"lysergic" poems
superimposition of celestial ampersand:
a continuity of all things
stars hanging loose in the pupil
of this deadbeat word.
typhoons in a swirl of tempestuous ballet,
dogs shivering in the blue cold,
biting their canine integument the way
scarabs would, sinking in a temporal flotsam-way within tectonic display
of text
hectares of blank stares bringing
to life lysergic field of black birds.
and then some
equal number of evocativeness:
continuing on into the ground
are the bones warm in their compost.
the sudden fragrance of rat ****
appeals to the masses.
too much laughter in flooded thoroughfares pockmarked by
the vehement jam of staccato jackhammer.
choking us is today's headline
in supreme obbligato - its stench
reeks of libidinal perfume etched
in the flesh of the rigmarole.
one filthy day in Manila.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
i exist somewhere between the kick drum and the snare
i am the blood thundering in our veins
i am the rhythm that gives us life
i am the 375 nanometers of ultraviolet light shining down on you
i am the space between the notes and the silence before the drop
i am oscillation, reverberation, undulation of bassline
i am rattling ribcage from excess decibels
i am titinnitus waiting to strike.
3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, Lysergic acid diethylamide, tetrahydrocannabinol, ethanol, benzoylmethylecgonine; choose your poison so that you may enjoy me better
i am the sweat that slicks our skin and keeps us cool
i am the longing look that leaps from eye to eye
i am mellifluous melody, motivator of movement, master of mind.
i am the sea of strangers you find yourself lost in, minimally clad bodies moving in ways you didn't know were possible.
i am the fire-poi spinner, the LED hula-hooper, the melbourne-shuffling madman, the obnoxious bro, the ancient hippie, the obviously underage girl, the idiot overdosing in the corner, and the person wearing more pony beads than clothes.
i am the rave.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
Blazing the pain
Waiting for the rain
Danger lies inside
Weird scenes in my mind
Burning desires in my brain
Riding the lysergic train
In the dark stuck in a maze
Wild girls lost in the haze
Children of the light
Waiting for the sun
Sweet child is born
The child is the dawn
Memories fade away
Strange land
Summer dance
Amnesia
Lucid dreams
Unicorns
Nirvana
We Are All Insane
Words Of Harfouchism
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Her saturate beauty
in violet black light.
The narcotic consent
some Saturday plight.
Colours are bleeding
a vivid dream night.
Lysergic Acid Diethylamide,
Right?
A sleep pattern paisley
purple and green.
Faceless adversaries
heard, yet unseen.
A motionless panic,
unable to run.
Contorted, curled fingers,
now, isn't this fun.
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 12:19 AM UTC
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
**** me harder, Álvarez!"*
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
*"Oh hell no ***** 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"*
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?
(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)
I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
The weight of life is reduced to a cloud
As raindrops of lysergic acid run free.
Their pitters and patters equally loud
As all of the colours that melt around me.
The womb of the universe beating its drum
And setting a pace for the flowers to bloom.
A force with such strength that all nature succumbs
As peacefulness floats in kaleidoscope flumes.
Empathy blossoms, arousing a smile,
That creeps from my lips to the end of the room,
Searing itself on a cosmic denial
That beauty like this shouldn’t gestate from gloom.
Floating, not unlike a dandelions seed,
Thoughts of anxiety flee to the Earth.
They carry but vapidness with the sweet breeze.
In nebulous nebulas they are dispersed.
Now what remains as a warm neon cloud
Is beauty profound and purpose pristine.
Unwanted, the ego is left disavowed
Dancing in memories of amphetamines.
Left in its place was the beauty and I.
Climbing like vines as it forces the walls.
Pushing them down with an ******** sigh,
Revealing a cosmos that rhythmically calls:
‘Freedom is such a deplorable word.
It offers ambitions too fruitful to take.
Though comfort or not,
As with fictitious plot,
It’s only as real as it’s fake.’
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
I’m psychosexual
But somehow
A hyper-intellectual
It’s like a festival
All up in my mind
Fueled by love, lust, rage, maybe hate
Lysergic acid
Diethylamide
Hopeless dreams and psilocybe
I would entice you
To look inside
But I’d fear for your sanity
It’s no place for the blind
I once thought of ending it
Closing the blinds
On a cold winters eve
In the dead of night
The bottle in my hand
I broke the glass
No liquid came out
I was drunk off my ***
This was how I was
Or perhaps how I am
I question everyday
If this was part of the plan
Cuts all up my arm
I’ve always said self-harm
Was for the weak and twisted
With their minds tangled like yarn
But now I see truth
I’m an agnostic
All I need was proof
I’m a concrete home with no roof
I’m a writer, a brother
A musician and a lover
I’m a man and a boy
An old soul that never knew joy
She was momma’s little angel
Starry eyed with her dreams
Turned **********
******* randoms for the fiend
A hopeless romantic
His heart sealed up hermetically
He strung himself up when she spat out
“You’re pathetic”, apathetically
What a broken society
It’s the norm to suffer
It’s a personality flaw
To give a **** about another
This is why I’m insane
You see why I’m a ******* ******
Always getting caught up screaming
“I’m just trying to do the right thing, you know?”
