"psychoactive" poems
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces,
excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter,
ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, ****
"cleaning up ferret excrement":
mid 16th century: from French excrément
or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;
act of defecating;
a contemptible or worthless person;
something worthless; garbage; nonsense;
"this book is **** unpleasant experiences
or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year"
things or stuff, especially personal belongings;
"he left all his **** in my apartment"
events or circumstances;
_"some crazy **** went down last night"_
any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good ****
good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: *****
past tense: ******* past participle: *******
past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat;
past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ********
expel feces from the body,
soiling one's clothes as a result;
expelling feces accidentally; very frightened.
tease or try to deceive someone or thing.
"I **** you not" exclamation
exclamation: ****
[exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance]
Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’ of Germanic origin;
related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb];
_The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;
*********** from Greek κόπρος,
kópros—excrement & φιλία, philía—
liking, fondness, also called scatophilia
or **** [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces],
is the paraphilia involving
****** arousal & pleasure
from specific feces;
meanly, his mother said, _u can drink my ***
but don't eat my **** then she ****
& *** & the boy drank but when
he put the warm **** to his mouth,
she slapped it out of his hand &
yelled, I told u not to eat my ****
& the boy began to cry & feeling
bad his mother turned to let him lick
the bowl & rim the moist wet hole between
her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more
of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade
& chocolate chips, sometimes it was
more like sweet sherbet; but she never
hit him again & he's been eating her ****
ever since; now, his wife lets him drink
her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
It seems to me that those who are most passionately opposed
to the currents of power
are those who are actually the most optimistic
about humanity.
For it is those who believe
that we deserve better.
It is those who believe that we are actually
better than we treat ourselves.
It is those who believe that we have the power
to empower ourselves and
the self-control
to be in control of our selves.
When we live in a society where the deeply optimistic
are targeted as terrorists
and their souls are devalued
with bullets and their bodies cut up
by tabloids pretending to be churches,
we can not be drugged into nihilism.
Instead we must drag ourselves out of this trench
and feel the slugs pierce our skin
and go through and through us
and exit into our dreams, leaving a hole for our dreams to bleed
into this world.
And when we run out of blood we can rot
into our own imagination.
And we will dissolve and our bodies
will become the Earth.
And the Earth will become balanced.
And the Earth will spiral back around
into a bionetic noosphere.
Because, honestly, I think the Earth is sick
of having a split personality
and we are here to bring you sanity.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Do you perceive the deep crack within the fulcrum of the universe?
Daylight and darkness blend into a hypnagogic and hallucinatory kaleidoscope, where the art of fantasy rises from oceanic depths in the form of a seductress who rides upon the wings of a horned god.
We could even enter into meaningful discourse, as we contemplate psychoactive echelons of spiritual intensity?
Are you hungry?
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
the ancients would be offended
at being called ancient; so ahead
of anything that came after that
modern technology hasn't caught
up to them yet & won't;
it's specialty
pure destruction,
digging holes, fiery
explosions & deadly gas
clouds that will malignantly affect
generations to come on the cellular
& chromosomal level
[besides polluting the water
supply w/ psychoactive chemicals];
certain things the ancients
built are still standing & other thing
so grand although gone,
we still know about them [Palla
Athena, Colossus of Rhodes,
Delphic Oracle; &c., &c.;
Stonehenge, Easter Island,
pyramids, to whole lost cities;
my buddy posted a Polaroid
online of our old neighborhood
c.1974; everything in the
picture is gone
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
He travelled to Canada's west coast
To sit in fields of Mushrooms Magic.
Psychoactive effects created rooms
Filled with white cognitive static.
He returned to his hometown small
In Boreal forests of Ontario's Northland.
Beyond locked doors now unhinged
He sank deeper in grey matter quicksand.
No one quite knew Joshua anymore.
Disturbance eclipsed his passive way.
At the local pub he told Ed and me
He was being followed by the C.I.A.
In one weeks time he picked up a knife
And stabbed his father and mother.
His father lay dead on the kitchen floor
She played dead and tried not to shudder.
Joshua was found just sitting in their car
When police came to the scene of the crime.
In a hospital for over thirty years now
His room has been a static void sealed mind.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
Recollected memory is subject to a host of ancient inaccuracies, where psychoactive crises are currently attributed to ghosts of a distant netherworld.
Have you ever wrapped your hands around the power of a train as it meanders down the tracks of contemplation into the distance of realisation? How loud is the scream of the butterfly?
I fully appreciate that there is a difference between visual and auditory senses, even though one may see with their ears and hear with their eyes.
Can you taste the classical mantras of sanskritic language where vedic chants find solace in the bridge of the sitar?
How phenomenological! I can feel your trembling pulse, my antiquarian partner of contemporary lusts.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
The pungent aroma of sandalwood is a poor diversion for the administration of intravenous ******
One may be spellbound by whispering seductions which can lull a person into a golden-brown complacency.
Overdose captivates the attention, and the reality of fantasy pervades the human heart in the same manner as an arrow from a crossbow which strikes the soul in Sherwood Forest.
It’s a texture like sun. But many are the afflicted under her psychoactive propagations. Now you truly know what it is all about. Or do you?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
today is a day in autumn poised somewhere
on the toasted bread color spectrum
except wetter and chewier this morning
the gold light found me solemnly dancing
in the mud among the cypress knees
digging down to the bone to pass
this skin deep writer's block
the sun seemed huge and flat
when it sailed over the evergreen hill
misty on the beak of a warrior owl
but like me it's burning on the inside
tingling the tip of my spine causing
the blood in my arms and legs to buzz
beneath the unshockable woodpecker
with his tremendous hammer where
the monarch butterfly holds court
my skin becomes streaked with brown
as my bare feet slap the water face sending
slow elongated ripples through the swamp river
when the sun begins to spray tie dye off my shoulders
i'm haloed like a young madonna among the
jabbering leaves and whinnying branches
last night there was no howl at the moon cliche
as i let the hungry rain eat me i burped out
a victorious purple bird-sized butterfly
fighting in a gossamer heap from my tum
for my own confused psychoactive salvation
i'm still splashing and swooping
by the adenoidal afternoon
as the wild fox whimpers on the hill
the angelic chorus kicks in when
an ethereal forest nymph emerges
with her hair washed fresh
by the crisp autumn rain
out of the long trumpet gun barrel
of an orchid and dips her silken tongue into
the blue gray puddle of dew collected
in my bare navel
her skinny fingers flit between
the woven strings of an autoharp and
my arms fall limp like the branches of a wind
bent pine toward the fuzzy backs of centipedes
my chest glistens with perspiration
and my lips begin to quiver nostrils aroused
by the organic mating smells in the
daisy and dandelion clusters i
absorb through my open pores
like clear clean shining light
honing priming myself
into a glorious monumental
semi ***** pustule
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
'Dutch Bakery' in purpled-neon, lights of the cross-street behind slink outward vis reflection projected unto Liquor Plus, Empire Theatre. Kind and married-typical common law couple with a fellow looking feel-low sits with pack atop his lap, tapping bottom, fidgeting leg. His partner whispers 'shall we go for coffee?' and he seems a little fizzled to respond with 'yes, ha ha, yes!'
They all look tired on the bus and I'm wired on the bus, a psychoactive passion for coffee in all forms the general complicit in my make-up brazier. The fuzzy-muffled image in the dark beyond the moving windows are like ground-level star-scapes hopping from eye-to-eye. No one here can see they're part of the greatest story ever told. Part Ten I etch unto a sketch upon a smartphone, I won't forget this moment and neither will the world. All of them I love, they love me back in some corrupted way. Won't admit the night is bright with kisses and arms up past the hemisphere.
Noting every quick fix is a way of ****** Brooklyn ****** 'MOI-da,' counting ways to be defunct. It's a long day every day, some days are handfuls and others vast oceans wherever. Spliced and shared between the masses, each mass correct of parts who think the masses are a giant individual with a fluctuating waistline depending on the era.
You can't help but come and ask yourself, 'whatever became of me? whatever began in hoping? whoever saw land in site?' before the histories rot in landfills, nothin more than sun-drenched wood-sheets, sketched-out symbols on a saw. and this, and this, and this
and this, my friends, is how the story told itself again
again
again
again
again.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Altered states of Consciousness can be very auspicious,
and such a practice may well have ensured survival, so,
perhaps genetic predisposition towards entheogenic study,
or, otherwise, the psychological drive to try such substances,
is a manifestation of worthwhile ancestral exploration of Consciousness
via intervallic use of natural psychoactive substances in groups
in our not-so-distant genetic past.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
Incessant insolent innocence lies broken by a bedside.
Am i taking psychoactive substances, or am i substantially psychoactive?
Puzzling proportions of a mirror lie shattered by my knees.
Am i broken?
shhhhhh
We just want to fix you.
Are you broken?
HUSH
I just want to feel free.
Aug 5, 2010
Aug 5, 2010 at 12:00 AM UTC
My sister is a fantastic writer.
She started writing as a way to cope.
She misses our grandmother's house,
for quite some time that was all she could write about.
She wrote about the looming, gentle, green pines that swayed over the small pond and the way you could gaze at the water and see not only the pines but also sky, just as blue and white and occasionally yellow and orange and you could could see it just as clearly whether you looked down or up.
Now, she writes about God,
or god, (although I don't think she believes in a 'the God')
she writes about the cold mist from the bay that warms up by midday but there are no pine trees.
My grandma became sick.
She became very sick of mind,
although her heart has never failed,
her memory failed her and anxiety overcame her.
She couldn't live out on the ridge anymore.
She couldn't take care of those twelve acres and the horse and the donkey and the dogs and the very small cat named Po that only came down from the attic very rarely and only to eat. She couldn't take care of these things and herself and my mother and she couldn't have laid a bigger hand into molding my sister and me. Through many an ear yank and many a promise of the wooden spatula (a never kept) she forced and graced upon us respect; for the land and living beings like, love, for the land and living beings alike, and a humbleness before the beauty of the land and living things alike.
My grandmother now lives in a gated community. Her condition has stabilized through trial and error using psychoactive drugs. Her understanding is lower and her anxiety is much higher than when she lived on the ridge but the doctors don't want to make things worse with experimentation and my grandmother doesn't want to either.
My sister's words always bleed of the page and I can see the pond and the trees and our tan bodies and the dry red dirt, and I'm thankful she has this affinity. I'm glad she can play scenes from our childhood out as if from a movie.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
Altered Mind, body lifted up
Slow paced thoughts in the couch.
Foggy Feelings, feet in the air
Smoke filled eyes in the bed.
Racing Emotions, heart on my sleeve
Induced paranoia in the room.
Crushing down with hunger And fatigue. '
Thanks, Indica. I've had a great night with you
You made me feel special; like an angel.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 10:09 PM UTC
Walk between the lights of a circus,
a man spitting fire, looking up, howling at the moon,
incomplete fragments of information like a rebus,
everything changing, everything's always soon.
Walk in circles watching past them, whaching thought.
Enjoying that bit of nature that surrounds us,
I wish the colors didn't fade, but then they do,
because we're all that's painted on this canvas.
---
Psychoactive breeze over the city when it's warm,
while I think, and part of my thinking goes to you.
And I know that it's just the silence before the storm,
but you know me - you know I'm just another fool.
Seen every type of mad beast in this crazy place,
fed them and watched them fighting through the glass,
so many people - not a single friendly face,
everything's just something to be walked past.
---
Racing lights, through the night, to the left, to the right,
got stuck, tripping 'bout the flowing of this life stream,
such a large city but everyone feels tight.
Trapping motions - one day grand, the other grim.
Everyone's from nowhere - the landscape grotesque,
dancing slowly to the rhytm of the city's beat,
in this multi-cultural, show of burlesque,
And you're part of it, still not sure if you fit in.
---
I'm holding up the pieces, makin' up day by day,
spend my time in the circus, dance along, going mad,
always talking, often with nothing to say,
take it as it comes, on the edge of the thread.
This is what I need now, I've already paid,
and you think it was me - not just me I'm afraid!
but there wasn't much done, there wasn't much said,
and I kept you out, but you'd have left anyway!
---
But you see, we rocked that **** and we let it go.
I'm a memory, and I do realise it's my bad,
and I wish that we could at least remembered so,
'cause you left so much more than a shape in my bed.
So this is my letter, my thinking of you,
not to leave another chapter of my life unresolved,
and you're still in my smile, I hope you approve,
I just listened to my instinct, did what I was told.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
They hadn't felt its caress.
They hadn't felt the God-awful withdrawal,
“Just admit it, you have a problem.”
That I did that I do, that I will.
My past, my present and my future
It’s honestly devastatingly easier that way.
Denial was, is, will be,
My lovingly apathetic partner.
This could all be a vividly beautiful dream,
A psychoactive illusion of the mind in order to break me once more.
That’s the awful idea I've had leading up to this point.
And yet I’m still reluctant to let go.
I can’t admit obvious defeat.
If I were to utter those three words,
Even aloud to myself…
I’d fall down the rabbit hole and be lost amongst Alice’s Tears.
And at that point I’d like to selfishly think she wept somewhat for me.
My resolve is slowly disintegrating
And with each passing moment and i painfully realize where i stand.
No form of stubborn adolescence will save me from my dreaded epiphany.
You are what i long for,
Even more than the drug of easy denial,
Of comforting numbness,
Of absolute nothing.
Though they seem to gracefully invite me in with what seems like open hearts,
I am sadly held at arm’s length.
And instead of their cold embrace,
I wish for yours.
Instead of detachment,
I want the overwhelmingly delightful sense of electricity that comes with only a memory.
Instead of loneliness,
I wish for you.
Though it was much more uncomplicated to not care for defiance had been my best friend.
I think I’m okay with loving you.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
I.
It is beginning
to be whispered now.
II.
"She's sick,"
and indeed
they're right.
III.
Spilling it
like spilled coffee
the world's most used
psychoactive
they all scatter in awkward
worry
for safety of someone
they care nothing for.
IV.
