ears
left dark bruises in unseen places on my chest.
how can I avoid the hallucinogen I love most,
what do I do to avoid you?
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
She came as a breath of fresh air

As beautiful as
Morning Glory
Embraced by dew bathing
Epiphanic
Under a yawning sun

Gentle as a breeze
Her softness
My hallucinogen
I melt in her arms
Continuously

I am in awe of
Her beauty
Breathtaking
Delicate
Feminine
Black

Beautiful Melanin
I fell into her spell
With alacrity

Coffee Black no
Sugar no cream

My Queen

Envied and persecuted
Her essence
The epitome of strength

Like coffee Black no
Sugar no cream

My Queen
Find you a woman and love her
Psychoactive substances and their properties
have been known to us since the dawn of civilization.

'Hallucination' comes from the Latin
"alucinari" meaning "to wander in the mind".
The origin of a word elucidates its true meaning.

Hallucinogen denotes psychoactive material
which is the cause of prominent changes in
perception, thought and mood.


Psychedelics are 5-HT2A partial agonists
[serotonergic hallucinogens] and are generally
either Phenethylamine, Tryptamine or Lysergamide,
e.g. Mescaline, Psilocybin and Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.
Dissociatives are NMDA antagonists, usually Arylcyclohexylamine
compounds which cause anesthesia, e.g. Ketamine and Phencyclidine.
Deliriants are anticholinergics that consistently cause acute confusion
and are often extremely poisonous e.g. Atropine and Scopolamine.
We live in a diverse universe,
Far larger than you or I;
Exploring it expands our minds.
Sprishya Jul 2012
Surprises and challenges,
Experience that comes with your age,
Fear and laughter, Love and hate,
Other sweet contradictions called life,
Oh beautiful life!

More unpredictable in every bend,
Yet comes with a certainty to end,
Gives you wings to soar up high,
And laughs at you when you fail to fly

Becomes that helping hand in need,
Is humble, yet so full of greed,
Gives you dreams and goals you want to achieve,
Yet teaches you to accept every kind of defeat

Survival! is that really life's key?
Or is the key whatever you want your life to be?
Makes promises and gives hope that end in a strife,
Teaches you to say '**** it!' and move on with your life

A hallucinogen so intense that you actually believe,
The lies it throws at you as an excuse to live,
Oh life so beautiful, call it divine if you will,
It teaches you creation but also teaches you *******.

                                                          ­                      
                                                                ­               -Sprishya
zak Aug 2015
In a sea of gin you sailed,
To conquer a future you dreamt of
In a hallucinogen induced haze
You exhaled smoke with every breath,
Fogging the world over with your intoxicated ideas
Sentencing rebel thoughts to death
You figured you were in an epic,
The ones where the hero stood against the world alone
But only you were against you and it was tragic
That battle was lost when you sold your heart for a bottle of poison disguised as magic
Kishamore Jun 2016
You are like a
hefty dose of hallucinogen
to me my love.
I am addicted to you
your smile,
your voice,
your endearment
and
I am addicted
to the alluring feel
you give me
every time
I think of you.

© Kishamore
kenny Oct 2013
Did you get to sleep
Or are you marinating
in chemicals?

The nightcap pulled
you down
dragged you
with your breath

You cut deep

Did you figure your
insides out?
You're inside out
spilling your guts
again
off-balanced
like an unstable
vivisection

Combusting your soul
back to a black hole
Counted off stars
in your eyes
you swore were aligned
Do you know what's behind?

Or will you keep looking?
Out there the truth isn't
it's all a reality
hallucinogen
generation of
self-prescribed nomads
It's about the journey
somewhere there lies
a destination
Lying about it's age again
and you can't touch it
Yet
it was here
the whole time
this very moment
and it's so
*******
beautiful
if you can get out
of your own mind.
Destre' Apr 2018
It was flaccid on my tongue.
Tie dye design fading,
Tightly pressed fibers dissipating,
A paper spitball soon to be dissolved.

Out of sight out of mind,
Until the wood grain on his dresser started to shift,
Move together then apart
Like a kaleidoscope in tones of brown

I stumbled out,
Thin socks met frozen wooden planks,
Then black jeans were introduced
As I took a seat criss-crossed: perched.

