"psychotropic" poems
My favorite # 1 Life experiences enhancer stress and pain reliever the magical psychotropic attributes it has makes me go loco. Cannabis Sativa/Indica or Hybrid I love it all...the only bud I won't smoke is "Reggies" that seedy nasty **** It gives me a headache. All other qualities strains and methods of ingesting or using marijuana welcome. The *** oil is so strong yet so dreamy and good. All around is excellent medicine and I will always remain to use it even after I quit my other habits. Makes people rejoice and come together happily with each other and commune and be kind to each other respectful to each other. That is what u love about cannabis.
PotHead4 Life 4/20Friendly
©Franko the Christian Poet
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC
My seed, my seed, why do I despise thee?
Never, have I been respected for my
Generous gifts given in between thighs.
One mischievous night that I could not flee
And now I’m bound to you through my money.
I did not want you; now you’re always nigh
You somehow stimulate every sigh
Laud’num doesn’t dull your presence, my seed.
Sometimes, I think – but no – my mind’s tangled.
Red *** riddles reveal… nothing. I find
These psychotropic fantasies have slid
Beyond me and you, I could not wrangle.
Years will pass ‘til we meet, but the check’s signed
Because ********* my seed, you’re my kid.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
Walking through rivers in the middle of the street
The deepest of puddles to soak my feet
Pornographic windows with strange girls inside
Naked young women with nothing to hide
A trip to the zoo in the sun and the rain
Rolling up numbers again and again
With time on our side and nothing to lose
The wind in our sails adventure we choose
Psychotropic games to contort my mind
We can't understand them but they're still so kind
Stairs like a mountain so many to climb
We've been here so long for such a short time
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
. what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
presence...
the thief has a public of
the victim,
and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
a concept of:
not enough public...
thieves and magicians are
bedfellows...
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
fashion...
allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
are they... so much unlike
each other?
magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that **** could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE!
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
Bach...
i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
disorientated...
but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
played them the slayer oeuvre!
WEE-TARDS!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
(pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
hmm...
can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
thunder cackles in the morning
a witch is a woman
with any amount of wisdom
your words are as bland as coffee
and the dandelions are talking
for i am permanently amused
by vicissitudes and antelopes
and aggregates of moods
feelings and isotopes
hanging by psychotropic ropes
firmly financed by our fingertips
lifetimes triangulated in transitions
farm the fallow fields
and try to heal the poppies
dropping numbers
and putting aside our copies
a simulacrum of similes and shortages
as field mice and farmhands
dance on saturn’s rings
despite all of jupiter’s complexities
your complexion is never shallow
and i swallow seawater
to embrace the sweet finality of life
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC
An Ode to my greatest love, Sleep.
May you never grow tired.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every time I wake up
I just want to make up,
Another reason
To be with you.
Me, you.
Traveling fast down floating hallways.
So many doors of possibility,
Free and expensive outlets
For us to spend invisible cash-
Which is really diamond factories
In my fingers and with every touch
There lingers,
Glittering particles in our wake.
Lets go to far away concrete jungles
Or wander fast on psychotropic trips to
Miniature red rocked planets
Where the struggle for good begins and
An ominous unknown looks down from the sky.
I’ll play the star
Of this mini soap drama,
While you keep your vigilant eye on the time.
I am the bird
You, my gilded cage.
And with every mornings rising-
I fly away
From these neon dreams
And the supernova of music
That casts a glimmer into the meat
Of my eyes
And makes the doldrums,
The ** hum,
Of everyday living-
Of pastel landscapes-
And hetchy sketched lines
On strangers faces,
Pull me down, where I am drowning
Into the gum spotted ground.
At times
I lay lingering
In the fresh blood
Of our latest retreat,
Our greatest victory-
Our heartbreaking defeat,
Hoping that this time,
This time,
will be the last,
will be our greatest
and never be surpassed.
Morning will never come
To break the storming stream
Of our fantastic dreams
And wake me to meet
Another gray and paling daytime scheme.
Yet with every journeys end,
a new day does begin
and rise-
I suppose I do
with a mourn in my throat
for the places we could go
but that will have to wait
until the lush blanket of your love
lays heavy on my breath
once again,
and reunited, feeling good
we propel away
on new shimmering webs
dangling far from realities clutch
into fantasies sweet touch.
Sleep, my love,
it is you I choose to pursue,
Because every time I wake up
I just want to make up,
Another reason
To be with you.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Swapping astrology puzzle pieces
Stitching, patch working like cartoons writing typwriters
How many holes can I fit into my ear, can fix self brand new
I can sew
when is drunk wants the toilet to be a female therapist
done with psychologists
feel benzo anymore
taste narco anymore
Psychotropic **** arounds, ******* around with their sandy chalk trysyclo
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
i was sitting drunk alone in a yellow flannel on a dirt
and patch grass hill beside an empty picnic table when
you sat down said hi my name is sam and i'm tripping face
that was no secret judging by the size of your pupils and smile
i asked to borrow a layer from your lip-gloss and
you happily obliged after verifying i had my circle-circle-dot-dot
you laughed hard and said you'd never been this high before
when you let me finger you on the ferris wheel with
the scene from the hill a distant seven minutes in our past
you watched with tears in your eyes
and smiled as i pulled my body
away from your candy thighs when the ride stopped
and stuck my sticky fingers back in my mouth
you said you listened to music better with your shirt off
and sure enough your ******* perked up like antennae
when my fingers slipped under
your half-shirt like an innocuous splinter
in the great pink epidermal amphitheater
you proved to be a nudist burlesque queen wearing
a hailstone necklace and a gold coin skirt that jingled
when you walked or skipped or rubbed your *** on me
i felt so immediately attracted to you
and i still do i can see you when i close my eyes
dancing free in a delicate psychotropic mushroom haze
whispering slap me silly as we walked hand in hand down the hill
you kept talking about your girlfriend being jealous
of my fatal blue eyes as the music drifted like breath
between us your hair was heavy with the smell
of mushrooms beer sage and rain
we took several overpriced shots of tequila and i lost
another six dollars in drink tickets when
we spent a whole dj set lying in the grass in the dark
with the lights from the stage spraying over
our heaving naked sweaty chests with my
hand in your gold net skirt and your tongue in my ear
the clouds were knotted ropes of wet white cotton
the sky became the sea and your fingers found my
feverish lips like a cool prayer
i looked up through the oak tree porthole
to find the strangulated sky
whirling in on itself like water
in a washing machine and i
let a dolphin carry me away out to where
the waves were boiling and wild
the stars salty and deep
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
*Transitory Light & Supernova Streaks,
Her ****** Hues Blooming In Rhythmic Techniques,
As Her Elemental Vanity Circles The Clones,
She ***** My Sanity With Her Illuminated Tones,
Euphoric Comprehensions Etched In Her Holographic Moans,
In Seductive Dimensions She Reveals Her Pornographic Unknowns,
Serene Luminescence Of Her Prodigal Demise,
Procreating In Her Decays of Her Astral Guise,
Psychotropic Debris Caressing Her Reprise,
Stardust Petals Confessing Her Eyes,
Sulphur Promises In Her Trapped Desire
Vicious Bouquets Of Her Nocturnal Fire,
The Carnival Flirts In Her Melodic Choir,
Futile Rage Gracing In Her Satire,
Tranquil Stitches Glimmering In Saffire,
Encrypted In Cold And Catatonic Bonfires,
Illustrious Grandeur In Her Chimerical Verse,
Rudimentary Amour of her metaphysical universe,
Blows of Blues Metamorphosing In Floral Curse,
Entropic Cassettes & Blossoms In Her Cigarettes,
As The Process Resets & She Mutates Into Velvet.
- 06:24 AM*
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 9:08 PM UTC
Vibrant yellow back
Defiant black streaks
Deceptively cute
Solid almost artificial blue unlike the sky or ocean
Speckled with the night
Assuming an artificial rainbow
Small eyes that radiate innocence
And an equally built body
Your diet is of alkaloids
Psychotropic substances
You use them to protect yourself
Psychedelics have brought you questions you'd rather not answer
I've indulged in the natural poisons
I can see beauty in harm, purpose, necessity
But if I let you be, I know you're no danger to me
Though, I'm a little too late
You're delicate and I am clumsy
You've warned me not to get to close, I’m bound to get hurt
I yield to what yearns to cradle your amphibious nature,
so unique to a monochrome world
Physicality is your weapon
An open wound lets your corrosive membrane transfuse my blood
You flood me
And oh, I moan. Action potential discharged, the sensory impulses to my brain.
You stop feeling slippery in my hand as I begin to rust
Little one, you escape my hands
But I am paralyzed
Thickened blood, what went so wrong
Tender in touch, I didn't hurt you
But your defensive, corrosive skin reflected your inner malintent
Black mamba venom indisputably pierces the skin
Harsh betrayal of curious wonder
Black widow toxin, an unblunted destruction of the dermis
But you came in celebrated color
How am I to trust visual credibility of sinlessness
You're a poison dart frog
When the beauty that once enticed me
Has hardened the sanguine essence that filled me with vitality and awe
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
I knew this man because I was this man
So it must be said; I was this man because I knew this man
And never did I faultier when he reached with his trusting hand
Bound by intent, his grip stowed the tension of promise and fruition
His is a lifetime laden with the cogs of internal creation
This is the summons, the congenial placement of his offer
Beckoning the self to again be rendered upon the plane of the psychotropic wood
Through this sanctified exchange the divergent union assumes singular being
A spiral of fleeting connectivity, lapsing as the hesitant tide breaks upon neither shore nor sea
So the invitation reciprocates moment to moment by way of residual eternity
The soul twists and skips in both agony and ecstasy
Bearing a jagged tolerance for lingering wait and the flash of re-entry
Thus begun my endless stroll within the confinement of mind
I am birthed each day anew in the cradling mist blanketing the forest floor
With shy eyes one surrenders to this emergent rim
Sentenced to wake beneath the towering monoliths, the fossil redwoods
Who lull my attentive ear with the ambient groans of their interned memory
Joined in chorus only by the hushed breathe of the creborus crows
These birds, these deities hung inverted from gray and rotted limbs
Whispering their imbuement to the aggregate dirge of pardon
This is the swallowing of supposed sensory
Set in impetus, this final paradigm may forever possess the gift of awareness.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
His earnings were no use now,
A bottle of antiquated Romanée Conti would undoubtedly do,
A premium Gieves & Hawkes ensemble donned,
Jeff Buckely trills of lilac wine as he puts on his GJ Cleverley shoes.
He turns up the dial on his harmony producer,
Fading out the shrilling yawp of the telephone upon the table,
He sits up in his silk sheet bed,
The lights dim to a squint and the Psychotropic tab make him unable.
A pill for each mood now a-swirl in his gut,
He deliberated if that earlier he should have elected the lamb over the pork,
Then peers to the room’s edge to the dark of a crook,
As slippers pulsate and instigate to a mellow sway and begin to curiously talk.
“What you do there?” They spoke with pry.
He enlightened the foot snugs that he wished to die,
That he hated a life as obtuse of this,
Now once able and mind half disabled he would take a knife,
To his wrists.
A razor flavours blood of the open arm,
As authoritative calls bellow and boom behind the door of his sweet,
They would never find the cash in the Caymans,
As there was none; just good wine, fast cars, his suits, and the fine shoes on his feet.
The slippers float and thus speak on:
“You are a fool to yourself you have done it all wrong, they have notably found the note”.
“There is little time left you should hurry now,”
“Take one last sip of the wine and let the razor meet your throat.”
The door bucks with each thump,
Through the yells and demands it begins to give as it creaks,
He lays a gasp in his ruby and blood,
He is now a fade and almost absent and the slippers are asleep.
They will salvage him from his discharge,
This man of hate for life, life of lies, thief of the poor and unto his soul,
A man who obstinately wanted more,
Until more was a bore and nothing no longer more fed the avid hole
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Hypothetically, what if I was drunk
or high or ****** beyond repair?
What if I crushed four 2 milligram Xanax
and snorted them up my nose, hypothetically?
What if I packed my hand-blown, inside-out
glass pipe with good green, sticky bud?
And, hypothetically, what if I cut up some fresh powder
and went on a skiing trip that lasted through an eight-ball?
Or what if I dropped LSD in my left eye just to see the lines
combine and streak by?
But what if I was sober and what if I still felt
the same then as I felt was hypothetically *******
What If I loved you?
What if you were all that mattered and
what if you diminished all the other ****
My trip is my way into your life and the road that leads me there is filled with many things, but the psychotropic **** and barbiturates and benztropines and burning hash, I will leave at home because you are the only thing I need to get high.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Psychiatrists said my son was mad
But I only saw a child,
He needed to be locked up, he was dangerous and bad
They declared, but I knew he was only wild.
Psychiatrists have for decades employed
ECT, that damages brains, destroys memory;
With omnipresent power employed
The soul-disabling effects of SS-influenced lobotomy.
They prescribed (prescribe) addictive drugs
To all and sundry, on a whim,
Giving them to children, like street-wise thugs
Covered in expensive bling.
I took my son away
Protecting him from a psychotropic shower,
Until he’s strong enough to have his say,
Not silenced by mis-used power.
He talks of love and wondrous things,
Of things he’s read and seen
All they can see is a boy who stupidly grins-
Like playground bullies, ignorant and mean.
They said my son was mad
Needs to be drugged, pinned down, abused
But surely the world is worryingly sad,
Allowing people to be so used?
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
*The night opens like an ancient book
all the lovers sleep under a crimson moon
there is a dream that becomes another dream
hurt and joy begin to melt into multicolor scales
pain and faith dance the chant of life
all the music is a different obscurity
must bear the weight of the channels of the mind
dark voids of stars exploding like candles in the dark
all beauty is cold, I can smell her parfume
cosmic restlessness and radioactive corrotion
solar flares and pitchful black light of a tousand suns
time folds itself by the passing of the spirit of Death
we hear trumpets in the sky
hideous symphony of sickness
foul smell of nausea drags on the soil
strange and unpleasent hallutinations
fill with the Nature of psychotropic womb
and I can hear a lament faraway:
"O Lord, give me a sing, send me a message!"
but there was no response, there was no God listening
is life a labyrinth of equations and sequences?
just lost numbers and imaginary answers
Destiny is joking around, Luck has been dead for years.*
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
Born to die, immortal we are not,
dwelling on the past, we descend looking back.
No memories of the womb, a black existence.
The cyclic pattern, a psychotropic dream,
monolithic, no hidden seams.
Climb into the abyss,
another reverie.
Morphic resonance has made the arrival,
another chance bequeathed.
A silent gift of opportunity,
an experience we don’t recall.
Don’t fret, just live it all.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
Freedom is merely the unseen
a bag of chips
and a tank of gasoline
locking myself in the dining room
and writing a letter to the queen
getting clean
from a psychotropic TV screen
putting on airs
and running against the wind
spinning 'til my face turns green
men who need roses and time machines
and peeling the rind off a tangerine
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
A white fancy rat
Stargazing from its
Cage out side the
Window
Slips into a psychotropic
Dream
Where the
Land is full stars
Of all sizes
And all the
Colours of the rainbow
Or chakras.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 7:58 PM UTC
Drinks turn to drinks, turn to drinks, turn to drinks,
Turn to acidic love,
Eviscerating my sight with technicolour,
An extraordinary hallucinatory rush,
Holding hands or laying in laps,
Falling into ribs or the booming bass of summer hits,
Rising and soaring then crashing into loops,
Of thought,
Falling into ribs or the booming bass of summer hits,
Falling into loops of thought,
Falling in love,
Texting my friends, feeling unsure if I’m thinking or talking,
Words on the screen convey the words in my head,
That’s mad,
The blinding light of a children show whirls,
I think I know my type,
I hope she kisses me,
I need to get out of this situation,
What about drawing?
Or music?
Or sit in silence for 45 minutes flat,
Or watch X2: X-Men United,
Stuck in loops,
Time has passed,
One sudden snap,
And it’s ******* awful,
Coming down,
Hold on and go to work,
Really good, I’ll try it next week,
And although I should know better; it all felt so magical and real,
I fell in love a little bit,
And lost myself a little more
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
Hold that thought
Until you're hands are ****** broken
------------------------
Maybe
(Its not)
but maybe It could be
**** you)
Winning on the golden ticket
Ok, there's no real chance
(no ****
I swear to god
(Get ******* through it)
I dealt out my pain
From past experience
***** please)
I mean it
(you can't be serious)
There's a broader gate
Whats the reason?
(I'm glad they segregate)
Pad locked grave gate
(You're a rip off and you know it)
Throw the game to save some face
(Better hide, you'd better run)
Coughing mad hatter fits
(Living sub-par is ignorant bliss)
I miss the days of old
(funny ****
Barely out the womb
Already wounded
Foray into the fray
Has left me confused
Malnourished and blue
In the face
And yet this constant fear
Of disgrace
(You're ******* fake)
(Fake as **** I swear I know it
So psychotic and psychotropic
Spend your waking moments hiding
And every other in imaginary topics)
Making do with slave wages
Striking out on all these pages
Jesus left me feeling blind
Contained within these broken places
----------------
They say reading is good for you
They say a lot of ****
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
With every good movie, sweet song,
Great book, remarkable poem,
Or awesome short story
I find a new part of me
A shared understanding
Half parts fiction and reality
Swirling in the mix
Full of tricks to fix
Breaking the ice with picks
Or challenging my perception
Like a psychedelic trip
Without the psychotropic
Chemicals
Till, I smile or the tears drop
Till, I can’t stop
From feeling something deeply
No matter how much it hurts me
Stories unnumb me
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC