Poems Written Whilst Obviously Under The Influence, (part 3)

Reality

What words to speak to consecrate transformation

The bread into Christ is the mundane into the supreme

In mind only

What we believe to be we are

There is no reality only perception

So discipline that perception

Conception dream awakening frenzy amok in mind body and soul

I have torn a tempest across my life

These blinding screens have warped me

I have involuted

Seize power of the mind through complete gnosis and abandonment

Realise there is no mind to grip

Only filters that can be unleashed

We are the microcosm and the macrocosm

Our perceptions of depth are false

Deluded

There is no in and out up down

There is emptiness.

Let it flow.

Seek old lands with new eyes, do not seek new lands

Did Proust say it, or was it invented for my needs

Nomatter.

The drug is strong is tearing at my

My shamanic ways are developing

Technofage delirium

Yet within without my transformation is inescapable.

I believe all religions are true

I am a Muslim. A Buddhist. A Christian. A Pagan. A Jew. A Satanist.

I am a Nihilist.

I am left and right wing. I believe everything is true.

But I live not by what I believe.

But what I feel to be of most benefit.

Poems Written Whilst Obviously Under The Influence, Part 2

Everything is going to be alright forever.

I wrote that underlined

Because that’s important

It’s important to remember

Death is not the end

Death is a wonderful thing

To be anticipated with excitement

When we die

We shall be ready

When our planet consumes us

It will be because

We have served our purpose

We will have progressed forward

Do not slow evolution

Do not fear the end

Do not seek anything other

Than evolution of the self

Which is everybody

Together the ants will conquer the elephant.

Poems Written Whilst Obviously Under The Influence

The recurring conundrum of a spiritual minded drug user.

It would have answered the question

It would have squeegeed the third eye blind

It would have folded reality up into a corcertina and played Balkan gypsy love with your heart and soul

It would have illumined too soon

It would have graced us, emancipated, coagulated us

Into one awesome body of light

The poem I wrote last night.

It would have extrapolated your mind baggage and conveyored it right through Heathrow to your awaiting plane to Salvador, Bahia

It would have sprouted Malagasy baobab tress in your quantum mechanics

Backed-rubbed you Bangkok style in the alley

Hot rocked your clit-cock on the tick-tock

If I hadn’t been so stoned

I would have saved the poem

That I wrote whilst really high last night.

The recurring conundrum of a spiritual minded drug user

Is how to hold on

To revelation

To live eternally

In the opening of one’s mind’s eye

To remember

To press save

When you write a poem that could have changed everything.

Just one more then.

Just one more poem

Just one more line

Just one more word

Just one.

Feed me. Clothe me. House me. Love me.

Be my vent my gateway my portal

Through this consciousness

I

Write

Myself.

To give birth to myself

First I have to disappear up my own arse

If I can appear in just one more magazine

One more photo

One more movie

Then I know

I’ll know I exist

I’ll no that when I look into the cold

Dead

Eyes on my own photograph

I’ll see the glimmer of a soul I can’t find inside me

Fyah fyah! Burn down babylon

Three months back in the UK. Evicted from numerous flats, factories, attended court appearances, hung with zebedee criminalis, top dawg counterculturalistas, insurrection, activism, street protest, blank faces from the past and veer queegan respondiste.

Spewing it into media: war is here. war is everywhere. war on everything!

these places are vapid. these times the forces come down to blindside and blast our minds clean. Against their erosion we must barricade, we must resist, we must overcome.

Every inch; every thought we cram into others is an inch against complete submission to the torrent.

There must be a way through.

They want our minds. Our lives. They want 2+2 to equal 5. They want to rewrite history. Rewrite our consciousness. Suck us down into the cesspit, the grey sacharrine poison of their backwardity.

Choking, cloying, mind warfayre. All the small things have brought us here and we can never forget that the revolution is upon us.