Best Opiates Poems
Written: January 07, 2024
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eyes are soul gates even in disguise they do not lie
visual cues that transcend verbal expression
but it also shares one's mood with lenticular opiates
spanning an effluvium-trail-laden sky
select a person and share eye contact while whimpering
gaze might betray a false grin quoth-trust aegis
stupendous azure eyes! aggregations of night elixir
spellbind the world with an aura of simmering
wispy pearls in her eyes—soul rises without adronitis
I cross cosmic cloisters and Eden's bright bower
I grip men truths in their odd dismal ways
the sheer number of words is overwhelming
once cupid arrows hit a cosmic glow covers the world
glorious as sharpness of your sight and dawn dew
her azure eyes purify and calm me as oceanic waves
no drift inbred ocean fowls flutter feel felicity
ethereal eyes whisper to my soul sparkling with glee
pristine eyes hypnosis a wish for propinquity shine
as the sun rises shards of light reveal her eyes
dreams sap my mind cocoons and eyes beguile me
after inhaling and kissing goldenly—all else is plain
all the grace I skipped—in the sun wind and rain
as dew at dawn chatoyant eyes embrace you
butterfly-like in gestalt despite a sanguine heartbeat
those eyes are as sibilant as the rising sun
they send doves soaring and senses roaring
some eyes are drenched in love until they sparkle
delphic soul shy—untamed my love never defamed
grateful for blue skies—for all—and blue eyes for you
The rain pours down on the city.
A sense of putrid disgust fills the air,
as trash litters the streets
and grime grows in every back alley.
The clouds cast their shadows
and the lack of saturation sucks the life out of everything
and everyone.
The rain adds depth to the highlights and shadows of the world,
making the spray-painted brick walls and cigarette-ridden cracked roads look surreal.
The rain cleanses the earth of it‘s filth.
It‘s the emptiness that makes me feel,
the destroyers of my body.
For all the years of coffees, cigarettes,
opiates and alcohol have numbed me.
My insides feel sick, my organs venal.
My body is being held together by a rope of chains,
and the chains are rusting against my skin.
I often find myself in bed with an old fling or an attractive stranger.
Another night of vigorous intercourse,
makes no difference to me.
They take more pleasure in it than I do,
for even at the end of the night,
I am still
and truly alone in my mind.
Am I dead or dreaming? Lightfoot and scheming.
My head is full, I’m not sure which persona is in charge.
Have taken strong opiates, many too illegal to mention.
Unleash me, woman. Give me some sort of detention.
Let me be. Leave me alone. I have to be me.
We never were a complete or lovely we.
I’m too intelligent to be fooled by your endearments or looks.
My upbringing offered sordid truths that fed others lies.
You’re the crazy one. Unleash your stifling grappling hooks.
You are insane, with those rose-colored glasses on your hazel eyes!
I was raised by wolves, posing as Catholic redeemers and upstanders.
Evil creatures hiding in parishes on Sunday, pretending to be….
People who do the right thing, live morally, caring for children.
I knew the truth of them, they were liquor whores since I was wee.
Throwing me a life line? That makes me laugh. You want to save me?
I scoff at your holy handedness, your righteousness, your prissy stupidity.
I am well above your station, and we were never a thing, never could be.
My mind is shaking my soul out of her uncaring attitude at your weird lucidity.
I have saved myself, you see. So fly away, interferer, just let me be!
There is no we, never has been, and will never be, you see.
I am always, forever, and chronically only “me”.
Raised by wolves, heading toward my own morbidity.
Tails and claws in reefs, with opiates for pain,
Bad sight, ten legs and dollar profits to be made.
Prior to their own demise, they dined on fish and mollusks,
To savor and munch away with epicurean palettes.
Galleys rattle while lobsters kneel and pray,
“Boil!” and “Cut!” Chef Lemon-Snow conveys.
Tears bubbling away in ancient pots,
Chef Lemon-Snow the hunger his backdrop.
Blue-bloods in pails toiling to resist the boil,
Steaming, to find their destiny with olive oil.
Simmering delicious fare, extravagance to savor,
Lobsters expire while Lemon-Snow only seeks the flavor.
Proud crustaceans once gray now boiling red,
Scented mist of mild aroma, ravenous we fed.