A semi-schizo voice
I’m perpetually trying to shut up
Showing compassion for others
Only made me an altruistic ******
So now you see
What happens when you read in-between
These are my minds insides
I hope they made you scream
But I only brought you to the doorstep
Would you dare to step in?
All I can tell you is
I never made it out
There are true monsters within
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
Before sunset
pure Lysergic acid diethylamide
Beach
Slight coolness to the air
Places tab Upon tongues
Lips brush
One hour into journey
consciousness expanding
kaleidoscopic gaze
Peculiar colors
The waves dance in a jazz like pattern
softly he runs his fingers delicately through my scalp and constricts my hair like a snake wrapping its long smooth body around the mouse, its prey or lover
I lean closer
our lips brush, our cheeks blush
so do our surroundings they turn a ravishing tickled pink hue
gently we sink
and melt into grains of sand
gentle coition, his charming motion
idiosyncratic complexion casted on our bare frames
rich reflections of golden yellow and deep lilac
Dazed Graze
dusk to dawn
drawn to musk
Where is my mind?
was this just a mundane muse once again?
Where is my otherworldly lover?
Unknown.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
Dropping it for the first time
lysergic acid diethylamide
there on
Pescadero's beach
with night hunkered down
in the dunes
We howled at the waves
of the wild Pacific
stamped our feet
on the dense moist sand
and miracles radiated outward
from each footfall
uncounted stars
galaxies somewhere deep
in that gritty sky
the sand alive
with phosphorescent life
Oh and we laughed
swore oaths to each other
spied the turbid moon
as if for
the first time
her hair in a mess
of wind-torn cloud
It was perfection by the sea
until
some wise old hippies
alerted us to our danger:
"The heat's in the parking lot, man."
Panic.
Crawling like drug-addled moon dogs
on our bellies
through the dunes
to find a near-empty
parking lot.
No heat.
No hippies.
Only the wan moonlight
vacant pavement.
And so in our glorious excess
to a sandstone cave
where a box of whispers
was found
and poetry invented.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
I want to go back and witness the creation of the first mirror
So I can experience the invention of vanity
My ancestors hunted by hand and sharpened tool
Today I shop from an assortment of pre-made fatty meats
Love letters used to travel by horseback to the patient hopefuls
When my text message to my girlfriend is too slow, I get ******
Most of the casualties in war came from infection
The hospital is a ten minute drive in heavy traffic
A lifelong journey across the globe
Can be done in a day by plane
The heavens used to inspire; a mighty muse
Now most stars have names
I want to go back and witness Goddard and the Wright brothers
So I can watch them shrink the Earth with their imaginations
Gravity began as a headache, therapy as a ******* addiction
God as the human need for comfort, lysergic acid as mind control
Though appreciative of all that has been done
And the work that has yet to be completed by moving man
I have difficulty with the label
“Progress”
People have always been and always will be superbly flawed
Across cultures, continents
And most of all
Time
May 4, 2011
May 4, 2011 at 9:00 AM UTC
So I’ve been praying a bit as of late.
I’m not a real member of any particular
denomination; at the present time,
I pray to: “to whom it may concern.”
Not sure of his name—
Actually, I suppose it could be a her.
Sorry, Gloria Allred.
Let’s see there’s God,
there’s Buddha,
then there’s obviously Harry Potter.
There’s always Eric Clapton,
especially in the sixties and seventies.
There’s Pablo Escobar’s legend.
There’s Christ the Savior.
My ex calls the mighty one Yahweh.
I might refer to him as Yogi,
or is it yoga?
Wait—I meant Yngwie Malmsteen.
There’s d-lysergic acid, courtesy of Owsley.
Then there’s always Tai Chi.
It’s whatever you want to call it in order to
center yourself in this slightly slanted world.
I need to pick one of the above, because I
really am dragging my feet at this point.
Any one of my friends would agree that the
bottoms of my shoes appear to be charred.
Holy friction burn, Batman!
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Empty
Inward
Outside the inside takes the over the top
Keep up the up work
Out the kinks
Livin' the dream above ground
More abover than above
Supra-above
Über-above
Hyper-everoverabove
Concrete creeks with side-winder dreams
Above cracks to keep the windows' hollows
Not open.
Never open.
Above open
‖Again‖
Lysergic acid rhythms
Circadia, Dustin (where is that? Here. what time is it? Now.)
I emptied this and that and found the Atlantic ******* Ocean
But only the ephemeral waves
Upon waves of æther
---necro-above---
Ecstasy of the senses
Only after all
The nothingness opens like a wrapper
From whence it came
(What is the "us"?)
Can the we join the us and still get along with them.
Where does the Earth and the water come from
And why does it sojourn here?
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♪♪♫
I: Lyric Line of Flight
Cavern Club / black leather / German rockers / proto-youth culture groped its way from Liverpool / TV slowly sped up / modernity invented / flown in planes / swallowed in pills / I watch the second Kennedy funeral on the screen in shades of gray rain / warming to mid-60’s hues / into the stratosphere / a lysergic surge / retinal after-images / intensities of nostalgic color / that British courtesy in understatement / Paul’s voice a bassline / George a guru of six-armed confusion / tasteful: now a meaningless word / it was Apollonian-Dionysiac / my childhood’s soundtrack
II: Poem
They grooved—as our world became another
up from caverns to psychedelic flight.
They look so young in melancholic light
harmonizing black and white to color.
So distant—yet within our life’s short span
they grow apart as the hair grows longer
(The West’s resolve to expire grew stronger.)
Quadruplex visage: young god sold to man.
I crack up beholding the mid-Sixties
lost in late-night YouTubes, I start to break.
time past: removed from the complexities
Recalling every song, the beat, the shake…
They sang the primrose path to confusion
nostalgia replacing resolution.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
Vasodilation,
Making my skin crawl.
Wander through the window pane,
and paint the way you want.
Wondering why walls wax and wane,
Breathing deep to call my name.
Vasodilation, to the numbing of my brain.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
She stands in the truth,
a puddle of lysergic acid
that seeps into her bare soles,
as a tuning peg twists her gut.
The single page, crisp,
bends, hangs limp
where index and thumb tips
barely touch left and right edges.
Her blue eyes quickly sweep left and right, work
their way slowly from top to bottom, absorb his self-eulogy,
drain their color out and onto the page.
As each drop hits, ink blots change from explanation and apologies
to a Rorschach Test to which she will never have an answer.
Moisture leaves her body faster than she feels it will be replaced,
she is mummifying herself alive in Sokushinbutsu,
attempting to join the Xerces Blue letter-author
who flew away into extinction.
The walls around her now close, tight, stone;
her only contact with the outside world the string of her memory
attached to the bell of loss.
The weight of the page
she holds destroys her.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
Little golden hoops spinning round and round.
each time the paddle falls they explode in terrifying color.
mother superior beats me
she found out
i have been worshipping false gods again.
she found me in bathroom candles lit
bowing down to the mighty walls, i was
praying to the patterns of lysergic bliss
i was afraid i suppose
afraid that if i did not pray to something
the demons would come to take my trip.
**** it for the life of me
i could not remember the name of her god.
she found the little strips of paper,
she found the dried up mushrooms,
she found the fine yellow powder,
she found the mighty ganj,
but i found it first
and for that i am beaten
again again
my mind whirling with these crazy sounds and colors
each time the paddle falls
my eyes roll
and i get harder
so please mother superior remind me why I will go to hell
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 7:28 AM UTC
Drowned in sensory.
Internal explosions bring
the first breath of life.
-
Transitory world.
Realms warping, realms vibrating,
encased inside mind.
-
The wall is shattered.
You: transcending, flourishing.
Break free from axis.
-
Blueprints mapped in stars.
Secrets of the *intrepid
travelers* rush in.
-
“This is existence.”
The cosmos engulf you in
esoteric truth.
-
Electric surges
deaden all concept of time.
“You’re immortal here.”
-
The universe speaks,
Your body is listening,
This is life’s essence.
-
You begin return
to physical world with eyes
of new perspective.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
*the mirror eyes of the corpse, long after people
voiced their concern of the fear of seeing
them no longer blinking, or allowing a peering
into the window of soul, either shuttering
them still to suit the numb limbs, or preparing
them with two coins for Charon and the crossing
of the Styx - that foul river of modern combustion
engine ointments of unrefined diesel.*
i'm angry at my piano of letters,
i call it the dog whistle piano,
the silent piano that rightly can also be
compared to a machine gun -
and that dumb musicology of poetry
is rhyme, or as one english teacher
revealed, the poetic alphabet of 52 letterings:
roses are red (a)
violets are blue (b)
dearest repertoire of procrastination's jive (c)
a head donning a beehive (c)
better dead than red (a)
i wrote this wearing only one shoe (b)...