Snow fell from above
Like shooting stars abandoning the sky.
They landed on my lashes,
So I blinked a Big Bang and galaxies were born.

Frostbite should’ve crept into my fingertips,
But I was all tingles: pins and needles,
My nerve endings firing like new year’s sparklers at midnight.

Music filled my ears without a sound in the air.
Northern lights were waves emitted from trees
And the waves in the sky danced in time to my imaginary melody.

He snuck up behind me,
Seemed to appear beside me,
So I laid my head on his knees,
But his leg hair started to crawl,
Each strand a pink and green gradient
Like a **** carpet come to life,
A 1970’s nightmare

He looked down at me
His pupils like black holes: ******* me in
Shivers crawled up my spine:
A thousand spiders carrying snowflakes.

He wasn't talking but his face was moving: morphing,
It wasn't gloopy as you'd expect morphing to be,
But sharp, Jagged:
Stained glass mismatched.
revised
Words' Worth Nov 2018
Treading between the leaves
Myopically stricken off the record
Keeps me coursing on the fallen leaves
Golden, brown, yellow, orange
As the height of my captivating self
Comes up with the peaceful
Suicide, orange is the new black
Of living half-conscious through memories unknown
Beknownst tripping or hallucinating
On a brimming hallucinogen, die inside or unbeing
Within the happy recess, we aren't able to say something about the same karma
The king can do anything if he can carry the humor
Spring can finally be full of mist, everything is still
"I am the lizard king I can do anything"-Jim Morrison
Lola Lucille Sep 2013
Such a *******
Blankly staring at old
Photographs
Days passed that I left

Behind

What did I do
To deserve this

Sleep tonight? Oh no
Tonight I dream
Dream of a face I thought
I had tucked away

Lost in a haze, suspended
In yesterday
That I thought resided
Safely
Inside myself

A sweet vivid memory
Only summoned in times
I truly doubted everything

But you

Nothing in my whole life
Has brought me so close
To shredding the time
Space continuum

No hallucinogen
No stimulant
Has sent such profoundly
Primal chills

Down my spine

One single glance from you
Is all it took
to bring back to life
A part of me i thought
No longer existed

Indeed, I never really
Doubted
That this is love

I feel

When I caught your gaze
Captivated in my own
In that moment
You were truly mine

And I felt something I hadn't
In such a long time

that I belonged

And was exactly where
I was suppose to be

Only you, my dear
Inspire such a feeling

In me
Marlo Cabrera Sep 2015
Baby,
You were the biggest hallucinogen
I ever took.
I see you everywhere.
Sophie Wang Feb 2016
when you smile only your lips move
you’re a beautiful portrait of starched shirts and graceful misery
a whole tragedy told in your bared teeth and narrowed eyes.

when the soft moonlight runs down your face
all i see is plastic flesh and fine lines
jagged edges, discolored hollows—a broken sort of beauty.

the cigarettes and alcohol run electric in your veins;
you are gunpowder and grenadine, razor
    blades and tar. sticky and corroding, sharp and broken.

you wear your jaundice like a punishment
a rotting underneath a supple olive complexion,
from the neglected depths of your weary body.

you are a child with an old man’s scars.
your lost youth poisoned with a misery so heavy
it’s as if you've seen the world and lived through it twice.

you inhale the wild air and you breathe out toxins:
everything about you is decaying and rotting and dying
but in your erratic pulse i hear a muted plea: don’t let me die.

so i lean over, and into you
and let you take in the oxygen of my lungs
and the lingering mint on my tongue.

breathe me:
let me save you from drowning
in lungfuls of nicotine numbness and hallucinogen delusions.

for you in full blossom, i inhale
and exhale the ephemeral, dissonant beauty of your mortality.
Savio Reyes Mar 2014
Subconscious poetry
I miss my nostalgic energy
feeling the heat sun on my skin
wishing on a pebble
found it next to your high heels
your dress and hair bow in the trees
they were shaped like Texas
I miss the road
dead Kerouac soul
I need to fish for some morphine hallucinogen
degenerate again
no money again
lonely again
fine with that again
sittin alone with only the walls and the dog that ****** on my only blanket
I laugh
knowing that tonight
I'll walk down to the lake
watch the geese plagiarize flight
light a cigarette
that I bought with pennies
discovered behind the empty refrigerator

