"mescaline" poems
****** - Nay!
******* - Nay!
Fentanyl - Nay!!!
I'm addicted to a different one.
***** - Nay!
Smack - Nay!!
Tobacco - Nay!!!
I'm addicted to a unique one.
Mescaline - Nay!
Marijuana - Nay!!
*Ketamine - Klose!!!*
I'm addicted to Poetry ever since I was borm.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree
walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate
And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state
humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.
And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.
Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers
We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life
Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air
Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss
When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
At the end, will it be brandy-wine or mescaline to sugar coat
enlightenment, the purpose,
the omnipotent influence?
Some live to make a whirling dervish swoon.
Some pray to Love, composing sonnets for the moon.
Some find themselves floating, bloated lungs with lazy currents,
mourning free-will.
With questions perched atop your windowsill,
do decomposing wings pull with yearning to wake
in dawn's warning? Your beak,
a rattling, pneumonic drill.
It's a dead end,
fear and adrenaline.
Invite me in
to ostracizing nuisances.
Therefore,
I may imprison myself in cylindrical cells,
pop out wisdom like bubble-wrap,
fight the mighty ocean swells,
or shimmy up the lobster trap,
With inevitable siege by buzzards eying wildly,
shedding sea-salt feathers that won't be washed for weeks.
Still, the mad-hatter trades me one more spill for spill.
And I taste the honesty we sip for swollen memories
whose frantic bodies let fists fly on flushed faces
that we never truly see.
In profound confusion we stumble, blind.
Then, we all forget so blissfully,
once we reach the rainbow's end.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
our love making is an
amphetamine
coming together,
crack ******* this stunning pleasure
wilding dreams,
mescaline pretense too real
daily life,
the modulation high of a flotation device,
some call it cannabis-like
gentle drowsy,
a glass of tea and
she...
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
It was Tucson in the endless dog
days of an endless summer.
The heat was inescapable,
pooling in the window frames
and the air as it coughed from the vents:
A fever that would never break.
Two weeks we lay there, knee deep in the throws
of a heat that would never subdue, a summer
that would never end. You would knock on my door,
laying there on the bed, staring holes into the
dripped and melting ceiling.
You held a paper bag of cheap wine between
your ****** and tarnished fingers,
clinking against the rings you wore like
trophies. I don’t know where I found you,
golden brown and beautiful out amongst
an vast eternity of ugliness.
We took mescaline we had gotten from
your cousin living back out on the reservation.
Laying there passing back the wine
you told me how the desert was alive,
how it had been swallowing you your whole life.
You told me that the dryness and the heat
had consumed you, burnt you through until
you couldn’t bear to be yourself anymore.
The scorching heat overcame you and you told me
there had been no choice but to become the desert.
I had only been in the southwest two months,
but I saw it, although I was untouched.
You had grown here, you said,
wilting to ash together with the desert.
The mescaline had me by the throat and
I saw you from dust to dust.
I saw you at one with the desert.
You were beautiful amongst the
red and ochre blood of the sand
and at once I wanted to melt to ash
and burn into the desert alongside you.
I told you and you laughed and I laughed
and we made love to the heat
and to the sweat driven
out from underneath our pores,
inflamed by the drugs and
the inescapable heat.
The room was aflame and
the great desert was alive
and ripping at us
through the open window
with claws of heat that
slashed at our backs.
I awoke and you were tying your shoes.
Just like that, the fever had broken,
and already you could feel
autumn coming in with its swathes
of chilled air sweeping across the plains.
I had been in love those two weeks.
With the sun and the dust and the ash
and the desert and all of it being one
with you. As it all collapsed around me
I felt saddened at its loss.
You were out the door
and the summer was over.
I moved back east where the
winter came faster and colder
and the desert was
of a different kind.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
If everybody were naked
Nobody could make fun of my style
I would never be outdated.
I could go to parties with a smile.
Also when I live naked
Laundry bill can never go high.
I go jump into the shower
Suddenly I am a clean living guy.
Of course your clothing
Never gets sunburned
And nobody laughs at your zipper.
If you are the only
Person who’s naked
You look like a mescaline tripper.
But if everyone got naked
We might do away with all war
Because there would be little
That seems worth arguing for.
With all the women naked
There would be an end to their hose.
And girdles out of the question.
They’d be as natural as a spring rose.
But one must be careful.
A park bench can pinch
And hot car seats can burn.
Living **** has problems
But like everything else
It just more lessons one must learn.
But think about politics naked;
All those liars up on a public stage.
Without their expensive suits
Would they still manage to engage?
Olympians played naked.
Soldiers used to fight naked too.
Not sure what point I am making
But I think it means something, don’t you?
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
Monday mornings are always easy.
Monday mornings bring a breeze South
Of The East,
North
Of The West.
Its caressing the exposed skin
of my flaky neck
like the lead cannon from Atlantis,
Flying for the grasp
Of the cactus from San Pedro
That provides mescaline to the tribes
Nearby, that pray to its being as The Messenger
From
The West. Beyond the horizon,
Like the jack rabbit, eroding, with a tube
Sock in the vestibule over The Dungeon That Sings,
Sideway neighbors to the uvula. If seen that way.
Beyond, the continual rings of Agorapho-
bia,
Challenging anxious mind,
With ideas
Of how it be the, not the seal in yestereen's heels.
Monday mornings
Are always easy.
Jun 30, 2022
Jun 30, 2022 at 5:00 PM UTC
"For I am he that sways in multitudes,
The Ur-reader believing faithfully;
With words beneath my starry fingernails,
And arms attendant to the mescaline sky.
Forced blue and always empty to the face,
Blue hands against the million-houred nights.
Not blue by name but in a walking breath
Beneath the curse and cry of glinting day.
But praying's pointless anyway now that
The Seven Hands that turn the Sky have moved;
And walking with the moon can't turn me on,
Because I end up doing all the work."
There's not a ********* thing that you can do
When all the forest's trying to keep you still.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 8:04 PM UTC
A rhythmic whipping of winds on the pine trees,
Mescaline mind, staring through tawny windows and thinking of America
That easy breezy, ****** wind again, blowing blow from laps of men
Tripping on paving slabs, adobe piles and rubble pouring through city streets
Thorny throned king calls out his wife's name
No response, no reprise, water fills the eyes of the owl as he watches
A lizard through the grass with no legs, and the oxford comma blues
A rider on horseback, gallop through the gully, hair screaming, maddening flights
Frightening nights in the Texas desert as consumptive creatures crawl on broken sand
Feel the eyes of the devil, searing the seer
and the car that once roamed gaily now fails daily
Left in bereavement on the side of a road
Crying into calloused hands, wailing for the whale's lost daughter
Sea-dive, see me dive, watch me drive, across country, to a home I will know
When I see it.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
Wisdom is not knowledge.
It took me a vial of mescaline
And the Holy Bible
To figure this out.
All this contemplation
Over matters of the heart,
That information or judgement
Could never fathom.
Wisdom passed down,
Acquired through
Inheritance.
Knowledge learned
And memorized
Through practice.
Fantasies and dreams
Always seemed like
The synonym for
The same thing.
Fantasies are sleepy dreams
Allowing us to imagine
Our wildest possibilities.
Fantasy parked out front
In a street car named Desire.
Dreams draped in a scarlet robe
Of lust and positivity,
Always come into fruition.
Dreams draped in onyx
And negativity
Turn into the reversed
Prophetic vision of what
We want to be.
Fantasy dismissed
As impossibility
But allowed in the
Bedroom ************
Dreams realized and
Dreams that die,
They are considered
The guiding reality.
Expending so much energy
On knowledge and dreams,
But now I am
Consciously connected
To the vibration of
Wisdom and Fantasy.
Releasing resistance to
Those concepts
That I've never seen.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
I'm walking laps around my apartment complex.
Passing a red-headed girl with a bottle of Corona,
a few Johnny Rebs talking adderall,
headlights, streetlights, lighters,
swirling, combining, but never providing enough bright.
I'm still bearing a slight headache from Saturday night,
but finally past the nausea.
I spent the day conversing with Rachel's family.
The domesticated, scene of warmth was a sharp
contrast to the hell I put Rachel through in
the waning hours of night.
I woke at 9 this morning to find
her barely covered in a ratty,
blanket, no pillow under her
ruffled hair, her eyes burnt red,
asking if I was okay.
I thought she was overreacting.
She shoved water in my face.
She said, "Drink it, ******
Like she'd tried a few thousand times before,
and apparently she had,
I just didn't remember any of it.
She had saved me around 4.
She cleaned off a death mask
of filthy ***** by force.
I wouldn't comply because
I wasn't coherent.
Tonight as I touch each crack
of the pavement with my sole,
the rest of the human family
is pounding beer, suckling the barbeque
off their pudgy fingers,
and howling at a nation divided between Cheese and Steel.
I'm stuck in the trough of existential contemplation.
Old Mr. Huxley self-medicated with mescaline
and said he discovered the "is-ness", and somehow
found contentedness in "everything is".
That never made much sense to me.
Bukowski found god in ******* and drinking beer.
Vonnegut said when god created the world,
man asked what his purpose was. God was surprised,
and he replied, "I don't know. Make one up."
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 4:53 PM UTC
At twilight in the cave the bats gracefully emerge; sacrificing their lives to fly and play in the wind. Sweeping in diagonally perched on wooden posts the owls watch and wait for their prey. I marvel at gods game and sit in silence. karma pulls up and pulls out her self-division at the scene. I am magnetically drawn towards a single owl poised on a tree. I whisper to the creature, speak to me. The owl sings: puchu puchu! I sing back the crazy tune. The owl spots my red jacket nestled on my body and teaches me the blues. I come back a rainbow grounded on the green encased in a purple hue.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
Sonoran Desert at 120 mph
Chasing the spirit of Sal Paradise
Mescaline is the water of life
In these ancient bloodied borderlands
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 9:54 AM UTC
the fragments from your thoughts
dissolve into my numb limbs
wondering eye sockets shock skin and metal bones
as if to display the ever-growing feeling
of melancholy
the frozen voice of apocalypse chants
to my garden stone heart
a tiny glimpse into the void of yesterday
surrounding images of sounds and mescaline
being
drowned by smaller devils
ice-cold fingertips wash my face with delight
the over-turning silence tied
my fast paced tongue
dry salty smoke air
into that bell of mourning after
good-byes
the mutated shape of my heart
descending into your
vast and diluted throat
a violence that slowly asphyxiates the life out of
a part of me already gone
the distancing shadows
the murderer’s weapon soaked with *****
*****
images of pale dissatisfaction
the digestion of hello and
strange eyes bellowing across the floor
dragging in its carcass
the days of fresh blood
and stale conversations dreaming
awake
dirt tongues
fabric visions repeated on patterns
tv listings
exits painted over
walk-in closets regards left
on the table
un-opened
coming back
again
to the same house
and
closing your eyes
emptying the lies left across my face
(here)
it’s not your fault
too many scars
while listening
nothing is coming out of your mouth
(I am your body
crippled
ill tempered
disgusting
disfigured
and confused
by ugly lights)
for good
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
they were always three sheets to the wind anyway,
the idiots.
together we would shriek and raid ears
as we rolled across the parking lots.
the ice and snow were never cold enough
to turn our skin blue, but
we covered ourselves in it anyway.
then they tried lucid visions but they weren't sincere
enough.
they tried caffeine, mescaline, adrenaline.
they tried to go the whole nine yards
and only got eight.
i spat in their faces, the hipster *****
as mortality flaunted her **** in front of me.
handicapped and average,
i put a toe out of line and it was returned to me
mangled.
i dredged the barrel and found limes in
the cracks and the wood tasted of hops.
i was a visiter and you all hung from the ceiling,
cradled in my scarves.
i woke up and saw white walls and
the umbrella in the corner was no longer tangible.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 11:58 AM UTC
I want excitement.
I want something new.
I want to take mescaline at Machu Pichu.
I want to travel.
I want to escape.
I just need to breathe air for experience sake.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Do we ever really mean it
with temper stripping us down to our most
animalist
sadistic
I did not mean that, poem of mine I showed you last night
what read simply bled
Last night, contemplating accidental mescaline trips
loves
loss
life death
becoming master of this illusion
We are the generation which creates itself
I am my years in Chongqing
Where my heart heeded me not court the innocent
Chinese
beautiful
flower of a ******
My heart could not resist the fling
Monster
Foreigner
Devil
Oh! How my tormented conscious screams!
I am
my months
In Greifswald
Moin
Moin Moin
out back of Mensa Club
my head met an angry boot
thud
I let out my cruddy caterwall
*****
************
****
******
Come here I will ******* **** you!
I am held back from further humiliation by the furer followers taken for my stitches.
made a scene at the police station.
I get what I deserve in my American varsity jacket I stole from my father, vintage. I was an easy target it is not far fetched I get a blitzkrieg on my head.
I am my posh time in London
In Hampstead I swirl sangria
discussion David Downs and
which works are his strongest
In Chelsea I walk around
boxer shorts and pajama bottoms
getting k-holed with the
bottom feeders all ****** on
frosty jacks
7 a.m.
I am ready for heaven
my world swings before me,
swaying... silently.
A dead man hangs
swoosh swoosh
falling
from the gallows
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC
mother was a saint
father her punching bag
sisters were all called *****
when they came home
and failed the ***** check my mother
gave them, mother did nothing wrong
she ruled with brick hard pork chops
and circles of us kids
screaming , a belt in her hand,
who stole my chocolate bar?
No wonder dad had other things to do,
referee in basketball and hockey
an ump in baseball,
a head linesman in football
a devoted Boy Scout mentor,
he mentored so many young men,
but was not there for me.
I grew up not knowing how to tie a knot or survive,
I was lucky mom favored me.
I guess because in that circle of five kids,
me being the youngest , before school age,
to stop the terror I said I had stolen that candy bar.
She was a smart saint, asked me what kind was it?
I failed and was dismissed from the circle of terror.
I went to my room the rest of my days at home
trying to balance the sanity from the insane and withdrew.
I bounced ***** off the wall. Made up fantasy baseball players.
Had all their statistics scribbled in notebooks
year after year, always my name was there and I was better than Babe Ruth. Somehow , I was smart enough to get the hell out of there.
I got out earlier with mescaline mushrooms *** lsd Quaaludes
alcohol young girls. But, I got out fully when I left to join the Air Force.
I look back and state all this for the purpose of saying it was
all my fault, not mom's or dad's, mine. I was weak.
It took me years and years to figure it out get strong find my voice
consider my mom as a saint again
and my dad as a martyr!
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
Twinkle, twinkle great big sky
I tend to wonder how you got so high;
Was it ***** mescaline or shrooms?
Maybe that’s how the flowers began to bloom
Shooting up ****** in your veins
the roots changed colors and that’s how trees became
Twinkle, twinkle, great big sky
Inquire if the truths a lie.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
the hues of black
of the object in front of me
closely vibrates each shade of the spectrum of worldly colors
showing them self
they warn me
their caution to better my own
the chemical begins to gnaw at my ego
the green hallway to nowhere in my brain
where the monsters chased me as a child
where I’d run to hide away
seem endless
terror doesn’t live here
flashes of LEDs shining through the bottles of mezcal next to mescaline laying on the table
remind me you don’t live there
listen to the sounds of a voice you don’t want to hear
block out that **** you say
god I don’t even know
what day is it?
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 8:44 PM UTC