Opiates were the first to show me the blackness of thought. They were a thick dark covering, a comfort and a menace. It was as if it were a parasite who's form of reproduction was to convince me to do more of it thereby proliferating it's future rather than my own. A tool of superfluous value. They served no purpose except to stop my spiritual growth dead in it's tracks. The smiles and the dreams of the nod were why I stayed around. The slapstick happy face with the closed eyes behind which played dark reds and purples.... Visions of my childhood and of flying vehicles who's fuel was sand. The sand was the time I was eating through at an alarming rate, the vehicle was the wide covering I had granted my soul, asleep for the time behind selfish pleasure seeking and isolation.
The stimulant and the empathogen was the caricature. The two dancing fools who's laughter drowned out the sound of my voice. The dance lasted too long, the nights burned on with a sickly blue fire in my mind. The speech erratic and unconcerned, overfamiliar with the new faces and a short falling lie to the old. A confidence fueled by the outpouring of neurotransmitters, the joke cracked and the hours spent an homage to the death of pathways. The forced smile and the convinced blackened eye. The mind reels behind the quickness and the intensity of the peak, the eyes turned into the small windows of slot machines, spinning with de-pitted cherries. The heart eaten and exchanged for the face. The oversweetened delicious caramel of grey matter, burned to taste.
The psychedelic and the entheogen were the window past death. A glimpse beyond our notions of time and experience, the mind manifested in its most immediate form. Instinct acted on without pretension, thought replaced by speech replaced by action. The vision a swirl of Aztec artwork painted in front of the eyes imposed on the mirror of consciousness. All consciousness is self consciousness. The object isn't the object itself but the object in relation to myself. The other isn't the other but the other as it views me. The eyes the window into the soul are incapable of deception, the face grimaced in pain is the purest form of honesty. The truth is only the consistent lie, the plastic is apparent on the factory made packaging of the yuppie reality. The nine to five, the cradle to the grave. A lie we are told from birth is the promise of the greater after death, the man robbed of his mortality moves without haste or urgency. He toils for the tomorrow that only escapes into the next, his eyes forever fixed on the promise to come so that he can't turn back to face the eyes of the slave driver whipping his back. The infuriated tongue held in respect for material wealth, "yes sir, no sir, my apology sir, my condolences sir". The fate of a mans happiness decided by the content of his intellect rather than the color of his collar.
The sleeping pill, the cigarette smoked for a few minutes less of this time in which we burn. The bottle chased to the last drop in search of the man he used to be. The admittance that no matter how we view this world that our minds have defected against us. The television ad that tells us to watch instead of dream, to sleep instead of to rest, to smile instead of to love.
The stimulant and the empathogen was the caricature. The two dancing fools who's laughter drowned out the sound of my voice. The dance lasted too long, the nights burned on with a sickly blue fire in my mind. The speech erratic and unconcerned, overfamiliar with the new faces and a short falling lie to the old. A confidence fueled by the outpouring of neurotransmitters, the joke cracked and the hours spent an homage to the death of pathways. The forced smile and the convinced blackened eye. The mind reels behind the quickness and the intensity of the peak, the eyes turned into the small windows of slot machines, spinning with de-pitted cherries. The heart eaten and exchanged for the face. The oversweetened delicious caramel of grey matter, burned to taste.
The psychedelic and the entheogen were the window past death. A glimpse beyond our notions of time and experience, the mind manifested in its most immediate form. Instinct acted on without pretension, thought replaced by speech replaced by action. The vision a swirl of Aztec artwork painted in front of the eyes imposed on the mirror of consciousness. All consciousness is self consciousness. The object isn't the object itself but the object in relation to myself. The other isn't the other but the other as it views me. The eyes the window into the soul are incapable of deception, the face grimaced in pain is the purest form of honesty. The truth is only the consistent lie, the plastic is apparent on the factory made packaging of the yuppie reality. The nine to five, the cradle to the grave. A lie we are told from birth is the promise of the greater after death, the man robbed of his mortality moves without haste or urgency. He toils for the tomorrow that only escapes into the next, his eyes forever fixed on the promise to come so that he can't turn back to face the eyes of the slave driver whipping his back. The infuriated tongue held in respect for material wealth, "yes sir, no sir, my apology sir, my condolences sir". The fate of a mans happiness decided by the content of his intellect rather than the color of his collar.
The sleeping pill, the cigarette smoked for a few minutes less of this time in which we burn. The bottle chased to the last drop in search of the man he used to be. The admittance that no matter how we view this world that our minds have defected against us. The television ad that tells us to watch instead of dream, to sleep instead of to rest, to smile instead of to love.