Subconscious poetry
Bob Dylan tongue
Jazz trumpet brass mind

1930's wooden night-club Italian music band dance floor soul

7 years old- never gonna die
20 years old- never gonna die

Foolish as a Child
Brave-ish as I can be

color my walls gray with left over paint
that we used to disguise our sail boat to cross the border

It's just me
the ***** floor
some words
some words
to do.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Man say's
Hallucinogens can leadeth one to the ultimate trip,
Fact is......
Death
Is the ultimate trip!!!

Taking thou
Places no hallucinogen
Couldst ever go!!!
Alijan Ozkiral Aug 2016
Side by side fighting in rounds,
etching drawings in our skin cut by cut.
Hoping and praying that the vitriol
of the infection’s symptoms are sporadic;
that the wave of pain comes only in bursts.
Infection acting as a hallucinogen creating visions.

Yet it is in these sought after visions
we see battles as if they’re in rounds.
And in these battles the bullets fly in bursts,
where we see lives all cut
short. The lives taken are random and sporadic,
despite the takers lack of vitriol.

Like the poison of hatred and vitriol,
seeping through the mind like mirages and visions,
after drought and famine and natural sporadic
disasters wrought on different rounds
of dystopia — some of the battles we fight are cut
short and experienced like explosions, in bursts.

Sometimes our fights are drowned in shots and bursts,
with alcohol or drugs or other vitriol.
Maybe the vitriol is the blood we drink from the cut
on our wrists bringing us to the brink, with a vision
of our lives flashing before our eyes in rounds
like candid imagery. They seem sporadic.

However, although the images seem sporadic,
whether it be soldiers fighting firing guns in bursts,
or two kids fighting trading rounds,
like a man finding his wife’s lover with vitriol
in his heart, they all connect with a vision
of something where hatred is simply cut.

Where we can find personal and general wars cut
from textbooks and any person’s sporadic
memory. Where men have “a vision”
to “improve” a utopia. When men questioned men’s bubbles bursts.
Then they seethe and fester and ferment their vitriol,
like alcohol until ultimately feeding into the cycle. Then they fire their rounds.

Either at people or their own heads, their rounds
are found on the floor next to the sporadic, fallen gore. Their vitriol
lying next to the deceased vision of perfect around lives cut short, taken in bursts.
Tried writing a sestina as an exercise, it's definitely very challenging
Mitch Protheroe Aug 2017
You're Doctor Thane's party
Ouch! Mystical horror
Harboring the hassle of gelatin emeralds
Hurt while he was down, but he's okay, standing up. That will hold him.
He's using your people to convert to nanoism
People, stomachs have bull worms
They keep in their pocket
Owed to it monthly
Before there was no coming home
Incapable of cheering a strussel, out of dough, chicken, brussel, Indian hallucinogen
That's difficult; the table
He took a pretzel on her passing her and looking at her basketball
Puuuuuuurple. Stop! They're gonna come up with a reason, they're going to get rid of us
Hallucinogens tell you you are in a hole
The wand, same color of painter
Hammer the spur in an actual collapajuice
It collapsed on you, and Nero: you didn't have a permit
Word, subject.. are you a tortoise?
No artist can be capable of listening to garbage money
You are absolutely our hero. Yes, that's what I was trying to explain to you.
Maybe you're frozen in bed, right? Thank you.
Thank you. There was a pretty the sight
To burn health juice, are you sad or are you a hard, wet, kamikaze tantrum *******
Miserable homage, that you have a little ******* and you are a pet to sell to someone somehow. An artist, coffee, it's right there, literally there's people out there, they could come with
Brown marker on my easel
Writing from something from what!?
Cut into the castle in hopes that you're a homeland security guy
I'm suffering more than my grandfathers, as opposed to angels coming to absolute illusion
Are you giving me the 1,2 *******?!
I'm bright and capable of math ******
The symbol that people's participation is writing
This red apple, this game is like a cloak. Do we go in there? Left? Illegal. Miles gone. You could earn your head from one.
Deuteronomy is a great, gread word and pets still let animals peak
That's touching her, in a lamp
Apploni is a symbol for the government's submissiveness verses wallpaper
On your side, on YOUR side, on YOUR f*ckin side
Never say that with volume, oh, that hurts you like a catapault
You need a time blog, I don't know. Pardon me for saying you're Horton
She's losing her head, she's losing his heffer now
What the heck is a- Oh my god!
What is this tarmin.. you've gotten into?
A lot of good stuff, very close
The pink bullet is a margin of clothesmen
You're high on menstrual period, like a camel steakhouse?
The art form of keeping the time moving, uh, keeping the clock
Sitar um....
There's a hole in the guardsmen. So weird
The ******* is like a machine gun, I was like "How is this good?"
Perrelli opens the hallway to arrest people, to open his box of wonderbread
Toast of honor, test boys and test girls
Get it from her blue Hummer
You're Trump's capitol maple
Legal prostitution is legal
Sir Squiggle
You took your jacket off for Obama
I'm tired, why don't you evolute to the fourth mineral
Right from his patched self, hear the slumber of evil
Your friends have no idea of what they're expecting
Are you capable of making a whole new army?
Jiggle, purr now
Look at your huge decibel
Herman is a- YOU.. are a different Kardashian
I'm sorry, I didn't know you were happy. Well I'm sorry, can't do it right now, it's candy for Haliburton
You drank a little too much to drug a simple pleasure
E-Harmony.com is fishbook
Many people don't know who to go in there
Eating the owl, **** a stress mark
Communicate his Applebee anthem
Depends on what other kind of drugs you're going to be dealing
It makes you numb, it makes you drunk. Pay an enormous fee on druid cable cutter cottage
Coming out to everyone on her own pail, you hammer a heel on the sacrament
Destiny is the same word as *****
Play back here, year after year
We're not failing the system, we're not playing businessman
His heart, eat him! I see people every day who can't answer the question
Not just one more, Christian
Pay, how much do you owe? 7500 dollars by winter.
It's pouring, it's reminding him of different distances
Cannibal is bug in
The dead arm bled
Our mystery ends here
An omen crossed paths with the circa United States
Play rough, the omen said
Spread right here, a slow back rub
You're putting a dot com in the bottom of your self
Get word again, stop texting
You're maneuvering the lightbulb- No! We'll go on a picnic
The story ends, the story never finds cannibals, strange people
I don't want to slip forever
It burns him, like he can't hit a ball
Vegetable, smoking eel cigarette, like flammable wipers
I told you, failure in an obstacle, and you are.. you're passable, but what is that? What is the helmet?
That's the jacket, that's the buuuurn
Incredible eyeball
Colin would know that, ey?
You should go ahead and sweep your whole virus
I can't swim cause he pretends
Cause you're going to swallow everyone that he pretends to people?
That's unspeakable language, Mitch. Keep it down. People are with their young. Sick comment. Take it off. You're never going to get the respect you deserve. Twenty people near you will fall off, the junk wagon
Don't ***** up your sanity or your locomotion
You know what's ridiculous is how Noah harms the ziggurat
How does he harness that, Joan?
The rock is a camel ****, he's just sitting on the lock and lady
Master P side's extra maroon, once
Begone, now! I farted and it smells like poo poo. Ewww!
Eel is a German Shephard, the warning step
How are you not calm?
Well language is scaring me
Random oldschool mutant rat- oh my god!
It spits on his pulpit
That's smoke, for everybody!
You are an advocate of hombre
Put a children's officer in the office of Dupont
I'm not surgeon, I'm not a cerebral con
Pay for my immunity to miraculous sheep herds
AOL is an organization..! Give.. me a hug..
That is honestly.. brutal. Temple.
The dank woman hides the mojo
There's two of us. They're always at west freak center
Capitalize on **** expression. (laugh out loud)
Don't be tellin Mar, they could put you on death row
Freaking invicible hexagons, keep up with the code
You were up to no good. Brandon is skeptical about your usual cat food
You aren't a pig, you have a part in your fat apple
Do you have a content waveform?
Brussel's Camry, Dutch Wonderland, sudafed, orange soda, boils water. Cancel that. You're probably always gonna hurt. I'm too ordinary. But I think it barks the dog saying "You're following my street home".
Does it hurt if you talk with people? Playing around? People have cattle right now, who's test? Honestly, typing an instrumental, twelve you
Juvenile castle- YES!
Who's swimming? Alright, well I'm gonna herd
Go to bed, you're going to be sleeping with an omen!
Dread alone, pushing it in
The folcrum is a headroll. Every night the sober cannibal is also a cannibal. An other cannibal donor.
Delete my cig drug!
Hello? Hey, come over, oooh! Don't bigger her
That's when you close the time machine.
You're an *******! Fire that **** up.
This is lame (this is lame) Otamaton is so miserable at guitar, next year
Screaming a hoeman's dinner
Different calories, Osmodius!
Aqilah Zaman Jun 2017
For every word I uttered, I said it a thousand times in my mind

Therefore, before I greet you with a hello, a thousand mirage of you stood before me in my head,

and I said hello to each and one of them

but never good bye.

Farewell seemed so easy like a Title it gets you anywhere, and to the next person that will benefit you.

Confidence was a hallucinogen, as Fear abducted me to the hellish part of my mind

I held myself as my own hostage-

Goodbye was the reward that everyone was so thrilled to give.

And now or forever I will be alone

Until the cycle begins again.
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.
Nyx May 2018
It's like poison
Toxic, deadly and addicting
Coasing through my body
Clouding my mind
Taking over

Its consuming me
Within this detrimental thing called love
An Unstoppable force
Thats made its way into the deepest crevices of my heart

Its burning my lungs
Suffocating, tightening its grip
Firmly planted down
And unwilling to let go

A hallucinogen, stimulant
Drug trip made for two
Infused within my soul
Glowing with a venomous hue

Its posion is bitter sweet
The promise of affection drawing me in
Filling me with contentment
Before the consequences set in filling me with resentment

Its intoxicating
An endless haze of love, destruction and despair
A drug that ive become reliant on
The pain and suffering to prove that i am there

Allowing me to reach my high
Happiness and never ending bliss awaits
Though with every high comes a even worse low
Its leaving me on the ground, greif ridden and despondent
Desperatly yearning for what was

Stuck on repeat
In the same mindless cycle
Drawn in by the same toxic poison
Merely by a different name

My addiction called Love
Beth Oct 2018
His hands balanced on the windowsill
stained with the tobacco in his finger tips and
caressed by the fleeting smoke.
He was shaking, and I could do nothing.
No hold that I give him is adequate- for he is not here, neither there.

I long to pull him with me, as he drags at the smoke
but I know there is no use.
He is too far away.
There are raindrops between our bodies but oceans between our minds
and I cannot swim that far.

Every time the smoke leaves his lungs I gasp for it,
every breath he takes fills my lungs with water.
How does he breathe so clearly whilst I am left to drown?
How does his ruination hold more life than the hands I reach to him with?


I yearn for his hesitant touch as he puts out his cigarette
but almost instantly, he is distracted.
I lose him to the hallucinogen of reality.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distilkery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzie,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's grinning cat
album...
     albeit the missing Scorpio
constellation, bound to the British Isles:

                  
              
                           ●
      
                                    ●

                  
                    ●
                 ●



●                                  
                      ­             ●


no algorithm no search engine
no dictionary... will equal
asking a grandmother for botanical nouns...
namely, the blooming forthynsia tree,
****** yellow almost neon
against pale kiwi green of April spring wake...

and the electric pale green,
or woken from slumber
blooming baby leaves of
a wierzba...
    a willow...
     electric in that,  almost
quicksilver drooling over
platinum in th spring night
              with a missing moon...

casually, a talk with woman,
and the technical nouns
of botanical expedience...
no algorithm to boot...

