Nostalgia

A tongue-twisted girl in a tipsy-top world,

a broken boy in a bombastic place.

They floated in a land full of seas.

The seas were quite mellow,

the drinks rather dewy.

The sands a bit silky,

the seaweed too sticky.

The moments they lift to the breeze.

But so they drifted, while the time sort of shifted.

And they kept walking, and their mouths they kept talking.

The days ebbed and flowed, the sunrays were splendid.

The nights kept their secrets, the past was upended.

The wind slowly swims through the trees.

There came a night when,

Drunk on life, a crystalline apparition,

Became so unsettling, it hung.

Underneath the magic they shared.

A regret, a wonder, a nostalgia.

It consumed them both in fantastic ways.

Lustful they might be, running into desolate places in the night.

Filled with fright and apprehension for a new world and the approaching doom of the ticking clock.

Their minds, they were yanked to their knees.

And the silences grew,

In that comfort, they once knew.

The hearts, once bold,

Increasingly dithered cold.

And soon, they recognized the freeze.

A moment appears, when most people know,

If one doesn't fight, the other might go.

A rift is created that might never mend,

Its hole it rips wider, while the lovers pretend.

In small moments' beckoning, at the edge of the mind,

The fear creeps in quicker, its rulings unkind.

End portentous moments, those written in the sand,

Return back to solace, the remnants reaped bland.

What remains? Nothing more than a wheeze.

Melancholy

I am almost sure outer space sounds this way,

when you are floating there silently. Without

a position, and endlessly gliding along a straight

path, the only things that might ever move are the

stars, listing you gently.

There are certain times I come to this place,

the older I get, it doesn't matter I keep coming.

It is a checkpoint and the sounds in the background,

distort and twist in that melancholy way. The

soundscapes that fleet for only a moment, and the milky

whiteness that envelopes you, and keeps your fingertips cold.

The heart moans a bit, but one doesn't really quite understand why.

All I feel is impetus. A feeling of nervousness that starts in the chest.

It builds, in a slow way, but sometimes it becomes violent.

The desire for me to shed the baggage, and fly suddenly.

The drive that moves one to extreme ways. For if life wasn't so slow,

and so longing and so painful, maybe it would be smoother.

But because things get stuck and they stay and they hurt,

the extreme is only inevitable. And for...

A moment in this lifetime, and brief, but in the back of the head,

in the milky whiteness where the sounds distort sweetly,

it lasts forever. I know I won't ever forget that moment for

as long as I am alive. Until my brain gets fuzzy and I forget.

Whenever it happens, when you find the

place again, and if it comes and you recall.

You long for it and it hurts and you feel the need to throw yourself,

to whichever way feels good and then

you remember again you live in the now.

To want for passionate things, and to always want

them to move you is the most artistic of lives, but most lives

are a restriction imposed on one's self and these few

are the moments when there's a longing.

It doesn't ever stop me, however, from falling into the void

again and gliding in the ether. I fall sometimes when I am

least expecting into the fuzz, and I don't mind the buzz

and it sometimes placates me in a self-loathing sort of way.

Because I love imagining the coulds and woulds and

the possibilities that are always endless in the sub-mind,

where there's the milkiness and the noises, and I can't say

that even when the drive explodes and the moment happens,

that I ever have failed to enjoy the ramifications.

Eventually, you leave the suspension, and fall back to the world

where there are semblances and forms and realize you are in the

real world, hard and ruthless and sometimes fearful. Things are

more dangerous here and why not then enjoy the milkiness?

I'm ready to come again, because I always do, but I won't forget

the time that has passed and the couldn'ts that have, and the coulds

that have not. In the milkiness, anything is possible.

Breath of Fresh Air

Well, it's been a while. I can't remember the last time I've written something. When do I have free time to write anyway? I don't understand these super people who can keep all these distractions sorted out. If I'm not doing classes, I'm wasting time to stay sane. I bet writing would keep me saner.

It seems I'm in the process of studying for genetics and organic chemistry. Hey, look at that! There's something to say. It's been a year and I've almost made my way through a 1300 page ochem book. Holy shit. I was looking over some of Shulgin's stuff in PiHKAL and I realized that I can understand so many of these syntheses I never dreamt of comprehending. Of course it's probably worth mentioning that I've moved from looking at pharmacology and I'm turning an eye to bioinformatics.

Now that's interesting! I mean I always knew I was good with computers, but it seems I was always a bit too apprehensive or uncomfortable with attempting to code, and now that I've scored an internship where I'll be doing just that. For some reason I always figured that I'd be standing at a lab bench with a lab jacket doing quirky science things with fun chemicals. Yet, it seems I will be content writing code, tinkering with code, tinkering with processes and loops and links and variables and... well it really is an extension of Linux tinkering from middle school.

I guess that's the way the world comes full circle. You really are destined to do exactly what it is you are passionate about. Where do I end up expending the majority of my daily hours? At a terminal, a keypad, a... hm...

I've been unable to get some things out. I've been in a block for a long time. I feel like college is my big impetus. I know that people are supposed to flourish here. It seems there are so many things calling to me all the time, but I'm returning an apathetic sigh. It's as if something has always been missing. It seems my mind drudges in technicality, however when one reaches a certain level of education, everything is technicality. All grounds have been surveyed, and there are no broad pictures to discover....

Well... that's wrong. A pioneer. Well anyway.

One day I will find myself on an adventure. My foot will touch dirt. But maybe instead of forging a path, or paving new grounds, maybe I will grab a vine and climb to solitude. Perhaps I put too much emphasis on attainment. A time comes for a reconsideration. At times, the wealth of knowledge is a bit too overwhelming. A blinding light, a fiery, emanating, series of arms grabbing. There's a chance I could reach a nice quiet place somewhere. I could take the bugs. Just no more carbon monoxide. Heh.

The Tipping

At the mind's edge is something

that sits restlessly, hungrily, waiting

for something to pinch the gooey lobe.

This formless, shapeless, senseless

something is the bleeding work of a

heartless cadaver; he made it implacable.

When he coated that warm, glowing,

golden, growing jelly, into the crevices,

there was a messianistic purpose, meaning:

But the shapeshifter had such a strange,

disturbing, purposely yearning,

stressfully egging, gloating intent.

Because underneath the curious,

incontrollable, sustaining structure,

the skull that shields and binds the muck.

Inserted was Gaia, gay and gouging,

so everlasting, and so enervating,

and so unnerving, and so evading.

And at what point does such striving,

and such streaming, while screaming,

can we find the elusive answer?

When we approach, a bit audacious,

but so afraid, acquiring aura,

also observed, he starts us over.

Because this is tipping, falling

forward, freely floating, feeling

fettered, he chains us in again.

Then spun around in insane circles,

realizing, rendered useless, running

toward rabble rousing, flunking, failing, fucked.

I have no idea, what he wants,

does he wail when he sees the woe?

Does he cry when he sees the blood?

Sometimes while stopping thinking,

I stop to wonder if I was pondering,

a strange, and desolate demise.

He must have known that we'd go hungry,

that we'd soon be thirsty and parched and

far from perfectly peachy, but infertile.

That when his smile soon surrenders,

and his eyes, they grow enormous, here lies

the end of the age, here is the beginning before us.

Started anew, but are we still not swine?

But no, no, it tipped before, it tips again.

It tips again. And out pours, for the final time:

Out pours the pure.

Sleepless in the big H

18 in the big hell hole

altho alas this is the time to party,

at last.

whadda time to branch out

purple streams of syrupy sickness

on empty stomachs it strings out

and down down we go

free free at last

free to pass and to love

sweet sweet summer love

belle and twang, if you look past the past

it seems at first they were all ah-taken

both Gs with leddehs

except for thatta time by the fountain

chopped (chopped) and screwed (screwed/screwed)

haha

haha

drink

drink

stop

stop

drizzy dizzy - wayne stain - luda buddha

^^ those are the prophets of this art ^^

until ephemeral, nostalgic highs bring us on rooftops

where the cigarettes burn until the sunrise

and continue again to the eventual sunset

(tired bones cannot disguise the youth and joy)

with byudehfull babies with belly-rolling galore

these ladies are absolutely impossible to abhor

and so with a double-shot I sip on

my weary, but happy eyes continue onn

with messy ghetto grafitti

believe me,

it only makes me more comfortable,

when the kissing comes,

unexpectedly

and so that's what a brazen bit of bush can do

to you

you

when you're tryin

tryin

to enjoy yourself

self

self

in the big H.

Oxidation

Hey, you...

And what of those times;

merry May: a dilapidated rusty iron pig

outside the gates of Providence?

Preoccupied with the swine,

and the rust, it oxidized into its bones--

- those dry old bones.

How sick it made me feel,

when I finally could step into the divine light,

and having forgotten,

to see once again the elements of my eternal fire.

Beatrice I saw then,

but you so many years back,

what had I done? Used you? But for what?

And blame it on the fatigue, or was it indecision?

But for insecurities, all man's worth would crumble.

To prove a point, as many a Jew was a martyr

to an Egyptian ferrying the sands,

a-

Mercedez-Benz clipping off the wet street.

and yet still the same hope,

powered those: Ashira! (even a wet, sad ghetto face alive now)

And here a boy impresses his father.

---

And back then to you, my dear.

When the sunrise became apparent,

and the last seed had been planted,

and a field had become a forest in my body.

Where were you to be found,

and what had the past afforded?

All too dear,

and all too clear,

the turmoil was apparent, a

delectable delicatessen served on a simple flatbread.

See now:

When the man focuses too much on the flavor,

when he focuses too much on the falsity,

when he focuses instead on the delusion it provides,

is he not rejecting the beauty of her simplicity?

It is back into those dry bones, those pure bones, that goodness...

That the beauty of her simplicity lies abound.

And my love, what have I done to you?

To have made you a hapless creature,

lit on fire, and sprung into a whirlwind of emotions...

Emotions not meant for you-

free as a gust,

fiery as a fox,

flowing as the Mystic (and so mystical), and yet

stable as a rock. (if need be, and I needed you; so badly, desperately)

Emotions that eventually created a ravine,

grand as a canyon.

Turning on the barren stoop, I barely managed to say I love you,

before you turned, and the door shut, and I never saw you again.

---

In the end, I wished to have no regrets,

and as I mourn the past, and I lie here in a foreign land,

where the sun has begun to set in the East, [you lie to the West, my darling]

and I cough the last blood of so many migratory Indo-Arayans, mutts,

-- started by the noblest creature. (we all thank him)

I had a regret eternally.

I pondered a past where,

instead of allowing her firm and succulent breasts to set my eyes ablaze,

I instead allowed the veins underneath that skin to guide me to her core.

[Is this not Zion?]

Take a trip to her very dry, and very beautiful bones.

So finally when Death itself was lying on the bed with me,

sharing a drink of that hard rubbing scent that characterized my

Eastern soul and drink, and the vodka cleared all of the concern,

she came to me again, but in the saddest way; but in a relieving manner.

And stripped away was excess,

Gone was temptation for that redox of greed, gluttony,

that I had inched into her all those times, (an infinity)

and instead there was the inkling I tried to deny myself.

And to think that. And to...

To end it that way, killed by the stuffed and treacherous horse,

---when instead we could have walked into the sunset.

And why did we not?

Cause we rock...

Hyper-shift cykotelekinesis over drive hippie shit...

yeah, that's the way we cool, because we rock.

And when the guitar strums.

Strumming---

Bling.

Super duper uber waves vibrate within us.

The long-haired guitarist rips onto the stage,

and we're camping there just checking the sights.

A-hah, it's the festival didn't you know?

This new ride in town, the caravan,

the kids we be followin' are all the rave,

you funny knave.

I be ki-kidding, and scared as we are, rollin through.

That all we do...

Cause we are this generation,

stand up when the music goes: pop!

And wave your arms in the air.

Millenium has passed; no shit went down.

Give us about three more years.

Are the Mayans right?

Candlelight, the fireflies are waving back and forth,

baaaack and forth, back-and-forth, oooooh!

(the one man in the middle point up and says "ooooh!")

[Except for the images I'm painting,

are you inspired too?

I create this artwork for you!]

Extremely possessive child of greed,

why do you come this way?

Except for to be turned down by the children of god?

And to be wondered why, why?

Forthcoming are the sinners of Ezekiel,

when they walked into the sun and died,

because the air was so god-damned dry.

And will the oceans still be safe, when we return?

When we turn back into those impish creatures and re-return.

To the ocean of life,

but...

For now, for now, for now...

Us pinko-hippie socialist freaks keep rocking on.

Because we rock on...

And we rock on...

And we rock on.

Kid, we rock.