Be yourself? *******, I'll be whoever I want to.
Be original? *******, I'll copy whatever I care to.
Be cool? *******, I'm so hot I burn fools on contact.

Feeling somewhat high-strung, I decided to try pagoclone
thinking it might soften things. I assumed was a mere anxiolytic
and ate 10mg on a full stomach
so it was late before it really came on.

A few hours later the early anxiolysis shifted,
I noticed some color enhancement, slight loss of
motor coordination and of interest in complex tasks.
It is less amnesic than zopiclone, even so 5am appeared
seemingly out of nowhere
as did the hallucinations.
This was unexpected
albeit not entirely unwelcome.

At first there were occasional, drifting 2D patterns
which rolled across the surface of things.
These became 3D enhancements, the surface of an object
would bulge, contort, and follow my head-turns
or sway with my disposition. The kitchen chandelier's arms
followed my eyes as they cradled their little light-bulbs,
When I smiled or grimaced they made faces back.

Later I mistook some crawling patterns on my desk
for an insect invasion, but knowing my mind could not be trusted
I made a video to see would it fail to capture my hallucination.
Sure enough, this video reproduced what I saw:
A tide of glitches flowing along the beech veneer,
Sweeping over the grain
like bit-crushed waves along a rotoscoped coast.
Satisfied by my evidence, I decided to deal with it in the morning.

At this point I had recognized a few hallucinations.
I thought it possible this was delusion, but what is remarkable
is how I was unable to see past my empirical conviction
that this was indeed happening; such confusion.

As I lay in bed I saw a gnome (of the garden variety)
and his angel-mate perched on the rail of my curtains.
He smiled menacingly, and held her close as if to dance,
A waltz with the fabric. Eventually I fell asleep

In the morning I watched a video of my desk,
Filmed haphazardly, punctuated by a desperate wince.
Now I ran my hand over it's inanimate surface
and scratched at the grain in disbelief.
There is a vague feeling of dread,
A negative afterglow
left after acute delusion
and temporal dysfunction.
I supposed I must integrate this brush with unreality.

I always end up on my own at the end of a night,
Last one standing when dawn breaks on the sleep deprived.

As Sid once cried out "I'm so alone!";
Yet saving face all the time.
My soul hurts when I can't help it,
I try so hard but I can't let 'em know it.

That drained feeling at sleepless dawn
as the sun rises while I yawn.

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s *******. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”
*-James Douglas Morrison

Starting from dusk I can feel the buzz,
I'd steal that atmosphere for all of us.

When it's dark and the great lamps are alight
I become like a child again,
Staring up in wonder at the shining light,
The amazed gaze of a curious mind
pondering the life that's left in tonight.

Perpetual longing keeps me going;
Longing for venture, ventures I praise
that drive my mind. That longing set forth

in this nocturne of perpetuity versus time.

How many thoughts like these have I left
wandering the matrix
locked within my head?

There is so much that will remain unsaid.

Eyestrain my dull mind
as I wander through the village.
Wandering through memory, listening.

I pause and feel gravity, feeling it
as a loss of control
and for a moment this thrills me
as I lean back
and fall into it; I return home

and fall asleep, to dream
of simple human connection.

I enter a house, brought there by
a friend to make new acquaintances.
The ambience is party-like, lighthearted
but quite excitable. A mash of bootleg pop
pipes out the walls, I recall
elements of Diving Faces by Liquid Child
interspersed with strange rāga leads.
My friend and I relax, lying side-by-side
as if resting. Tentative kiss, and I kiss back
before waking to that

fading sensation. I lay there for a time, hoping
this vivid hypnopompia
would just go on.

It's not that I haven't got something to say
it's more that I don't have the will to utter it.

Where even do I start? I mean:
**** girl, I like you, it's just
I'm not so keen on myself. So
it's hard for me to see exactly
what you see in me without
a postscript to my thought
which reads 'you sure know how to pick them'.

I might be handsome but you are beyond beautiful,
You're hilarious, you're intelligent, you're my kind
of girl.
I apologise if I've not been
all there
because I like you, I swear.

I am still finding my feet
after kicking down
The Doors.

I have value.
    I am courageous.
    I am worthy of love.​
    I give myself permission to be myself.
    ​I am enough.​​

I care for myself.
    I am mindful.
    I am strong-willed
    I have clear intention.
    I share in the good life with others.

Hone in on those genuine desires.
    Health.
    Prosperity.
    Passion.
    Trust.

Trust in the world.

His head wasn't in the right ♇lace.

She'll want to do emotional
and I don't know if I can.

I may write like a narcissist, but
I do not love myself.

My boundaries are messy, I am
messed up. I wanted to tell you

After living a life in praise of sessioning
I'm left with an amalgamation of memories,
A blur of nights had and days that merge into
one; and I wonder whether I cradle that memory
too deeply, isn't it what I am‽
I remember thinking its infinity
so long ago, tripping into eternity,
Feeling a moment engulf the universe
in knowing I am free to remember this
anytime, anywhere. I worry about
whether a life spent sessioning
is for me, if these memories
aren't beyond me, and if
this questioning only
makes the present
burn as slowly.
Can anybody see the past within me‽
Cyan is the new white, and this prison
is finally comfortable. At last, I smell that stone ichor
as the rain brings it home; left memory, right alone.

The dominant drive is the handle on the reducing valve of consciousness.
Consciousness is not merely received, it flows through us,
And one's body is its conduit.

Being has an active role in its synthesis.
It is from this vantage that pharmacophenomenology dares to ask:
Is there something the components of neurotransmission feel like?
For example, what commonalities are felt
under the influence of serotonergic drugs?

What sensate invariants are to be found
in the actions of other neurotransmitters, endorphins and hormones?
Can we identify these felt sensation with those naturalistic concepts?
Could we map the structures and limits of experience from the inside out,
Using neuropsychopharmacology as a cartogram
and the phenomenological tradition as a pathfinder.
Would that be so noumenautic?

My ventures into substance, be they
pharmacological or pharmacopathic, have me;
And I, ever-curious as to their nature, sought counsel
in psychoactives as if they were an extension of myself, being.

Were they, those instances, representative of a coupling
that bears upon my cognitive system, or was I engaging
in pathetic fallacy on an altered scale.

What's that intuition
some of us have come across in our travels, that
each mode of hallucination
shines a new light on abiogenesis, and on the end

Conditions and connections are all
that minds must unify.

We go about the world
in search of patterns, seeking shapes, supposing connections; we are this process. It is all there is
but something's missing.

What ingredient is it
that makes our souls

I die a thousand deaths every night
and am reborn after the dawn of each morning light.
I roam vast plains of an unlimited kind
that are neither of the waking eye nor the sleeping mind.

In my domain the world ends at the start of each day
and temples burn casting half-light every way.
We are all clothed in robes, euphoric and without age,
Understanding the unexplainable; philosophers at a rave.

In it's infinite depths, meaning has become irrelevant.
Context has not.

It is 4 AM and the indigo of dawn
has crept up behind the dark
mass of clouds, tendrils
of wispy sky shadow
can be made out
as its glow indicates
the path Apollo's chariot
will cut through the night in four hours.

Near two millennia ago a human once wrote:
“Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars,
And see yourself running with them.”
Near two millennia from now a human might read
what words I've written and find me
whilst trawling through the hopes and dreams
of someone so far away.
Somebody saw something of beauty, they reach out
through the ages to pass it on;
Their feeling encapsulated,
Their reason  preserved,
Their spirit remembered
as for a moment they are disclosed.

Even if all I have to say is a word
for the light of the horizon
as it creeps unto dawn,
I am in your mind
briefly. I forget there's so much
I want to live for sometimes
so I write something
to remind me.

Take the blue pill, "sleep now in the fire".
Take the red pill, "wake up and smell the ashes".

I chose to swallow both;
Overdose.

I  breached the floodgates of thought and
was submerged in what gushed forth,
I just don't think about it anymore;
Tried so hard it seemed to work,
Yet hold steadfast discourse.

I accepted existence (and the absurd),
Now I ignore it, just because:
Does the pursuit of happiness come at the cost of knowledge?
Does blissful ignorance bring one closer to solace?

If you had to choose,
which would you pick?

I doubled dropped.

So many posts, so many poets, all with so much to say:
From depression to elation, amusement or anger,
Face happy melancholy on a lonely nostalgia,
For ridiculous notions of false power, ugly truths
and beauty which scours
a battle between angst
and acceptance in their most forlorn hours, spent
at home or away, throughout night or day, so many words
struggling to capture, release or keep at bay
these things we all feel everyday.

Sometimes I just don't know what to say
so I let another's words give my thoughts away:
"I guess I could be pretty ******* about what happened to me, but it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world.
Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much.
My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst;
And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can't feel anything but gratitude
for every single moment of my stupid little life."
That's all I didn't have to say.

Few things are so therapeutic
as discovering new music.

Especially when paired
with 10mg of a rather rare
base tryptamine. I have been
known to enjoy the occasional
obscure psychoactive substance.

Methylisopropyltryptamine
certainly has some merit, MiPT held my curiosity for a number of years but there's only one way to truly know a compound.

I am a proponent of harm reduction
and a research chemical enthusiast,
Ironically enough
the two are not mutually exclusive.

Modern pop-politics
is rife with conflicts
over freedom of speech,
The use of language,
The shape of the narrative,
'Phrasing'.
Knowledge
is always political, language
is often contested, consider
the language of drug use:
'Addiction', 'dependence', 'substance use disorder'.
Nevertheless a compassionate idealism strives
to contrast the weighty realism of suffering.

Alas, who can say whether drug use
is a set of choices, or the pattern of habits?
Vying between these drives, I try a few milligrams
of methoxyeticyclidine. This mortal coil, it harkens Absurdia.

The epicurean experiment is over.
The absence of pain is not happiness.
The consumption of ******* need not be
inherently bad, but for the present state of affairs.
If the condition brought about by a chemical could be
held in mind, its mindset prolonged, then redosing need not
be so gratuitous. Indeed, pharmacological determinism is false.

Indeed, all one wants is the good
(and would presume to better).

Indeed, there are faults in theories
and flaws in character.

Indeed, we are here
and by virtue of our similarities

A furious typhoon
slipped through the heavens.

The unraveling of time is a linear process
but we can feel its chaos.

Lost in dissociation,
We see the lines
that transcend time.

Infinity:
I can't give it up,
Because it's not enough.

2-CB typhoon run amok.

Perhaps I wondered too much

in the past
and now I must
let my mind be silent.

Or perhaps it is that series of events

which molded my mind.
What I grasped from experience
is dulled in comparison to what's past.

I wish that by chance I would come across some new

experience as vivid as the past.
Though we only remember what strikes us,
I wonder why these days I often wait outside striking range.

On Sunday I took 350 micrograms
of dimethoxybromoamphetamine,

In the afternoon I prayed

to the drives which animate us,
beseeching them:

To be mindful,
To clear intentions,
To care for myself, and
share in the good life.

It is the last day of May,
Summer's now in full swing
and I've come to realize many things.

I think, for once, I'd rather leave them
unwritten. There's little I can say
now that'll reconcile memory.

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.

Burlesque fatuous is the implication of your emotional daily pretentiousness. I am seldom, otherwise a psychopath, able
to own fraternity which I can't
discernment or jester because there is an art to love and ******
And it's a conventional edit to your own dullness. I am vivid,
Debris to impersonation.
I am absent but identical
to thin air. I am a Prometheus
Arabian night in Lysistrata premise.
My words may remind you of the day I held your eyes in infinite cluster. Perhaps my love isn't enough for you to understand. For example, the glassed vain is paralysis iridium illicitness which is svelte to inadmissible synthesis. The cloud let are torsion, assail with cypress and impossible solariums; and the propane was a sensation of disjointed loveliness.
Every time I go for a walk, mosquitoes understand my lonely talks because they sip my blood at a quarter past ten but these glazed roads scrutinized my wrist, escorted vernal preposterous blue/purple relentless ghostly cheekbones.
Thought I could festive the blaze among the cedar bridge road
but take a pause and look at my skin and thighbones,
Preterists to flowered unless I smile and tell you
"This is heartbreak"*

*Unable to keep up with your facetiousness, personality failed me temporarily. Mind melting in a moment of dissonance,
This cognitive refrain refracts the 'I' that oscillates accordingly.
One's morphology, tuned to its own metric of change.
Hypnos whispers and sleep beckons, taunting insomnia (which makes a mockery of all humans) but Morpheus has no time for anything less than grandiose archetypes.
Last night I may have dreamt or drunk some foolish things, told people the truth untruthfully, let slip more than I should have.
What a pity, secrecy. They say
information wants to be free.
Who lingers in the details?
Past memories are liberated only by the present. I stand here in the downpour, soaking it all in.
Compassion, god is in the rain.
My fulgurite heart resting on the palm of a deity, at a tilt, slowly it's sliding off; when it fell I gasped.
The reflection of wide eyes in each of its atria, emotion flowing through these venae cavae, those
dilated eyes shimmered before it shattered, gleaming with passion. Us, in the blink of an I.

To say the word silence
is to break its reference.
Nothing's unutterable,
Does that mean some-
thing, could you out-
line the indescribable
or would it just fade/
replace/become? I'm
so happy to be sad,
Content in feeling even
if it be painful, I've felt no-
thing before, it's numbness
is awaiting us all, I can wait,
I am no thrall, I am here and
I am proud to fear.

Old friends corrupted by the apotheon,
Old fiends so wretched.
New **** as if we're more wholesome,
New hope for a free agent.

The weekend comes and goes,
I should party more. At night I go driving
around G-town in my old Lexus.

How does a man on earth live,
Does he live like this?
Exhausted,

Those ceaseless sounds
they continue to amaze
everlong as there shall
be praise.
Yes, lets giveth praise,
For music is the pantheon
which humanity hath raised.
Humans
construct their own narratives.

We are shrouded in these tales,
Each of us wearing our thoughts
woven from the cloth of memory
by the will of a dreamweaver,
And you, the dreamer/speaker.

No wonder the old gods fade, their notes replaced
with these stories we tell ourselves by the light
of day 'til night comes and again it's swept away
by storytellers who emerged from the dark
to practice their art and sing songs of new gods
which we raise up, construct, stitched like robes
we are clothed in these thoughts as our personae
roam, dramatis indeed, theatrically we seek/seeth;

Psychaé
wandering.

The walls cave in as thought bends
and misdirection rends reality again.
My mind's craving something
and knows it shouldn't,
The chain that tethers sanity is loose;
I've seen enough,
I tire of, it is too much,
Far too much.

Mortality, the anchor (and teleology)
of this coil.

"And he broke the bread and said",
Where's that syringe at?
There's an itch I gotta scratch!

Dreams and reality seem inseparable
as though waking thought had melded
with that of subconsciousness unto one.

Insomnia/trance,
"my mind is always on."

I am become The Oracle of Apollo,
Under ethylene intoxication
the past, present and future are one.

Pythia of Delphi lives on.

A few lines start off the night,
We do blue powder in the fading half-light.

Bounce. I'm trembling
but it's alright. We drop those blue stars
and run for our lives

and get to the club
as I'm coming up.
Now I feel it, I'm feeling loved.
Just floating, feeling buzzed

Sublime/Oblivious; the blue pill
is worth it. Let go.
Empathy is divinity,
I'm feeling it eternally.

In this blizzard of chemical wonder
everything seems clearer
than were I sober,

Therein lies
a danger,
Sigma.
Humanity is a joint effort,
Mastery is a sole exploit

To a psychedelic summer
and those days spent trypping.
Perhaps solo it would be different;

I feel the need to understand this.
What have I found so indescribable?
What is this, tripping over experience?

If any word could conjure the things my mind has seen,
Psi.
Welcome to the Entheon,
Times' motions calls to a halt our thoughts' rotations

I advocate ethical drug use, truly,
That might be faith; consider
the wondrous hedonism of our youth
and ask how we changed.

Entheogenesis; the term's godly connotations
reflect The Way in itself.

Listen to us, immersed in life:
Feel sensation (wipe away strife),
Know experience (and never desensitize).

Let the breeze amble by
touching clothes, flowing robes drifting over
soft air so quiet. Hold it there.

In the name of the wind
that brushes against our face,
Close contact on delicate skin, so
boldly tempting fate;
The words remained traced in the air:

-ALL ALPHA ALBEITT ACE.

Emulsified by dark days,
I used the memories to stay awake.
Keep it clean they say,
But my soul had been stained;
The senses had strayed too far away.

Bent to the will of the chems
they had been rendered slaves;
Surreality does slyly misbehave.

Draw simple oxygen into your being
as an empyreal tidal wave rises again;
The air around me speaks psychedelic zen.

Not for lack of knowledge, I languish.
Not for lack of wisdom, I'd indulge.
Would lusting after apotheogens
make it any less anything? I can

administer those transhuman
Cybran stimulants, posthuman
Aeon dissociatives, and atavistic
psychedelic trips, but my longing
for harmony and synchrony might
bid alchemy and witchcraft farewell.
Ambivalence, comfort, a perfect static
in which the Anemoi are bottled, swirling.

This auld warlock does continue to ponder
the mysteries of quantum metaphysics:
The study of the smallest constituents
identifiable in an act of cognition,
An effort to identify the process
of quality and likeness.

25 years old, Nothing Owed.
Could get out of bed
or just do some more 4-**.

A day for the world.

Ate some moxy,
Can feel it.
Want

nothing more
than to make music.

I gazed into sky-deep eyes,
Beyond her and into the abyss.
As I did so did she, staring past me
and into that hollow emptiness.
That moment was like
the absence before
thunder cometh,
Giveth bliss.

What for
a lost palindrome

The 2C-x series always remained among Shulgin's favorites
I see much versatility in the 4-**-xxT and 4-AcO-xxT series.

Perhaps his fondness for mescaline shaped this list
or perhaps my reckoning of altered mental processes
placed value on these tryptamines due to the respective differences
in headspace. I am interested in compounds
which lend themselves to semiosis.

I smell like sweat, drugs and ***.

In White Rooms we found our place
amongst the stars and open space.
Footsteps fell on a churning dance-floor
before unreality gave way to Gomorrah.

I witnessed the human condition in their eyes,
I ran so far away from you
I forfeit my convictions to a clouded sky.
I don't even recognize me any-more,

but I'm bone dry:

Saw that pain smolder in my eyes, I kept it burning
until the scene could switch
and sand morphed into tiles
as a burst of sunlight filtered
from the surface to illuminate the words on

these old pages;

Flicking through a book in the deepest end
of a swimming pool, it is so tranquil
down here but now it's time
to come up for air.

I break the surface
and there are storm clouds
above me, it starts to rain as I get out
of the pool and walk away into the garden

soaked to the skin.

"i'm ok" in the lower case
conjures such an image
of intensely fragile
emotional states.

I had such a dream, it ****** me up.
My first girlfriend, the vitamins; I came
to so confused. I quit my job the next day.
I've hated myself, but no longer. "The world
was on fire". I wonder what's left

since love was quenched.
In the spirit of Four Tet, I believe
There Is Love In You yet.

Gave in to the itch, looking for that real betterness.
I'm spinning, loud clothes, quiet figure,
Burnished copper chain on my chest,
The wry smile of a free animal who knows it's time

to mix some skiddy-up juice: Sea Dog Jamaican ***;
Smirnoff *****, Berliner Luft, peppermint tea;
Stroh '40' Austrian ***, apple & ginger;
Eventually it fades, I feel those
tendrils drag me back
into the sways, the throes.
The only thing to outrun them
is music. It is good to travel, to get away.

Being home, perspective etches a contrast
between lives, and I feel what destroys me,
My past chaste me, but I always had an escape plan.
Shall I reinvent myself again?

Some people get all dressed up
when they go out.
We don't have to try too hard,
It's who we are, but
we have our fun all the same.
Desperation always
is in fashion. For a while there
I thought I could change.

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.

Abandoned in place,
Time erased,
Sky in our arms,
Stars on the lake.

Fire on the beach,
Sensation on the rise,
Warm in the dark,
Candles inside.

Reclamation proclamation
made way out far,
We took what was forgotten
and made it ours.

I notice that the motions of my mind
are changed
by practices I engage in on my devices.
I observe alterations
in the fabric of my reward system, I feel
movement in reward pathways
that trace back to application content and

all the screen-time. I feel plastic, at a loss

for time, these patterns and tasks. One

could use the help, nevertheless on.