always the anticipated digression,
from the most mundane posit of
unraveling pidgin...
I compensate for my father not
speaking pristine english...
but certainly doing a chore
of industrial roofing,
than most, spaghetti finger
pancake arm coming of age bistro
*******...
        the more they aspire to sing,
the more we can hope
to be cured by karaoke on
a Saturday night...
  
    and always the anglophone perspective
of... bellybutton, Greenwich
syndrome... said the English,
so must say th rest of the world...

his shortcomings are my...
what he might as well have said...
tak your toys,
and take a warm dump in their sandpit...
then move into the next sandpit,
and **** in it...

personally I don't unerstand
the attack on grammar...
this antithesis of etymology,
this quasi slang... or rather slang
in a straitjacket...
of... well, at least the orthodox
communists had an economic model...
it was going to fail
because it was going to fail...
        but how lonely...
it must be... being unable to compete
with an external counter,
and merely, implode...
          must be lonely in the current
economic asylum...
imploding all the time,
having to compete with 600 years
after golgotha, and rí'bāh...
      
   5 ****** minutes picking out
a ***** for a Saturday night solo...
went for the shaft of wheat,
akin to a lodged locust corpse
in an absinthe bottle bought
in Amsterdam...

               apparently, there is a difference,
but most notably...
only when, drinking alone...
   the talk of sober people
bores me, how they can hide their
apathy behind so much gesticulation
and **** fakery...
    silent as a grave...
drunk people talking
is..
    perhaps outside the party mentality...
and th sudden spurring of
amnesia, a moral hangover,
a loose tongue comes across
darting eyes...

                   hardly a conneisour of
beer, or *****...
      more, on the lines of...
a conneisour of the knockout
falling asleep method...
      and... not allowing myself
be impregnated with dreams...
strange thus... how people
allow unknown forces to impregnate
them with dreams...
               **** them with dreams...
I deem a sleep impregnated
with dreams to be far from rest...
either sleep and the night
of today, with a morning of later on
today... or nothing...

                    perhaps the safety of the sleep
environment,
of the naturalally produced
hallucinogens that are called dreams...
surely the brain must secrete
a hallucinogen when in th state
of sleep...
              as far as I am concerned,
there is no need to interpret dreams...
coincidentally, this implies...
the counter to the stigma surrounding
lucid intoxication...
     because aren't dreams,
the byproduct, of the brain secreting
hallucinogenic compounds,
      when in a hypo-conscious
state of sleep?
   medically induced coma...
naturally invoked
psychedelic carousel...
             which might explain why...
people wanted to tap into this
chemistry dynamic via the 1960s...
of waking into a dream...
        but there must be some sort of
chemical, secreted by the brain
during sleep...
        that allows for the conjured phantasma...
symbiotic to the state of safety...
the brain, not attached to
spacio-temporal coordination...

   and some would argue that all drinkers
at noon, are dancing sloppy tango
with their shadows.
Elvis phiri Apr 21
A sensation of familiarity.
A hallucinogen.
A fantasy used to escape woes.
It's meaning has been lost to time, just as the scars incurred were errased.
All that "remains is an idea existing only as a myth"...

Elvito
ashley Nov 2017
twisted my personality can be, conflicted is how I describe me. live on, carry on, don't choose what is wrong, I know I can describe and be the definition of strong. I can make you smile even if it means changing what I know for awhile, no one understands I am always on trial. the judge is me, jail is this miscellaneous mind that consumes me. looking straight in eyes they say always tells if your telling lies, when you look away, trust me this feeling I wish I could sway. but when I look away understand I can never keep my head high. speaking of high I seem to look for things to keep my mind mine. as confusing as it seems In dangerous things I find me. A sober mind keeps you going, a mind messed with, with illusions and views and confusion can cause you to love a hallucinogen. I will never understand what I am doing. so dont try to see or try to understand what you are viewing. my actions can be confusing.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
see... i don't like how mental illness
is portrayed by the media,
so much so, the labels:
loner, loser...
           esp. regarding the males
of this species...
   not my type of cup-cake -
or tea party...
             i hate to point this out:
but Muhammad had a heart of a Sufi
at times...
no... i can't defend Christianity
for, precisely their misunderstandings of
the negation of ease: their,
dißease flagellation...
   abhor it...
                 what the **** did the Pollacks
do to invent a medium of
            confinement -
so the bubonic plague didn't affect
the region of land i originate from?
how did they think up the concept oof
quarantine?
                       meßmerißing...
i once studied history at UCL with
the notion of writing a book about Jesus...
honest to god...
              but, come to think of it...
the peculiarity of Poland during the spread
of the bubonic plague...
        wet *****... i'm all over that ****...
thumb up my *** to, "supposedly" increase
my chances of an *******...
funny... that's funny...
never fails with prostitutes...
sure as **** worth a fiery *** after
greasing my tongue with a chicken curry
with extra chillies...
but, otherwise?
   if i am Oedipal....
i can't claim the Madonna-***** complex
for ******* "dysfunction"...
was i ever ******* a woman,
or merely an actress?!
     oh... right... psychosis...
people who never go mad preposterously
"think" that the faculty of
language disintegrates...
funny such people should make such claims...
my grandfather has dementia...
suffers from what dementia:
slavery unto long term memory...
but he can solve a crossword puzzle
like a 21 year old...
      i watch him, and listen to him,
lazing about on the balcony,
in a communist flat...
overlooking a graveyard...
that horror of western suburbia:
that? to be honest? isn't all that bad...
and i ensure myself with the role:
don't worry, you're here...
i'm here... we're here...
   i have to admit, his dementia
begot a hypochondria...
            the topic of ailment is his special
concern...
     i admit i prefer listening
to his childhood reminiscence of
the ᛋᛋ men in crow uniforms stationed
in my hometown...
              but thank **** it's not Alzheimer's...
always, like a dog, like a dog impromptu,
every, single, time i visit him...
if he had a tail?
  it would be waggling...
i'm also pleased to see him...
sometimes we watch t.v. together...
but mostly? i gorge on his personal library,
and sometimes admire his stamp-collection,
and walk the graveyard with him,
remembering:
lay me in the grave beside my grandfather,
also name Joseph...
        it's harsh to say this...
but i think i'll pull my hair out when
he dies...
   i used to cry like a baby over dead pets...
but when he's gone...
   i'll pull my hair out,
curse my shadow...
  shadow-stab my heart,
and then gnash my teeth so i chip off a piece
from one,
and then stalk the freshly dug grave,
and insert that chipped tooth-piece
into the soil...
      subsequently performing
a mantra for the moon, that scythe,
    that echo of the earth i am to stand on,
at that particular moment in time.
- i already said that psychosis is
underrated as both a quasi-hallucinogen
and a medical condition...
a typical LSD trip? 12 hours...
but a psychosis "trip"?
    2 years... relapse... 2 more years...
i came out of my psychotic trance
in my mid twenties...
              years: not hours...
so do i believe in god?
  impersonal, sure...
        which is a sort of antithesis of
the monotheistic personal god...
       do humans possess a soul?
   i own a body, i own a thought...
a psyche?
        people who have never experienced
psychosis have no
"inconvenient" conceptualization
of the prime basis of psychosis,
i.e. a soul, i.e. **** ex machina...
man, out of the machinery,
he, himself, created, and enslaved himself
with, and in.

i love how Bukowski wrote
the perfect attache to this, "poem":

some people never go mad,
what horrible lives
they must live
;

    well... "live" (in frank honesty
with no adherence to rank) -
          all these people do,
is endure the inconsequential
preemptive, is...

    while on the occasion
rummaging in the pointlessness of
the lesser nostalgia
of fathoming historical faults -
those ill begotten memories
within the confines of a hive,
or something akin,
more or less.
A Freedom Sep 2019
'the chief of organic substance 'mind' network,
outlasts as a residue behind the removal of the 'magma' resolutions from polished 'bone' by dilute hallucinogen,
is exercising the collagen make of 'bones',
time travellers for ossein, in search of 'One' that sleeps awake within, the show has been cancelled and yet a whole universe is watching,
ectatic goosebumps felt beyond heaven,
rips the skin, neatly as a whole within none.'

— The End —