Long Hallucinogens Poems
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On threads of wispy air,
in breathy undertones of political wind,
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the quiet ruination of our commonwealth.
I can hear the sleepy madness, turned avalanche
between my ears.
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the whispered words of terrorists,
guttural phrases taunted as political incorrectness,
flaunted vacuous nihilism fomenting insurrectionism,
the quiet convulsion of our self-rule.
I can hear the sullen invocation, turned torrent
within my mental models.
On threads of wary air,
in stealthily vengeful murmurs of pretenders,
I can hear the casual, softly spoken demise of justice,
the grim sabotage of governance by principle,
and with it,
the slow dripping blood of all those who died,
all those long forgotten.
The fading ink on parchments spelled out ideals
never attained or practiced in a nation’s history of enslavement
and genocide.
Yet can the people’s ambit even begin without the
enshrinement of these principles for all?
I can hear the quiet catastrophe,
the reckless, feckless conmen concocting hallucinogens.
Conspiracy contagions so easily playing upon, confirming
the jaundiced eyes, so easily validating the invectives of the addicted.
On threads of wispy air,
in breathy undertones of political wind,
I can hear the quiet catastrophe.
Are you listening?
In the corner of my room,
you’ll find many a decentralizing delirium dust
Where my mind does consume,
peripheral visions of a malevolent distrust
Deprivations that entomb,
metabolic disturbances of cunning combust
Temporal lesions loom,
of psychotic disorders in a state of thriving thrust.
I see you but cannot touch,
thru nociceptive nightmares nurturing night
Hallucinogens that will crutch,
frantic neurons paleocortical penal plight
I feel you but cannot clutch,
a dimensional dementia in a demons fright
Denunciative delusions a monstrous much,
external images in fetal flight.
I sense you but cannot taste,
chemoreceptic catacombs of a pernicious smell
Stimuli distortions of waste,
proprioceptors penetrating the gates of hell
The love I give is displaced,
impalpable illusions within a condemned cell
The love received defaced,
from a schizophrenic defamatory defunctive dwell.
July.16.2020
Delirium Poetry
Sponsored by~
Kai Michael Neumann
N/A for contest
(with a spark of God)
To govern a myriad selection
Of one mind and legion.
Top tier parasitic collection
From every living region.
It's not subjective good or evil,
Moral or immoral, right or wrong --
But, a wanton cellular mass primeval
Versus ego and super-ego strong.
Toxic algae over jellyfish abundant,
Floating in poisons of our making:
CO2, methane, livestock redundant.
Do Vegans dream of plant life taking?
Al Qaeda, ISIS, Boko Haram:
Brain-dead sheep of the clan,
Following blindly without exam,
Trading for virgins on Ramadan.
Black holes wandering
About Yellowstone caldera.
Plague virus pondering
A Thermonuclear plethora.
Anthropogenic extinction sirens:
Suffocating on dead Phytoplankton;
Lost in narcotics and hallucinogens;
Obsessive love via Keats and Byron.
At the precipice of an extraordinary evolution,
We must rid ourselves of ancient superstitions.
To continue our rise, or reverse in devolution?
Agnosticism seems wise -- so say my suppositions.
Delirium Dust
In the corner of my room you’ll find many a decentralizing delirium dust
Where my mind does consume peripheral visions of malevolent distrust
Deprivations that entomb metabolic disturbances of cunning combust
Temporal lesions loom of psychotic disorders in a state of thriving thrust
I see you but can not touch thru nociceptive nightmares nurturing night
Hallucinogens that will crutch frantic neurons paleocortical penal plight
I feel you but can not clutch a dimensional dementia in a demons fright
Denunciative delusions a monstrous much external images in fetal flight
I sense you but can not taste chemoreceptic catacombs a pernicious smell
Stimuli distortions of waste proprioceptors penetrating the gates of hell
The love I give is displaced impalpable illusions within a condemned cell
The love received defaced from a schizophrenic defamatory defunct dwell.
March/11/2018
Hallucination
Sponsored by: Brendan J. Simons
5th Ave. was shoulder to shoulder with
hungry lunch-seeking business men
and women. Ricardo unpacked
his horn nervously and a foot cymbal.
Spring, early street season, too cold
for most musicians but he needed money.
His lips kissed the cold metal mouthpiece.
Carrying the saw and the pulaski.
Cutting brush for a fire line high up,
where raptors and ravens fly. No sound
but wind if you could subtract the crew
working and dirty, joking during lunch.
A good year it had been sitting in the soil
feeling Ricardo's body on the mountainside.
Mountains moving as good a feeling.
Alone in his town, most neighbors at work,
housecleaning done, Ricardo settled down
with pen to write and ate lunch.
People = chickadees.
Clutch size, substrate, territory, gestation period.
Mating rituals. Use of alcohol and hallucinogens.
Forms of cancer, heart disease. Burial rites, memories.
Creation myths, beliefs for which there is no evidence.
Range: tundra to tropics.
With my eyes half closed I looked in the mirror to see
that worry and anxiety have painted a psychedelic me.
My face is contorted, and I seem to be quite unraveled,
reflected in colors showing where my mind has traveled.
It appears I've become distorted, in a state of psychosis.
"Your behavior is bizarre." That was a doctor's diagnosis.
I feel like an abstract work of art on a canvas torn apart
as if hallucinogens have found their way into my heart.
I fear I've fallen into an abyss of weird mental perceptions
where my mind sees things that are merely misconceptions.
I need saving from this state in which everything is surreal.
Twisted and delusional are not emotions I choose to feel.
I've lost my patience while waiting for this journey to end.
Help is what I need to untether me. Is there one kind friend
among you who will help me find a way out? Just one fellow
who will set my world aright until once again I am mellow?
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.
Pray for us St. Mushroom of the Holy Sin
Keep our fingers free from sticky things
And safe from anxiety of the open hole
In the middle of the doughnut where it belongs
Deliver us twelve of them but spare the sugar tax
Sin grows in the dark so wickedly delicious
Bury us not without nutritional consideration
Or restrictions on our caloric intake please
Measure not our waistline figures without end
Have mercy on them
Bless us and deliver us from zippers
St. Peyote see fit to stitch our buttons tight
Teach us how to open the safe without explosives
To steal the contents and escape without notice
With shirts intact, fastened from top to bottom
Lost buttons are frowned upon downtown
Deliver us not into high fashion or traffic stops
Let not our mothers dress us funny after we grow up
St. Peyote, trust in us to feed the puppy only pizza
Without mushrooms. Leave them to us
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 Black Bears roam the mountain top
Just before Dawn, you hear the “Hooo”
The mating call Incessant : “ STOP!! “
Infects the mind, infecting : “ YOU “
My Black Soul travels Everywhere
The Black Bears roam the mountain top
My Dreams : I am a Rogue Black Bear
“Hooo” “Hooo” “Hooo” ; I too, can not “STOP!! “
Hallucinogens : “ Quite a Crop “
Growing along the Forest floor
The Black Bears roam the mountain top
Eating Weeds off the Forest floor
Insanity, Reality
Imagination : “Do not “STOP””
Wandering Through “ Eternity “
The Black Bears roam the mountain top
Author's Note : I Ask my POETRYSOUP Family To Critque this Quatern
Thank-YOU ALWAYS and FOREVER YOUR Liege...HG
Dedicated to my "Sister Spirt" -- "Lynette Charchere" with LOVE ALWAYS and FOREVER