I'm here bordering almost oneiric
in a state of somnolence in an invisible fire
wearing the personification of a hellish realm
obsessive and compulsive in the unknown...
I turn the hourglass counting grains of sand
to validate my existence pondering am I a victim
alone and depressed tonight...
Are you as lonely as I am, perhaps?
do you wear the narcissistic smile
in the shape of the crescent moon?
Que tal, La Luna
I whisper to the night in disintegration
"Your sleepy lullaby has failed me tonight"
just as the opiates that fall from your eyes
in steams of gleaming silver dreams...
Euphoria fades with shallow thoughts
in glass silhouettes of burning embers
making a pile of ashes so unique
no insane arsonist could have imagined...
Comes the dawn to end this paralysis
leaving me wondering am I just a marionette
that even opiates or Xanax cannot cure...
On the corner of my night table
empty bottles mock me...
Tails and claws in reefs with opiates for pain,
Bad sight, ten legs and dollar profits to be made.
Prior to their own demise, they dined on fish and mollusks,
To savor and munch away with epicurean palettes.
Galleys rattle while lobsters kneel and pray,
“Boil!” and “Cut!” Chef Lemon-Snow would say.
Tears bubbling away in ancient silver pots,
Chef Lemon-Snow the hungry, backdrop.
Bluebloods in pails toiling to resist the boil,
Antenna’s steaming, to find their destiny with olive oil.
Simmering delicious fare, extravagance to savor,
Lobsters expire while Lemon-Snow seeks the flavor.
Proud crustaceans once gray now boiling red,
Scented mist of mild aroma, ravenous we fed.
HISTORY LESSON
I.
Sweet Joe McCarthy who will fill your shoes
Keeping down the reds and making them sing the blues
Your spirit lives on in these modern days
Teaching us to hate in many different ways.
II.
Poor Lee Harvey Oswald I see you sitting there
Living your life with out a simple care
Sitting quietly behind the grassy knoll
Waiting for the right moment to lie to us all.
III.
Wise ole’ Ronald Reagan you taught me one thing
That life simply has no meaning
By simply doing a good deed
When you can be driven by greed.
IV.
Honest George W. Bush you are not the only one to blame
For making the youth pawns in your sick game
Spilling blood on foreign soil
Only to bring back opiates and oil.
A true Walden pond,
Slashed roads that break beyond.
We light a Philly XL;
Cut and filled with ganja and ale.
Lack of concern,
No pity and no pain.
Lack of emotion,
What a laugh to call it
A shame.
Filled to the brim with
Whisky and rye,
A burning blunt misting the ride.
Laughter that can’t hide smiles,
Chopped lines
Sparkle like flowers.
Not a care in the world;
Who cares, and no food from chores?
Whatever, now more on to more;
The opiates that came from the chores.
Pop four, then take five more;
Crush the last one to share for.
Bad vibes sweep the room,
Never intended to pay the check only
To leave so soon.
Stumbling through town again
Because of the hallucinogens,
Really, there’s no such thing as sin.
A thesis built on Gonzo traditions,
Break out the hash,
The lines are spinning again.
The DEA will this condemn:
Some pain sufferers take Kratom
Big pharma must reign
They'll rely on chicane
To keep addicts addicted to them
Author's Note: Kratom comes from a relative of the coffee plant. The active ingredient is mitragynine. While this substance acts as a pain killer, it appears much less addictive than the opiates supplied by big pharma. Thousands of people swear by it, and have used it to wean themselves off of more addictive drugs and alcohol. Research on mice has shown that at least mice do not become addicted to this substance. So, naturally, the next step is to ban it!! Do you suppose the drug companies had something to say to the regulators? Thanks uncle sam.
DISSIPATE
when you flicker
on and off
I cannot touch you…
your essence
when I put my
fingers into the
flames of your heart
will they burn
or dissipate
like opiates
and nauseous
capsules of hate..
that inflate my
dying ego
Conversations with a like-minded poet
© Kim van Breda—4 December 2015
Within the delegate thunder that opens portals to the mind,
Opiates navigate the cerebral conundrum of confusion...
Virtual landscapes exist amidst temporary voiceless vortexes,
Temples of time and thought in a quixotic quarantine…
Oblivious oblivions open upon their abstract apprehensions,
One second or a thousand years of anxiety and exotic endeavors...
Hallucinogens hibernating within the unobservant unconscious,
Creative cognitions contaminate the vaulted vaporous voids…
The dreamer's dream of their voyeuristic voyages and false realities,
Fragile forever is fainting with facades fermented upon illusions...
Meditation amongst speculative storms of the penal gland rising,
The Glass Menagerie still stands until it shatters like a lost dream.
May.18.2020
In the fragility of dreams
Sponsored by: Silent One
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
THE MAKEOVER
The house he occupies still breathes
Though haggard, it's not trashed
He and his house seemed outcast to many
Once a gentle part of the landscape
Those features fair, soon became gaunt and sallow
He was ravaged by his ravenous hunger for opiates
By degrees, his hearing, his sight
His sense of smell and taste waned
Little strokes fell lofty oaks.
Those who once knew him, watched
Slowly, he kept vanishing like visions in the night.
Does afflictions warrants mercy?
When he had cried inside from pangs of hurt
His Maker bid him to rise.
He heard drums beckoning, and dance he did
No more anguish, bitterness, and woe
He felt earth's soothing touch
From soul of his feet on up
He took small steps, looked up at start
Shining with moon light, on warm summer night
In the distance, he could see glow of his house
Touched by his Maker's tender hands
His footprints were fit for others to follow
For his present to himself turned guide
Steering him on the straight and narrow.
*
Oh Dr.Oz would you endorse
Visionary entheogens,
Opiates and stimulants to
Find truths,
Unlocking the rooms of the
Universe of the inside?
Following bliss
Finding God ,
The true self
The Astral self
But the loneliest room
Is the one outside.
And the check out time is now.
Oh sick world filled with a million televangelist
And one hundred and fifty channels
Filled with prosperity gospels
And fifty dollar good faith seeds
But the Lord needs a extra sixty.
Oh Mr. Campbell what new myths
Shall we live by?
What new messiah awaits
Behind face one thousand and one?
Oh Dr.Phil help us as we brace our psyches
For the trip back to the moon.
The time is near for
Young men shall have visions
And old men shall dream dreams
As they browse discount racks
With money left over,
After amscott customer service fees.
Oh Lord how long
Till this life rolls up
Like a scroll?
And we stand glorified
Before ourselves
Reflected in the eyes
Of our absentee father?
Karl Marx thought that religion
Was the opiate of the masses,
Which is true as far as it goes.
In his times and in the circumstances,
He could not have thought better or worse—
Not, for instance, of the boomerang, that is,
The dialectic of Base and Superstructure,
Which could engender a hybrid like hegemony,
Which, in turn, enables ruling by consensus;
Not to speak of adjunct opiates
Like Freudian drives, drink,
Vulgar materialism and what not,
Which, in the past, have driven
Empires to break and kingdoms to crack
And, of late, in many ‘Democracies’ and ‘Republics’
Caused women, men, and parties to rise to power,
Caused (Swiss) Bank balances and vote banks to overflow!
— Ram, R. V.
Everyone owns a piece,
a furrowed canopy casting dimness and light,
a measureless magnitude of rapture and defeat.
We are Prince Andrew at the battle of Austerlitz,
on our backs surveying boundless lofty firmament.
surrendering to tranquil silent drifts of stratocumuli,
finding our meagerness within the scale.
In temperamental squalls,
tormenting dark wrinkles restless with despair,
fling violent raindrops, hurtling us into prolonged deluge.
But pale aqua cloudless expanses befriend us,
our golden reanimated childhoods,
our glowing ripening renewals,
our blithe, balmy afternoons.
Beneath starlight’s vaulting,
where we rejoin our secret selves,
where waltzing and weeping are partners,
where laughter and grief cohabit.
The doctors have pills for this.
Tablets paint our ceilings and plaster our cracks.
The opiates topple our towers,
Even sorrow is pickpocketed in our torpor.
We have lost our stake in the macrocosm
when the lyrics of our anima are flattened.
Our acclimation to the Santa Ana winds
is our claim,
our title to be pummeled in airspace.
Detox is our emancipation,
unleashing the motion of our atmosphere,
we inhale our azure and indigo.
It is needed to play percussion,
to thrive in rhythms of life’s glory.
Published The Opiate Mag. 04/2019