Demons on the perimeter
stalking serenity’s
unsuspecting bliss.
Is this all that's left?
Once mighty defenses
now offer little protection
against these ancient,
clawing phantoms.
Shadows lurking
in the forest of the
psyche, await nightfall's
indifferent embrace
Alas my redeemers.
Tiny painted disks
that beat back
reality's assailants
while extinguishing
the last threads
of creativity that yet
remain.
The strain on tattered
nerves almost too much
to bare
I care not what punishment
is wrought from these efforts
to remain sane in the light
of an unforgiving God.
My mind is mangled beyond
repair.

Who is there left to call 'friend'?

It's been so hard to
die, but now, I've been looking
for a means to live.

This is going to work
I’ll feel better
Swapping medications
Paroxetine for fluoxetine
Sprinkle in some hydroxyzine
Just keep swallowing
Pill after pill...
Idk... maybe one of them will help
But now.... my head spins
Every time I move
I never want to eat
Then I gorge myself
I can’t remember anything
I’m sorry I keep forgetting
I just... I’m trying so hard to get better
I’m trying. I am.
But to get better
I must endure illness
Withdrawal
Side effects
Before any of it will improve

happy wine wednesday.**

My hands smell like smoke and coffee
because nicotine and caffeine (and fluoxetine, duloxetine, paroxetine) make me remember to forget what it’s like to be this lonely.
There’s wine on my breath (9 dollar grape flavored paint stripper) and I'm so high my face could kiss the ceiling because this is what we call making friends.
And I know when I’m drunk I forget to remember to forget to feel and i spill out my heart to the lowest bidder (and I spill out my drink to my lowest cut top) but sometimes the foggyheavyblurry thoughts shared with a southern boy over a menthol make the moment mean more than I would have shared when I started writing this poem at 11am this morning.
And even though I forgot to wash my face and lock my door and my hands still smell like smoke and my heart is heavy with loneliness, I know I found solace in the simple smile he shared with me when I said
I was ****** up.
everything is fine.
everything is okay.
im fine.
im okay.

I had run out of it i'm out of it
mind you my mind that ran away
first by feet then by train
paxil was her name a rotundish
hard skinned pink pill of a ****
so sleeping a tossing flipping
dreaming dream i witnessed a mess
messing up a dream:

this slot of sliced land jutting
with clapboard housing a shouting
with roaches a toasting the best
of a meal they boasted
the strangest of stranglets in
a land of strangler piglets;

two step eddie backed up to a window
owned by a rider, says he with
back to a drive-thru widow, 'take
this shotgun, won't need it, take
this broad sword too, and take this
forty-four again won't need it,
i'll keep this grenade cause it
needs me more -- see that man there
, snagged my lawn cutting his own
, watch me walk over there.

Two-step walks over there and pulls
the pin and once again they do like
they do the owner of that window
was a copy-cop over 44 and says
to eddie, 'don't pull that pin you
sons of guns, sons of burning suns!"
Pin pulled, trigger pressed two slugs
in the valley of the deepest cracks
of two buns and all is done.

And the female dog under the oak
toking-tree says to her male friend,
'your banging will wake up the
recently dead if you don't stop
banging and start more slapping instead;
no-step eddie tells the devil he
needs to brush his tooth but forgot
his teeth brush under the bush.

Never cold turkey Paroxetine
and slip to sleep on a Monday.

:: 06-26-2018 ::

never rub another man's rhubarb.

so this article comes along
about aya-huskie,
****... what was it?
                              ayahuasca
and i'm reading it,
and i'm reading into it,
and i'm like:
     it's not unusual for 100+
ceremonies ingesting
this drug happen in new york
on a daily basis...
****'s more potent that
corresponding a war...
   the female enegry *madre:
hocus pokus
          harry houdini
       eating a pear as a magic
            trick *******...
nope...
   i'm fine my beer, my love
of home-cooked food,
my music...
       what am i implying?
   the ****'s contaminated -
just like the beatnik poets
contaminated peyote...
contaminated, how?
  they wrote about it...
who the **** is going to moan
and complain about me
writing about drinking?
                           um... no one?
the brew is so abused that
when sometimes comes
along and writes about its
effects, in a positive way:
you don't really start moaning...
all those soppy:
  papa was an alcoholic type
stories...
   mama drank a bottle
of wine before putting me to bed:
too bad *******!
    live with the fact,
that somewhere, somehow,
there's a drunk who could
juggle a monkey, a tambourine
and banana:
  and call it a musical instrument!
you ingest something
for a sense of humour -
or you ingest something for
a sense of wonder...
aya-hoo-haha-caska
   is of the latter category...
alcohol?
            ugh: the former!

and to be honest?
    the only and at the same
time the most spiritual experience
i ever had or will have:
will remain:
          hearing myself laughing.
that's it!

the sort of laugh imitating a fox,
the sort of laugh imitating muttley,
and the laugh that feels
like easing a **** of crunching
the stomach...
      the visionaries can keep their
discontent with dreams,
and experience them wide-awake...

but reading this article is numbing...
always the ******* westerners,
the white "bad boys",
what they'll do with ayahuasca
is what they did with cows, pigs,
dogs and cats...
   they'll domesticate the drug...
oh look... already domesticated
being categorised as a drug, rather
than the original of: medicine...

and that's what western society does...
find me a shaman using
alcohol and i'll find you a pair
of scissors in an ayahuasca experience...
but i just hate the idea
of domesticating something so
spiritually governed...

people really think that taking this
drug, in the centre of new york
will somehow create an actual
organic potency of the drug?
          in new york the experience
will be inorganic -
        and most probably horrific -

well **** me: jump off a roof and
hallucinate a pair torn off icarus!
    up here, in the hinterlands,
in catholic schools,
   they still told us what the ukrainians
used to do: sniff glue
   (can i recommend a film?
    lilya 4-ever) -
       or don't get me strated with poles
drinking purple denaturat,
     (denatonium, methanol -
                         in short? toxins!) -

personall i don't like the idea where
this ahaya ahooya, whatever thing is going...
to me it has a scent of a process
of domestication...
        but i suppose if you're going
to deforest the amazon,
    you also have to attack the spirit -

now that i've read about the experience,
i'm rather keen on trying to
unravel the problem of antidepressants:
also in the same newspaper...
   namely escitalopram (lexarpo)
  & sertraline & clonazepam
  & paroxetine (seroxat) - all of them being
anti-depressants; so no:

i wouldn't disturb the amazonian shamans
for some "bogus" life-changing
experiences, i'd look at the situation where
drugs have moved beyond the stage
of being domesticated from their natural
environment... and... therefore?
                                    industrialised!

talk to random schizophrenic in the middle
of a night over a kalimotxo (basque drink,
red wine and coca-cola - kali kali kali
m'oh ch'oh) -
and he'll tell you: yeah, knew a guy,
was on antipsychotic medication:
                                 grew a pair of ****!

oh yeah, tobacco & alcohol are baaah!
baaah! bad! (please invoke a sheepish
stutter within the confines of the italics).

A year ago...
When life was unbearable
I prayed so long and hard
For God’s peace
Which surpasses understanding
To fill me
To calm me
To steady me
So I could think
So I could breathe
So I could eat
Ending the compulsions
Ending the panic
Ending the dread
And he answered
After I took a step forward
But now I’m not sure
If I’m filled with
The peace of God
Or the peace of paroxetine
Or perhaps... both?

It’s 5:22 and I still haven’t slept.

It’s not uncommon anymore and they say insomnia is a side effect of Paroxetin.

I call *******.

Tomorrow I’ll be picking up a new prescription - things they feed me to make themselves feel better.

St John’s Wort.

They say its safer and more traditional, less side effects.

I’m just exhausted.

I think they’re just trying to get me talking again. I’ve stopped coming to the sessions and is it normal that I’ve felt better since?

Probably because they’ve upped the dosage of my Paxil.

Do they know that Paroxetine can overdose? 560 mg I heard can ****. That’s 28 tablets.

I counted 13 in my bottle. That’s just about enough to get someone to hallucinate and *****.

Useless.




I hear chirping outside my window.

It gets me smiling.