and like this onto:
bring in the four elements,
atheists argue life ought to be like air,
never connected to skeletal structures,
randomised in atomic form and our bodies too,
the ones citing life's arguments
using earth have the easy inhibitory
village life, they're the characters
on b.b.c. radio 4's the archers (not
that peach schnapps, the mighty
"i'm living on a farm yo ** **
what do you call a non-urban benefits
system? farming subsidy) -
those of argument from water we take
to imply basically all of us -
the fiery ones' motto better to burn out
than fade away - the 27 club -
and then the lightning ones
are stuck in a dying light-bulb epilepsy
of constant mirroring rejuvenation -
mind you, the moths are bewildered,
it's a lysergic acid (can you imagine
a lysergic alkaline?) trip for them,
so they don't even bother smacking the
**** thing for an instant light-bulb-tan:
moths invented u.v. sun-tan parlours long
before we had the thought of it.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
why is it that poets always
claim that there are demons about them
rather than books -
where's the real horror movie?
i know, persuasive public speaking
leaves little room for anecdote -
but still the poets claiming
the existence of demons rather than
the existence of books!
this cradle of ownership with you
necessarily taking
lysergic acid diethylamide...
or maybe i'm just dreaming with the illiterates
an a, b, c?
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
For some reason I felt compelled to share with others, strangers I guess, I never met them.
Strangers then. Compelled to share with them you. To prove to people who never knew us that I loved you. That we were lovers.
I wonder if I harp on that word too often. Bet I do.
I do.
I connected the misery of your loss into The Antlers - Hospice.
In some cowardly preoccupation with signaling the virtues of a luminous man I pretended in due process. Much of me as you must understand.
You were a woman and a girl.
And I forced myself under to suffer in some actual mourning.
So a world built on my word.
My hands need rest.
My mind needs rest.
I want to stop.
I'd swallow a breathful of Plath-itudes.
If it'd quieten the lore of some rolling hill of you.
Somewhere scrawled in a red oak desk,
Borders and plyings a mess.
I likened you to a spectre.
For a literal in lieu
Why can't I let up off myself.
Why won't I accept love.
You are the woman protagonist in a fiction
And only your performance merits applause.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
poetry, moving, motion,
kinetic, effigy, ocean,
swimming, swimming, sinking,
There was once a time
before words were among us,
before, there was just movement
of images of rolling hills
and towering skyscrapers,
colliding and fusing together
into a spiral staircase.
Before there was language,
we had movement.
before language,
We would just stare at each other
for a dozen minutes at time
as if our features were a French painting
done by an existentialistic artist, trying
so hard to create the beauty he cannot find for himself.
And how I would stare into the ocean of your eyes
grasping your fingers as our very presence
gave each other lysergic bliss.
Before language.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
Exuding supernova suns
Through sensory explosions
Otherworldly forms of fun
When the Mother Earth has chosen
Pheonix forces I become
As I'm making moves like Gambit
Checking Bishop's loaded gun
For I am gods and I am mortals
I am everything and nothing
I am trans-dimension portals
Into realms of onto something
More than human paranormals
By detaching from possessions
To an equinox of vernals
I am blissful blossoms blooming
Unabashful beaming brilliance
Blithe brain blasts of bold babooning
Big Bang bomb bursts blowin' billions
Burning bourgeoisies by booming
Bolshevism boiling blood's
Broke-bank Bane of bat-cave brooding
Jedi masterful mind trips
Skywalkin' Bespin nonchalant
'Cuz no force-choking Vader grips
Can bring me down to Coruscant
And no Death Star apocalypse
Can stop the peace I'm keepin' in
My rogue one rebel leader-ships
Fearless with my laser sword
And selfless Star Trek Enterprise
To defeat the Klingon horde
The ego of Galactus dies
Upon my Silver Surfer board
Still Samwise to my Frodo quest
To sonicdoom the Mordor Lord
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
my derelict third year in the drone:
a way to assuage what it feels to
function. to breathe mechanical air.
the rambunctious scent of morning appears
ill, confabulated, lysergic at most.
ladies in lithe dresses pose for pressing scenes.
taken photographs held up in loose light.
pelvises unloosening, ****** on the thoroughfares
fishing for trout as men, men as flowers,
lackadaisical graffiti dropping like simian jaw
upon visions of thigh. everything signatures a suture
so precise like a repair of the lip,
or the rapture of birds in impossibly blue skies.
news was that a fortune was coming in,
and I slept within the masses; dreams deliberately
vandalized and fragged.
they said it would be
marvelous. they said it would not ****
i see a woman
in her 20s. falling subtly, a gingham dress
sexed if not pullulated by flower-heads,
she said it would be darling
my third year in the machine.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC