There once was a boy, slightly altered, possessed by greed, and terrified of failure. His mother and father seemed to only care about one thing. After he was born, his parents became possessed by wealth. His eyes were the colors of the sky when darkness would fall, the color only the devil would welcome. The vermillion circle stretched to the outskirts of the violet black horizon. The violet black seemed to hesitantly corrupt the vermillion as they intertwine through the abyss of the newborn darkness within his soul. Where his mother and father saw a demon. And from then on they were taken by his nonexistence, and slowly their love began to fade. This boy had a name, a name his parents soon forgotten, Dracoleon.
Dracoleon's mind always averted to wealth. The only time his parents communicated was when taxes were to come. They spoke solely about coins, gold, and work. Draco was soon consumed by it. He was then always busy, always working, counting money, he had nothing get in his way, He never seemed to see the scared, suspicious, and disgusted faces that walked by him, the dream of wealth consumed his entire universe.
It was one day, the king was said to be roaming about town. His parents would talk about the king often, father would say that he wished to be as rich as the king, or be the king himself.  But he would shake his head and continue. The boy wandered about the town indifferently as he searched for his father’s idol. It was once he turned a corner, he saw him. He ran toward the crowd and progressively landed in front. The king road in a chariot, the glistening white horses carried ropes dragging the golden chariot behind, As the silver knights followed. Across the street he saw his parents seek in awe of the glorious presence the king beheld. Then saw them grasp hands as if they were grasping a chance of hope as the king road by. In Dracoleon's eyes the king seemed narcissistic, he looked to be bathing in the jealously, the awe, and crushed hopes around him.
Then, suddenly, the king stopped in front of him. Then strode out of the chariot and stood, twenty feet away, then pointed directly at him; “Come my child!” he said. Impulsively,  he walked then stopped in confusion. “Come; kneel before me!” he yelled. Quickly he snapped and continued towards the king. He knelt three feet away. The king knelt down and looked into his violet eyes and whispered in his ear: “You’re different from the rest.” Suddenly he gasped, quickly stood and started humming a melody as if he was hypnotized; Dracoleon saw a slight gleam in his eye. A few moments later, he stopped and stood awkward and confused, then said “you’re going to be excellent.” At that he spun around, entered the chariot and continued on his way.
The boy stood dazed by the king’s presence. The villagers were glaring at him for minutes till he finally came out of  his hypnopompic trance. It was then he saw a man, just about thirty, wearing a cloak, carrying an odd looking box. No one seemed to notice him. As the people continued on their lives, he decided to wander to the mysterious man that caught his interest. It didn’t take long for the old man to notice the boy stalking him. He confronted the boy. “Hello” He said. “I must ask, why are you following me?” The boy froze in his steps, “w-what’s in the box?” he whispered. The man chuckled, “would you like to find out?” The boy managed to nod…. The man took the boy, not by force, not by manipulation, but by the man simply walking away, as the boy follows.

The wizard and the boy traveled in his single horse wagon in Europe for many years. The wizard showed him a whole new world, and left Draco's behind. The wizard filled his mind with adventure, and fed him excitement the boy had a purpose, but the wizard had rules, ones that cannot be broken. The wizard taught him his ways. And slowly, the boy became a wizard.

Six years later, the wizard was fading, he told him a story, a story about the great wizards long ago, The world was approaching something non existent, the wizards couldn’t escape, he was the only one who wasn’t taken by the darkness, and he watched as the rest of the great wizards, imploded and were trapped by the void. Silence, infinity, timelessness, nothing, it was hell. The great wizard gave him a puppet, it looked like the wizard. “Its the story of our past, a past not to be forgotten” He had whispered and he slowly faded away, joining the great wizards in the void.

It was then Dracoleon became the last wizard in the world. All of the wizards power, all the rules, and all the memories, his, And his alone. Dracoleon only had one thing to do, the only thing that will carry the wizards memories, becoming a puppet master.

The wizards shows became well known, He would come into town and there would be a few people going in and out of the wagon, watching the puppet shows. It was then a strange man came into the wagon, tall, pale, a dark presence around him. He asked to stay after the show.  He walked Beside and ran his thin pale fingers along the small stage the puppets played on. “You're different from the rest.” He said in a death toned voice. Draco froze, and suddenly his past flashed before his eyes, his parents, the money, the king. The king said he was different too. “ You're going to be excellent.” He whispered. “what if I told you, I could make you excellent, forever? Nothing absolutely nothing would get in the way.” Draco was mesmerized by the corruption of his past seeking out through his mind, and setting around him. The money, the greed, he forgot how great it was, to be in power, now that he's a wizard, the only wizard, he can do anything, change the rules, take over the world. Then suddenly, he was frightened, He wouldn’t have time, Time to do all theses things, Suddenly the man's words caught up in his mind, “What if I told you, I could make you excellent forever?” Draco then looked up at the odd man, he was smiling. “what do you say?” Draco manged a nod.

Draco was near death. The man turned out to be a vampire, he altered him. But it was all a blur, “ A three day slumber, and a new universe comes at your feet with a path set to follow” The vampire had said. Then he disappeared, and the pain began.  Draco felt his soul leap out of his chest, the intense burning sensation followed throughout his body, And then, nothing. He felt his soul go on a  journey to comeback with a plan, A plan that would make the universe his, forever. Draco opened his eyes....

The puppet maker became very popular, But to Vincent, he was a question, a mystery, Draco The wizard caught his interest when he saw the villagers walk out, excited, happy, and longing for more.  But that’s not what intrigued him, The villagers stepped out of the wagon, with a look of confusion, but only for a slight second, then there eyes, they fogged over and then reverted to normalcy. As they walked, most hummed a melody, A repeating melody that seemed to be engraved in their throats.
Vincent was a magician. One of the greatest, He owned a magic shop in the middle of the town he was curious on what the puppet maker was to do when he brought villagers into the wagon. When the last of the villagers walked out, Vincent quickly got in line.

Dracoleon brought five villagers into the wagon each time, In Vincent's group there was a little girl, her father, a woman, and an old man.  into the wagon they went and  they sat down and he began the show.  Vincent and the others watched the puppet maker bring his puppets into play. They were familiar puppets, ones you would see of people walking in the streets. His voice matched that of the puppet, the personality’s seemed to fit perfectly. It was nothing like they'd ever seen before. Then suddenly the candles went out, and it was dark in the wagon. “ Time to play” Draco whispered. Suddenly, They felt something behind them, Then, the candles flickered on, the puppets were restraining them,  Smiles on their wooden faces. Slowly, Dracoleon pulled out a watch, a small watch, he whispered something into it, and it glowed blue. He walked over to where the little girl was restrained, he took her wrist and with a small blade, he slit it, she tried to scream, you could see the horror in her blue eyes, his lips pressed against her wrist and he began to drink, you could see her rosy cheeks go pale, He left her gasping for life. “the youngest always taste the best.” He laughed. “ The taste of blood so pure.” He whispered. “But shes not a ******.” He looked at the father. “you see, its sick men like you that deserve to die.” The father looked at him in terror. Dracoleon whispered in his ear but he was still to be heard. “but I've something better than that.” A tear ran down the father's face. “Humans are so faulty. So filled with sin, sickness, you should be thanking me. But you may never understand” He looked at Vincent. “And you, you think you can defeat me.” He chuckled. The puppets grip grew tighter. Blood started dripping down each one of their faces, the puppets were slowly attaching themselves to the humans their strings tightening around their neck and the mouths grasping their skulls. The puppet maker continued laughing “ Let the games begin!”  He opened the watch, the humans fell limp and the puppets disappeared into their bodies. The puppet maker began to hum the melody.

I welcomed you into my labyrinth,
shut all the doors,
drizzled blankets across
everything, each squashy chair
where you could rest your head,
leave remnants of you
in perfume and hair
so I wouldn’t forget.
Little pictures
developed in my hands,
a simple magic trick
which made us smile
as sniggering kids.
Then they dropped to the floor,
created a collage
of recent memories,
our private history
stationary and square.
Bricks cold as frost on grass,
you danced,
I fell deep. A soporific
multi-hued haze played in my eyes
as if it was endless hopscotch.
Sunset glazed our faces
a marmalade-orange,
we lost ourselves
in towers of books
and images
which now spread
beanstalk-like up the wall.
Pinch-marks resembled
berries on my arms,
soaking in madness,
basking in your light.
I could rest in this maze forever
you said.
Then I, in frustration,
turned over in bed.

Of all things unknown,
easily a non-denumerable infinity, very little will drive a person to the precipice of madness like the insignificance of a statistic - say one in seven billion,
a statistic that unhinges the mind, dragging out primitive insanity, catalyzed by spurned desire,
an insanity that is raw-
raw and sick and hungry-
feeding upon itself like an epidemic, an acid that reduces one's existence to a longing for a hypnopompic eternity, some twisted fascination that becomes an elegy for the ******, one where the past with holds the future, laughing at the heart's bipolar fluctuation between absolute paralysis and pure agony, a grey stillness to a light switch flipped off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on and aren't you tired yet? Are you not chilled by truth's cold whisper, shaken awake by logic's steel grip?  
It is a rare prison we build for ourselves-
trapped between what we know and what we wish,
these non-existent walls of unrequited everything,
where melancholia acts as our shackles and we sit in complete silence,
content in our discontent,
because we know,
we know that escape is intangible
when you are both jailer and
captive.

Breaking the surface
Clutching intangible thoughts
Slippery seaweed. . .

Bobbing up for breath
Swirling down through dark colors
Which world is my own?

New yet familiar
The shoreline my spreading wings
Shifting transition. . .

Eyestrain my dull mind
as I wander through the village.
Wandering through memory, listening.

I pause and feel gravity, feeling it
as a loss of control
and for a moment this thrills me
as I lean back
and fall into it; I return home

and fall asleep, to dream
of simple human connection.

I enter a house, brought there by
a friend to make new acquaintances.
The ambience is party-like, lighthearted
but quite excitable. A mash of bootleg pop
pipes out the walls, I recall
elements of Diving Faces by Liquid Child
interspersed with strange rāga leads.
My friend and I relax, lying side-by-side
as if resting. Tentative kiss, and I kiss back
before waking to that

fading sensation. I lay there for a time, hoping
this vivid hypnopompia
would just go on.

Months ago I awoke
to an almighty hypnopompic brain-zap
provoked by dreams of lisdexamphetamine-laced cereal.
Forceful, shocking, agonizing; strange to have felt this
when I lack any acquaintance with Vyvanse, and
when I am clean of residuals. That a dream
should cause real pain, such reaction
in my being, I wonder how
my brain contoured
the experience.

Weeks ago I grappled
with a prolonged tension headache
so I administered paracetamol, ibuprofen/codeine,
And buprenorphine/naloxone. Those opioids
provoked strange daydreams, to countenance the many idioms
I've grokked over.

I used to think my superpower was depression,
I'd go around seeking pain
because nothing else would sooth me; and with each pang
I came a little closer, chasing it
like a true addict, savoring my damage,

Exalting in my lonely conscience.

When I awoke the opiates were leaving my body
so I lay in their dark waves of intemperate sensation
among what thoughts etch onto the inside of my skull
and found myself driving with a concussion
towards a home for misanthropes.

sometimes she forgets, and
she wakes me up by touch - i hate those
late nights, because i am robbed
then of hypnopompic tranquility.

most days i wonder what it’s
like, having zero obligations -
i dozed off in the surf, painted neon blue
by some nearby coral beast’s castoffs.
it wasn’t dawn i was waiting for,
but just the tide rising high enough
to submerge me completely -
my lovely wicked moon its accomplice.

I took 15mg of mirtazapine on Sunday evening out of pure curiosity.

As a result of its histaminergic activity there is sedation
yet I find I am easily surprised, jumpy but tired.
Initial slight sensations of arthralgia.

After a few hours I identify mild eidetic imagery,
Ever-so-slightly persistent with closed eyes.
These visual hallucinations emerge
from imagination, neither delirious nor lucid.
Perhaps they're more like vivid daydreams
and would leave with tolerance.

This faint mode of hallucination led into and out of sleep,
Supplanting hypnogogic and hypnopompic imagery.
What I remembered of dreaming was much the same:
Nonsensical conetent with similar imagery.
Upon waking its effects were still apparent.

As a man thinks in his heart, so he is.
Thus the early warning for uninitiateds,

Pomposity, this is not, yawn

hypnopompic (adj.)
"pertaining to the state
  of consciousness when awaking from sleep,"

Accepting the hand stretched toward my spirit,
the idea that is me, in your mind, tenere- root
tension, the push and pull
stretch the minutes into days, yawn
hear,
the rolling of the dough, sticky, folding
butter and sugar and cinnamon in, ah,
coffee, creamed
morning,
in paradaise,
pomp and circumstance, ministers
solemnly stepping up
recommencing the quest, master.

To make a form for spiritual consideration,
of worldly wisdoms and philosophy's guides
granted all with access to the raw data of us,
clear text incontextual time locked eternity,
part one

all we may know, no real secrets lost to time,
all we may know, upon waking in confusion, is

and was known, upto now, but no further, see,

between thoughts comes time, no force felt,
think, what reading really is, is us thinking again,

a gain, a step in the only way time relates
every thing to next, smooth
only on the surface
tension
of our enclosing bubble
of being,
bound
by words we never read, really,

while amused
at the talent
of our acting friends,
where everybody knows your inclusion
in an active Dunbar herd
of potential help,

the one in need, indeed, met

the wedoms, most common groupmind limit,
the size of a military subgroup, hereditary
strategic deployable drilled
to respond
to drum and bugle calls,
now radio, neuro linked,
orders conveyed to science users,
ready made from those so usable,

second string and above, do what you love,
ding, the bell, another round, ding

imagine the power of players taken in,
swallowed whole by an ancient serpent ,

slowly growing from worm to wise will

to oppose untrue why factors, long used
to beautify the imaginable future, if,

eh, Rudyard, who were you watching return
from Balaklava?
Did she force you to see?
Lady Elizabeth Southerden Thompson Butler,
Ai, ai, we totally know, yes,
must be some history in her string of names,

but,
what she projected on to the medium
what she witnessed in her spirit,
she showed us, the after facts,
the faces, the mud, the blood,

weariness and desperation, hope
captain, tell us, that's enough
war for the world to see,
life in color on canvas,
the message is the medium,
in it's pre-acrylic hues from tubes,
the latest advance in painterly tools,
and new colors, brighter, longer lasting

to let the spirit bearing the message,
alive until you stop, and realize,

you may, today, stare all day
at fifty-seven windows into
Lady Elizabeth's
upper crust wisdom,
becoming today's prompt,

To ask, if you do not find it easy,
my assuming you used your will,
voluntarily, to find the art abstraction
taken from the mindshare gone global,

my friends in all the lands enclosed
within the world wide web lattice work,
filtering the light we see through
to objects in mind reminding us,

of awe, the state, aha,
we agree, we sometimes weep
for those who live in foaming lies,

remains of old nursery fixed hates…

Have you gazed a while,
at the messages from Elizabeth?
Have you zoomed in to see
the faces on the nameless,

the glorious-less role call,  no.

I can't not go again, you see, war
and me, we
be adversarials and unreconcilable,
I swore to oppose all oaths to
pomposity, solemn turns first lie
to principal reason, first need met,
Art, making for the sake of making,
in the chaos, see the beauty, we live,
we who use words to capture thoughts,

think, we words, are no longer thoughts,
nay, we know, knowing, science, is
knowledge held as true, even known lies,
and the multitude of uses pride contends
is good to force feed kids, stacking order,
status quo, master and emissary, in one.

As a we form sapience spiritually coherent,
we all must protect,
free thought, raw truth, full function,

breath, modulating noise,
to seem musical.

Whew, hew and cry, scything on…

yes, self analyze,
woe is the skeptic
in America today,

or, no, the other way, today, in doubt's
haying day, sickles at the ready, stone honed,
…
least labor, follow the leader on the right,
starting from the left, northmost corner,
sweeping south along the terminii line,
proprietary responsibility border line,
work worth
sweat, taken as a feature,
water as a gift,
given by the fortuitous cloud catching
streams of conscious muse using,
refreshings, cool, new media,
cool, new colors, look, Spot,
see the images of all the worlds finest art,
right there on your globally tied in common-
uni-cating we conforming information device.

see close, zoom in, zoomers were born to this,
- old boomers who saw these images
- saw them in CMYK
- on shiny magazine paper,
- the message was not as loud as now.
Peace maker companions,
sharers of the one bread's condiments,
take some pride in pulling down imaginations
making peace, where a clamoring lobstrosity was,

warfare in the spirit, make sense from non-
sensible factors determining will to become,
still, observant, ignoring not knowing,
being left in the story your father's faith told
submission to authority, only obey,
-- line up, dress right, at a glance,
-- proceed standing at attention,
= be the message sent by the Bearskin helm.

will-less, submitted, under the orders
in the message most recently made law,
all those covered under the blood of victims,
in order to save the world, we must be ready
to let it evolve, no sweat,
- death has no sting, no lie,
- duty however is a killer,
- and pride the very worst.
Live
as might your favorite Bible character say,
sufferage is alright, wait and see, right,
you can choose your truth,
do the math,
vote by references to
chirality, right, or sinister,
the spinning difference is awesome
we mesh, fi, my talent, fits you
we become a one mind team
involved in mortal conscious
answers to sworn confusions,

Will to ever learn,
is a feature all spinning things use,
to stay in formation as we scythe through
ongoing knowing life is hard,
knowing is easy, taken slow,
bringing in the sheaves,
golden grain,
once worshipped,
worth the sweat,

laughing when the works all done,
was the winter breads and stewed roots,
all sets and settings we may imagine, on earth,
some sense we all share, every where we connect,

all at once, the world was enclosed, in clouds
of precocious proprietary secret methods,
right way to do things, procedures,

reusable code, rituals, rules and consequences,

object, entity in mind, abstraction, a pinch of now.

This is how all that ever matters must begin
in a literary effort akin to scything sown seed,

in a co-op thought pattern, me,
to you, feedback in the medium we share,

the air we breathe, but more enduring ties,
realizable already imagined known, yes,

the very idea that yes contains, on contact,
I know, be it how first or why, I care less,

yes, carelessly I spill my neuronic guts
distinct chakra reasonings, as factored costs,

go with your gut, but
first, grow ripe past pompous display,
look away, look away, do not open

the source code we think we see,

ah, me, too late.

Felt quite low last weekend. Took 12.5mg of amitryptaline.
I'd been meaning to  assess its effect on sleep/dreaming
as part of a long-running personal experiment.
Experienced hypogogia as I drifted off that night
but the content of dreaming itself was unclear.
The sedate feeling lingered into the next day.

Forty-eight hours after initial administration
I noticed an offset/aftereffect. I dreamed that night
and remembered enough nonsense to be bored/perturbed.
I experienced a vivid hypnopompic state, whereby
parts of my dream clung to waking thought for long enough
to remember some narrative (some sort of teen-drama mash-up
but the lovable main characters were missing, and I was earnestly
trying to convince myself it [the dream?] was worth continuing.