Do they really believe
that I am
a different human being
then I have been for two years
now you know I'm sick
V.
Because I am ill
because I cannot eat sometimes
and others cannot stop
because my body cannot get enough food
it doesn't know how to process half the things
I put in.
VI.
Because I am ill
because I cannot sleep sometimes
and others cannot stop
because my body cannot get enough rest
it doesn't know how to shut off the thoughts
and sink.
VII.
I get asked
"Do you have an eating disorder?"
because I am so skinny
there is nothing to me
I am not more then
Ninety-eight pounds on a good day
I have never been
one hundred.
VIII.
No.
I do not
have an eating disorder.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
for all the lampooning and clowning,
i guess it's true:
a white in a samuel l. jackson
memento of the kangol new age
hatting: as they say:
pigeon drools wet hot ****
onto your upper part
it's only lucky should you be
wearing a bowler, top hat,
a samuel jackson signature or a kippah.
but it's january and it's dreary,
and i could be forgiven on the circumstances
but i won't be with fakes and my generation,
and you'll just tell me:
your addiction has turned into a metabolism,
it's no longer psychoactive,
you proved the soul, as much as anyone,
but mainly your own, by losing the psychoactive
ingredient effect of alcohol and enabling alcohol
to claim a metabolism, a body, rather than
a teenager's soul binge drinking...
thank god you're conscious of it,
and nihilistic enough to continue.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
Narcotics
Derived from
***** resonates your skin
Getting sleep at night erases
Bags that drip over the cliff of
Your cheekbones that twisted tour smile psychoactive.
The tissue that lies beneath your skin soaks sedatives
That meditate to the ecstasy seeping Secrets to our family
You missed Thanksgiving dinner last year.
Now I'm sitting in front of you staring
At your veins blue with blood now flushed with heroine
The holes on your shirt matched the ones between the crevice of your arms.
You shrug me away and
Say "hold on bird"
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
Psychoactive,
More active than your passive hashtags
I'm acting like passion's lacking in these masses
No more than attractive caskets
Really just static traffic, molasses,
Fashion classes? You're wearing classic ashes.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
This *****
Unstuck, this one's luck has run amok,
Adjust our distrust to highlight this unjustice.
I'm just one among us.
Us and them. Red and blue. White and black.
We're all dead, just lay me on the mat.
There's chitchat tryin' to get at where I'm at
And why I'm there.
It's riffraff.
I'm just kicking back.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
I want to give it all
I want to volunteer.
But what good is my gall
If I'm not even here?
I want to love you more,
I want to help you out
I want to shed some light
I want to strip your doubt
Stand upon my shoulders
Use me as a step ladder
If I couldn't support you, though,
Wouldn't I just not matter?
Take what's mine and make it yours
Use me the best way you can
Dock your boat upon my shore
Explore and prosper from my land
Take my crops, read my books,
Heed my wisdom, see my example!
Just don't misuse what you took,
From my supply, just take a sample
It's not much that I have for you,
But that is really all there is.
A grain of sand for your grand castle
Might not be much, but take my drips.
When you take, you give me more
Without having to give at all!
When I try to take and fail,
I feel pathetic and so small
Would anyone benefit from me
With my grandeur and my twists?
Is this mess behind a mask forlorn?
Might it just as well not even exist?
Take taxi cabs, use tennis shoes,
Move forward with life itself
And if you feel a calling to help me,
Leave that burden on the shelf.
My perspective's gone and twisted
I don't really know about my place
My nightmares calm me after my dreams
Shove what I want in my face!
And oh, if I could just change that!
How much I want what I truly don't!
How badly I long to be accepted,
How badly I long to be left alone!
Pain in my heart, pure straight jacket!
Confine my moves to make me seem
Like I could ever be someone's hero!
Like I could ever fulfill someone's dream!
It's all a ruse! I'm such a mess,
I write this poem out of rejection.
You miss the shots you never take,
But taken shots can be deadly weapons!
I see shots that I could take,
And I refuse and it ***** for days,
But I take shots and my heart breaks
And I can't make this go away!
Where's the exit to this maze,
Is it the real Suburban Dream?
Do I need psychoactive drugs
To **** the part of me that bleeds?
Where's the napkins? Where's the gauze?
This bleeding really needs to stop!
I can't just ask for a transfusion,
And if it dies, then I'll be lost!
I'm guided by my bleeding heart,
One failure after the next,
I beat myself down night after night,
And now, all I can say is, what's left?
What is there left in my hollow shell
Besides my love and my caring nature?
There's also tons of ways to waste time,
Will artwork be my savior?
Is numbing the pain until it's gone
The right answer, my best bet?
I need to find some way to be strong
And try to save what I have left.
Let me help you, give me meaning,
Give my ungrateful self some worth!
There's only so much time I'll have
To love people here on this earth.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC