Apathy, alogy and ethos, dreaming.
I spent hours lying on a bed,
My bed it seems.
Neither really asleep
nor truly awake, rather,
I drifted through states-between
and had no will,

My will had evaporated and in its wake
did flow a rivulet of dreams.
This dreamstuff, gleaming, is not memory but
the thing-between;

My love of chems need be fed,
For love doth consume us, even
if to our detriment, but I'm sure I
keep it healthy.

I have a fascination with the metaphysics, I find it fascinating
to try and fail, time and time again, to comprehend
how thought is there, and
what its substance/energy/entropy is;
If we're just biocomputers that excel
at pattern-recognition and abstract symbolism
then why is it that when the most meaningless of things strike
at me, and their possible significance is occurring, then
the realization of who put the signifier there
follows, the 'pataphysical critique.

Here I am begging another question, the search for meaning
guarantees one of finding, after all; presuming we can know,
The act in-itself is assuming, and what of the result? Even if
what's found is deemed to be nothing one can still consider
it. This epistemological fallacy is premised on a single reality.

Virtuality, surreality and liminality dispute our truth,
Communication, dreams and perception shake us from belief;
Finally, a post-metaphysical joke left us adrift in undefined meaning

He thought back,
Through the years,
Months, weeks, days,
Hours, minutes, seconds,
To those moments, surfacing
from memory, his hazy recollection
of deified drug {ab}use, came ever so slowly
to the fore of a mind that long ago swore to keep score.

Somewhere in a dream,
I remember.
Sometime in the agora,
I spent.
Someday I'll recall it all
but until then
I am the man who forgot
{his/he's} god.

During the summer of two-thousand-and-thirteen
many a night I did spend writing poetry
until eventually sunrise would creep up behind me
and I would realize how long I had spent
deliberating on little more than a few lines,
Tweaking their meaning, trying to find
something, a thing in them. Writing,
I aspired to go beyond rhyme,
To reconcile the world with my wanting mind
That searching, in-itself, was sublime;
In the act of poiesis one becomes divine.

Those were some of the best nights of my life,
Always ending with the sounds of the dawn chorus
which would rankle with me as I'd try to drift off
into a content and thickly sleeping state, from which I'd awake
groggily, in the afternoon of the same day.
That summer was my life.

Qualia, if they exist, describe experience.

Perceptions are frames of consciousness
that define experience: would they be given a number
representing frames per second [FPS].

There must be something to perceive
for there to be experience, and the perceiver:
A machine/dreamer through which energy flows
for perception to occur; neural oscillation cycles
equating to perceptual frames of consciousness
where a frequency would equal a certain FPS.

A moment in a dream, a quale.
The realm of the Oneiroi beckons:

During REM sleep there is no experiential context,
Suppose a dream's content is be sourced from memory:
Thence memory morphs into dreaming. Perhaps the actions
of acetylcholine during sleep disrupt temporality, meanwhile
serotonin and norepinephrine play another role in dream activity;
Were dopamine ever-so minutely implicit in lucidity?

If a dream could be quantized could we identify a quale?
The goal, to prove that qualia exist. Perhaps this 'heavy realm'
could then be described using this qualitative formula, we strive
to produce a quantum of experience.

As analogue is to digital, so digital should be to quanta.
Ah, but who would ever listen
to my nonsense.

I'm just a dreamer
and such a chancer. (Aren't we all?)

Dendrobium Nobile is from the orchid family,
A plant containing 17 phenanthrenes
exemplī grātiā: 3,4,8-trimethoxyphenanthrene-2,5-diol.

A pharmacological stew, and a stimulant
of some kind.
I think sleep will be possible

after another while.
Spent the night dancing
to grime, garage and electronica.

I came to a possible realisation,
You're as likely to change the world
by writing a paper or going into politics
as you are by taking drugs in a park
or talking furiously at strangers;
That's surely false. What strange,
******-up, vain-glorious worlds
we choose to live in. Yurt (for social justice)!

I want out.
I just want out.
Who doesn't want
to escape,

How many fall prey to
distraction along the way?
They get high, or comfortable
because they can afford to escape.

Nevermind the sober,
Ignore the starving,
Let apathy destroy
everything humanism yearned for.

There's nowhere to run, nor is there anyone,
Who would risk it, those migrants, them exiles
and the refugees, what are they fleeing from?
Not to engage in confrontation, to escape from
the war we brought to their homeland. We did this,
We made the world the way it is today, sitting here
typing away. What am I trying to say? Escape or change,
When you escape you forfeit your say, they'll change anyway.

How painful must it be to leave your home, to grapple with that
it was taken away, and one's say; we sit here, typing for change,
Trying to escape.

I was standing at my laptop, tripping, when the thought hit me: the reason we're so infatuated with technology is born of our yearning for control. What a lovely illusion to cherish, knowing does not detract from its merit; it sedates me wonderfully.

Ah but perhaps that's why Facebook is so addictive, as it lies in between ours and others spheres' of control. We push and pull, trying to hang on to these puppet personas. It's unendingly stimulating.

Virtuality offers us everything, and it's easily abused. So,
Here's something to always remember about the internet:

Once you put something online/out there it is no longer yours.

Yes, this applies to your words, you cannot control interpretations
nor can you prevent the theft of your world. Unlike reality,
Virtuality knows nothing of material scarcity,
The limit's the bandwidth and there be pirates aboard.
What am I if not begging for someone to come steal me? Take me away!

I don't have a name, all you can desecrate are these emotions I crave.
I'm writing these things because it stops me from killing somebody but
by all means, appropriate me, my work, my words, my world.

Maybe you'll add a bit of value to it, and god loves a data-*****.

On a final note, sometimes I am really afraid to be myself
because sometimes I think I'm a monster;
But I am getting better.


So there you go.

Can everything we experience be delegated to brain activity?
What is mystical, how is it transmitted?
Who witnessed the birth of the empyreal?
Whatever is The Empyrean?

So many drifting realms call out
and questing minds have sought,
Time-in/time-out, to find them
yet again, resolving to determine
that definition, the word: 'change'.

The loneliness of the Apotheon is in its seeking
to control change, forever chasing an illusion,
Day-after-day. The surge of Endorphus is just
an extension of the lust of Entactus, it pushes
things farther, further away, the melancholy of
Empathos draws them closer to us (at dusk),
Alexithymia was begging to be broken, so chained
t'was by a human, pondering the depths of Absurdia
and beyond; a love of The Psychedelion might yet prove
harmonizing enough to climb over this wall that was built
to constrain our thought, make no mistake, t'was built by us.
Night-afore-night we remember a way to bypass Choler, to rend asunder temporality via escapism's wonders, quantizing oneirogenesis, living dreams.
I dreamt I lived in a keep,
How strange, a castle was my home;
It was homely though.
Hence the forlorn appearance of The Entheon
as (by dawn) it let go
of the notion of control,
Reflecting our determination {from eons ago/for aeons to come}

Dopamine addict itched for a serotonin fix,
Gazing into this sonder mirror,
The craving for opia hit.

Staring down mydriasis, shooting up
with the metaphysics. Consigned to it,
Being strung out on ∃xistence, whatever
depth you'd ascribe to it. Know that passion
is incandescent, embrace peace as effervescent;

Lost in the gaze of fall liberty,
Rainy daze in winter ecstasy.
Found in a maze of spring empathy,
Azure haze of summer vibrancy.

Mescalito tornado on desert sands,
Shroom typhoon on distant shores,
∀cid cyclone on the horizon,
Pharmahuasca maelstrom
drank the earth.

Ion chaser ate a hurricane
and thus The Empyrean was born.

I found that writing worked best for me,
Like taking ecstasy, it let me be intimate
not just with others but with myself.

Ek-stasis,
Meaning to stand outside of oneself,
A removal to elsewhere, for the time being/a while is enough.

Now mark my words, what worked for me ain't necessarily
what will work for ye, after all,
Some people prefer drawing.

I find that music, dance
or any kind of exercise helps,
At the end of the day we're all just looking for what works best.

Consciousness is chasing your dreams,

In what sense does thought exist?
Do we qualify it as an experience?

Try to look beyond processing power
when you think memory and context;

Tell me what dreams are made of and
why are there so many stars out there?

A trenchant thought cut through the rest
to jolt me out of this haze (I savour), and
as the noxious redolence of Aetherius left
the fog of Endorphus settled in its stead;
While the mists of the oraculate cast
their insidious shadows upon
my bare chest.

Lughnasadh, Samhain, Imbolc and Beltane shall come to pass!
By harvest, hallows-even, spring and summer will it matter?
Pharmahuasca maelstrom drank the earth.

"Up the 'RA!" It means
'be yourself' in Irish.
Up the 'RA? It means
'beat us up' in Irish.

Can't leave it alone
so we skin up a spliff.
Spark it, have a ****, pass it
and occasionally tip the ashes
of modernity into an empty can
of druids. Leave House and be done
with it, fly away/emigrate, the craic lives on
agus tiocfaidh ar lá.

What are we? Who is us?
How am I? Grant me
ego-death and we
can retire; just
to let us get
high and
higher.

"In you I see *****"
histaminergic days' break,
"In you I count stars"
while melatonergic nights' fall.

"In you I feels so pretty"
those mirror-neurons pause.
"In you I taste god"
that oxytocin calls.

"In you I feel so hungry"
glutamatergic excitation begins;
GABAergic inhibition ends,
"In you I crash cars".

Addiction is a longing for connection;
Dopaminergic seeking,
Serotonergic emotion,
Cholinergic reason.

Only I can save me
so I'll pray to me
and let praise be
giveth to neurofeedback.

I contemplate destruction;
I'd erase my past
to contumaciously
destroy what I am.
No longer will I be history,
Nor its corpulent keeper;
I will delete everything
and finally be reborn,

Praise be oneirongensis,
[404: prophecy not found]

groggily:
**** you sleep inertia.

We had to grow up and pretend
like there aren't any of these problems
burning onto one's soul, eating at us

like fire around a coal;
Judgement and disbelief
are among my greatest fears

yet are the subtle expressions
of this fickle palimpsest, composite
of our longest years.

Thought I was creating something,
Detailing feeling and knowing,
Dedicating experience and growing,
Thinking of something better than me
in the hopes that it would better me.
I am not ashamed of myself-consoling poetry,
I had to try, that's all I ever meant by it.
If anyone should notice, and gods forbid they do
actually read this, then I'll admit it: I am Mydriasis

Incorrect views, lies and fault
all fueling further incoherencies,
Sometimes I feel as if all of thought
has become terribly misplaced, removed
from its immediate context, it loses any sense

It's almost November,
I lied to myself
thinking I was better.

I went for a walk
to clear my head
of serpentine thoughts,
Turbulent, tempestuous and restless.

I miss her, my city/its tribes:
My love of all I can't
at once remember;
Sharp - Distance
as it were.

In the Heart of the Sunrise
I lost myself
to the memories of her,
A city, my tribe
and a lonesome road
home.

I do not have as much time on this earth
as I would like, I am twenty years old
and each year seems like it lasted no more
than mere seconds. In a month I will be twenty-one,
In a lifetime I'll be dead.
Whatever will I do in-between now and then?
"Just remember to fall in love,
There's nothing else,
There's nothing else".
Sometimes I'm afraid
I've forgotten how,
The only thing I feel
is this fake empathy
attaching itself to everything around me,
Stinging me, wondrously. I'm not sure
whether I believe if this is truly reality
or just misplaced sense-attachments?
I'm questioning my actuality again,
The sense which connects realities;
The accuracy of interpretations to
these many given representations.
"Will I ever love again?" he asked
of himself, foolishly, as if begging
for that insanity. I am a lost cause;
The first one said I wasn't broken enough,
Well now that I'm beyond repair I've gotta ask,
What is love(? (hahaha!)

I remember when sleeplessness quelled the light,
I could feel consciousness flicker like a candle dies,
I should see The impossibility of human superposition,
I would know nothing and be totality in This juxtaposition,
The brain was in standby as I caught a glimpse of It without light;
I choose not to to through That Door,
May It haunt me evermore.

I shall explain why, I was reminded of something Alice's friend said: "Finally, they must agree that, if an opportunity to go over the threshold into death presents itself in the trance state, and they're tempted, for any reason, they are not to do so". Quite specific for a threat so vague
(considering the common-sense rules which did precede).

I dare not declare said unscientific thoughts
to be paltry to anything I believe in
but I did experience an event
detailed as a memory;
And so I say, I stayed
'cause I was trippin'
and far too afraid.
You must let that emotion
wash over this rational poem.

Philosophy involves feeling
like an unknowing child
most of the time, brief
revelation and then
unknowingness
returns again.

The misanthroes of mirthful damnation cast
this hedonism in the hopes of escaping,
It's a lonely heaven, lost in feeling,
Thinking without purpose yet meaning.

What am I if not seeking to be labelled, (am I
not? Does it just happen? So) why would I care to imagine
otherwise, that sometimes I feel;
And sometimes it feels too much
so I think less than a human does
(in-trying to "normalize" myself).

The question is one of human connection,
The human condition in all its conviction;
To feel less enables injustice but to think less
leads to ignorance, to feel more brings my mind
down a path of recursion, lo and behold: infinite
regression, insanity and all of my friends are jus'
chillin'. Better not fear them, the only thing to fear
is fear itself, so acquiesce to feeling lest their fear
becomes manifest, keep measure of it
in order to belay irrationalé.
4lpha-Masculine? 0mega keeps watch
for the manipulative 5igma. Relinquishing sanity
for a measure of phobia, just as Empathos does
when she wanders in Absudia.

In exile, 7ired and £rayed, as the 1and-of-Humankind is
ever-longing, tempting and taunting [us to join with them].

I call out our name, drawn to be, ever-longingly.

Lonely people
are always
up late
at night.

Chained to the sky,
Bound to the air,
As a child I thought
the world upon his shoulders
represented what we are born to bear:
The burden of consciousness;
Is each of us
holding back
the heavens?

This is the only thing
that makes anything
better anymore

whispered the
Scorekeeper to her
localized experience

machine running upon
everything possible;
Acknowledge the
choice desired,
Be sagacious
in choosing

for it's through the cracked ones
that the light shines.

'The end justifies the means'
said the consequentialist
to his empty audience.

'The means justify a duty'
said the deontologist
to his lonely conscience.

"Carpe Diem.
Seize the day, boys.
Make your lives extraordinary".

I've come to ask
how subjective is time?
Not the pieces we keep
but the changes we define.
A second is objective, measured,
Yet a moment is held in the mind.
We perceive reality through patterns
which can be expressed mathematically,
Relative to what we conceive, as chances
cohere to determine our chosen state of being;
The question has been: do we actually determine?
Or is it just endless reflection! Can choice shape teleology
and is it more than just mere binary, perhaps a continuum
of infinitely/eternally collapsing wave functions in computation
as the brain strains itself to make sense of this oncoming reality;
Do we lose all semblance of existence when that magnificent ***** is destroyed and at what point does this occur if it gradually degrades? I shall now state that truth, meaning and belief are three sides
of the same coin. You've got three choices
but only two chances,
Not that it matters;
T'was a toss up between genius and madness
but it landed on forlorn and simply rolled away
down an alley into abandon, longing and sadness.

Memory's a hidden thing in sublimation,
Energy flowing upon a chemical medium,
We harness it to receive our vision;

Did I spy? Eidetic
childhood took me by surprise!
While the world is all but a dying light:

"Knock the world right off its feet
and straight onto its head, book of love,
Will long be laughing after you are dead,
Fascinated by the look of you and what was said."

We can remember so vividly
yet as easily doubt our recall,
I guess all's fair in subjectivity
with its many mendacious tendencies;
I maintain there's more to memory
than this most lachrymose ending
(after which I'll say no more),
For surely we can doubt
just about anything because
*thought is exempt from being.

So many things are presented to us pre-analysed,
Ready for immediate digestion by the mind;
We are primed to respond, inclined
towards specific riposte.

Critical thinking is anything
but timing is everything,
Always be reckoning;
Examine the ingredients
of pre-packaged information.

The food we feed on often has an agenda
cast unto it
yet we must blame the people who ate it.

Don't feed the trolls.

Time is born
manifest of change,
In space we're caught
between experiential planes;
Yet thought goes beyond
said mortal chains, to which
linearity need not pertain:
Dare you treat with thy
hollow temporal wrath?
Breathed in to replace that;
The emptiness(-in-itself)
of change as a constant
and earth's cool breath,
Skimming oceans while
belaying their depth.
Thine reflection
gone in search
of humankind,
Tranquil sunbeams
doth remain aligned.

I walk these streets thinking
"this could be the last time",
She whispers to me subtly
and I know she's kind;
Lost thoughts ripple,
Abandoned to reflection,
Zer0-summing throughout all time.

So often it seems
we forget the importance
of wandering;
To be with our thoughts,
If even for awhile,
It eases the burden
of being a conscious individual.

There is an experiencing and remembering self which
the emotional and rational human condition envelope.

Wandering
on this fading summer's eve,
The evening cusp held me high
in disbelief; so many hours spent
chasing dusk,
Longing for memory
amidst this gorgeous drug-lust.

Psilo-Cybrans [bear-headed-cybernetic-humans] experience cyberdelic information via symbiotic cybernetic augmentation.
By substantially replacing many parts of the occipital & parietal lobes
and installing a complex biofeedback device in the corpus callosum
the user can moderate the flow of information (between the brain's hemispheres and a reworked central nervous system) in real-time. The biofeedback device is a two-way interface which enables the user
to supplement internal calculations with those of an onboard computer.
Using this device one merges consciousness with artificial intelligence,
Overhauling most mental faculties while retaining complete autonomy.
This is known as a 'twined-A.I.'.
In addition to data moderation one can qualify feedback excitation and quantify signal-lag, this allows for superior diagnostics and analysis.

Using a twined 'A.I.' one can effectively manage information generated by The Psychedelion, reducing the accompanying data of Absurdia with ease. The Psychedelion is accessible through cyberspace or by conventional means, though the degree or level of access does have proportionate side effects such as
physical/perceptual alterations: e.g. increased local power usage, changes in pupillary response, yawning, ect.  / i.e. visual, cognitive, ect.

Some Psilo-Cybrans forego the growth of hair after cranial augmentation to simplify cleaning such implants (which lends itself to their name). A select few continually install more implants to better facilitate their cyber-immersion and often wear hooded garments/robes to hide this, they are known as Cybran Illuminate; these Others use Aeon techniques such as meditation or dissociation to further enhance or induce their immersion into a cybernetic or cyberdelic trance.

Originally coined in response to Phanerothyme  [manifest & spirit],
Psychedelic  [mind-revealing] is etymologically derived from
the Greek psychē and dēloun. Psychedelia is music, culture, or art
based on the experiences produced by psychedelic drugs.
(Cyberdelia is immersion in cyberspace as a psychedelic experience.)

Some peoples feel there is a spiritual dimension to these experiences
and as such have developed a suitable terminology to reflect this view:
Entheogen,  [generating the divine from within]
denotes "a generator of spiritual experience", from
Entheos  [god-within], meaning
full of the god, inspired, possessed.
A spiritual experience is defined by its significance
to the host/subject. Entheogenic has been posited as
an alternate descriptor of "the psychedelic experience"
(in lieu of hallucinogenic) though this is a subjective term.

The Psychedelion is the analytical dimension of the psyche,
The part of the mind through which information is analysed
and thereby assigned meaning which is therefore significant.
Psychedelos is the existential manifestation of said dimension,
It is expressed through the medium of a language.

Absurdus  [out-of-tune] is the nonsensical dimension of the psyche, a part of the mind comprised of uninterpreted data, proportionate to our own limitations rather than lacking in "actual meaning". If a noumenon cannot be processed in The Psychedelion then it is consigned to Absurdia wherein we accept the inability to understand/rationally analyse it at present, given the current context.

Entactus  [touch-within] is the physical dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind through which sensation is perceived and remembered. It is responsible for the conception of our body and it's senses.

An Aeon Dissociative negates Entactus to deduce Absudia.
A Seraphic Deliriant posits Choler to induce Absurdia.

I felt the totality of nothing
and it provoked utter elation
as all that was born of sensation
was inversed to none, nothing, one.

It feels nothing beneath or above,
Neither beside of me, no way
left nor right nor wrong.

As aeons unfelt
allowed anesthesia
to grip me, held wight
by its dissociative thrall.

I have braved the depths
of eternity, delved into spaceless
infinity, submerged in its chaotic bliss.

I dared to immerse myself in it.
Low and behold, the M-hole.

I see the reflection
of this world
and a reflection of myself,
Thy dilated pupil
sealed its glass envelope;
We consume and produce everything
that ever is, was and will be
simply by perceiving,
It exists regardless
but we give it meaning.

Eventually the festivities drew to a close,
"Back to reality" we jested yet 'twas no joke.

I remember thinking this all could have been a dream,
Oh sweet, lost memories that we struggle to gleam.

Body & Soul, mind or psyche.

We are the most privileged
technologically advanced
recreational drug-users
in over five millennia,
"We are the music makers
and we are the dreamers of dreams";
This portal storm's temporal plasma stirs.

Cue Black Mesa's Lambda Core.

Their breath on the sand
was a Mescalito tornado
across a desert land.

That neuro-cosmic thunder
tore yourself asunder,

Thy nervous system
quantized the data.

You wander in wonder,
As the strings resonate
we remember, thoughts flow.