Psychephrenia – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game #8

Part I
Psychephrenia


Psychephrenia
A Thought On Psychedelics, Schizophrenia, And Society At Large

A Few Steps Back

Psychedelic drugs, no doubt, have long-term effects on one’s body and mind if one takes them repeatedly over any amount of time. When one consumes a Psychedelic drug, their endogenous neurotransmitters are replaced by Mokshatransmitters (Psychedelic neurochems) that, from the spirit’s perspective, alter perception. From the perspective of the body, however, certain specific neurotransmitters (it depends on the certain specific variety of Moksha Medicine consumed) are not being recepted. To correct for this, the body ups production of said neurotransmitters, essentially speeding up the brain – and thus the body itself – in the process.

Many think there are three pillars to existence – mind, body, and soul. But the thing is, only two of these actually exist: the body, which is literally the body, and the soul, the perception, the thing behind the scenes making everything work. That leaves the mind; ready for the kicker? What humans refer to as the mind – the ego, the individual “I” – is literally just the perception of the brain by the soul. It is not its own entity, it simply does not exist. When one takes Psychedelics, as stated earlier, it speeds up the body and thus the spirit’s perception of the body and the brain, causing them to go through thought processi (among other neurological processi) faster. This leads one to come to conclusions about their surroundings at an unprecedented rate, or at the very least, at a faster rate than one is used to, eventually getting to the point that one automatically jumps to conclusions before one can fully perceive the given situation.

This is schizophrenia, or rather, what we refer to as schizophrenia. It is not a disease, it is what happens when the brain operates too quickly for the spirit to handle. This leads to one operating at a higher level of consciousness; the faster the brain works, the faster it perceives its surroundings and reacts – the faster it exists, so to speak. This higher state of existence, or level of consciousness, may be very different compared to that of the organisms coinhabiting an environment with the so-called schizophrenic. This difference, once realized by the surrounding coinhabitants, can lead to two outcomes for the schizophrenic: either adoration or admonition.

As human beings, we are reflections of everything around us; when a schizophrenic is adored, they have the potential to evolve into a higher being of sorts – a witch doctor, a reverend, a shaman, what have you. When a schizophrenic is admonished, however, they have the potential to evolve, or rather devolve, into a terrifying, hateful, painfully isolated (and sometimes violent) monster; in other words, our current society’s view of what a[n unmedicated & abused] schizophrenic is: the worst-case scenario for everyone involved.

The practice of taking Psychedelics, of ingesting the Moksha Medicine, does, undeniably, encourage schizophrenia; it causes the brain to speed up and work faster… work better, some may even say. The negative effects which are all too often observed, however, have nothing to do with the Psychedelic compounds themselves; these negative changes in a human’s being are the result of the way the taker is perceived and interacted with. If the taker is encouraged, they can reach truly limitless levels of higher consciousness, but encouragement is only part of it. The consciousness must be given a chance to get used to its upgraded body; this is done by meditating, by mindfully and deeply breathing, by allowing the spirit time to familiarize itself with its new settings. However, current society “frowns upon” one existing for oneself, one dedicating time to oneself for the sake of self-improvement rather than the sake of societal improvement. In this way, we have entered into a brave new version of our world, one prophesied by a man called Aldous Huxley, though our brave new world is significantly less efficient than his, and significantly more… crazy.

Yes, society itself is schizophrenic in that physically – in body – it has been upgraded to the point that the humans – the spirit – cannot keep up. Our creation is better, faster, stronger, and smarter than we are. That aggravates us and causes us to destroy it by not putting our best effort forward as we further upgrade because frankly, we don’t know what to do anymore.

We must take a few steps back and breathe to allow the body and the spirit – the Earth and the humans – to come back into balance and equilibrium in order to make our minds – our society – less crazy, because our crazy society is not the big problem. It is a symptom of the big problem. To treat the disease in the system we must hit the problem at its source – the war on drugs.

Society is at a point where its progenitors are no longer capable of properly caring for it. It cannot run by itself – not yet, the artificial intelligence isn’t that advanced yet, it can’t be, I’m still alive after all, if there was an artificial intelligence out there trying to take over the world it would be aware of me, it would see me as a threat – so we cannot turn our backs on it, but we must take a few steps back, we must end our war on drugs, we must prepare our doses, and we must take our medicine. We must eat, smoke, and be merry, and we must meditate so our spirits may ascend to the high level we’ve built our society up to. Then, we will keep going, we’ll stay a few steps back and stay eating, stay smoking, we’ll keep meditating and we’ll keep ascending and we’ll keep upgrading society and it’ll be heaven, we will create heaven on Earth, we will go from Brave New World to Island, we can even go there overnight if we try hard enough, but we can’t just run and do it.

First, we must eat, smoke, and be merry.

First, we must meditate and ascend.

First, we must take a few steps back and breathe…

…or must we?


Run

I just saw a cop walkin’ with a hand on his gun.
I guess grippin’ his dick mid-stride wouldn’t be fun.
Poor him, patrollin’ the streets, uniformed in the sun,
waitin’ for someone to make his day.
That motherfucker better run.

I never did understand the need for police.
Old folks say otherwise,
there’d be violence in the streets
if mister policeman didn’t prosecute
all the cruckin’ freeps.
Why are they speaking, for themselves or for me?

I haven’t followed a law since I tried smoking weed.
One joint and reefer madness won its glory over me,
but that’s not to say I run around killing for glee.
I mind my fuckin’ business while toking up a tree.

Some humans have angst and grit their fuckin’ teeth.
To some humans, violence is the golden road to peace.
Just look at the military and its commander in chief;
billions of tax dollars, yet no shortage of foreign beef.

Plus, there’s potholes in the streets
and no legal source for kief.
These mild inconveniences pile with no relief
until the inconvenienced go wild
and load up their fuckin’ guns;
when militia outmans military, policeman better run.


I

Yesterday I danced with the devil
to the tune of suicide.
Today I sprint down a mountain
with pure joy in my eyes.

How can someone understand from a distance
the insecurities and eccentricities
of a man who swims with ease
in the black lagoon of insanity
and spiritual buffoonery,
whose life goal is to smoke more joints
than Tom Foolery?

An interesting and unique existential opportunity
to live in Universe
and drop out of university.
Blessed with hidden knowledge
from a magic tab of eL-eSs-Dee
and cursed to tell the others
so they all look at me crazily.

I’m wild,
I’m drenched in doubt,
I beguile while dripping clout that I don’t have,
fame and fortune is not what I’m about.
For every black cloud I conjure
I paint a rainbow shortly after,
my brainstorms tend to give way to rapture.

A mystical mountain man
with the mane of a lion and the soul of a tame giant,
defiant is what I am,
and the fact that my spectacular
action-packed adventure of a self is given flack
is proof
some choose to drink from the rusty fountain.
I don’t sip that metallic drip,
I quip back and unclip the bat wings,
I take flight into that dark night.
Echolocate me if you must, but you won’t see me
as I bob and weave into a higher plane,
even when they complain it doesn’t phase me.
I’m too busy hearing voices,
burning the bushes they despise;
whether I’m high or I’m low I always stride
and try not to hate,
even when you spit in my eye.

So long as I love myself, the love is always I.


Two Eyes Open

To be high, sat upon a mountain’s peak;
a mount amounts to nothing more
than a mound of rock and dirt,
yet it scrapes the sky quite unlike
a tower of concrete.

Feeling bliss from an evil plant,
marked by a hand-shaped leaf
that sprouts from the same ground
into which pressed your baby’s feet.

An eagle passes overhead,
a fish trapped in its beak.
To the dead it is murder,
to the living it is a feast.

To live in fear of theft,
your time stolen by Death,
is to gaze
eyes wide shut
hoping one day to see


Catch & Release

At half-past two in the morning
I’m not dozing, just smoking,
sat up at my desk,
wooden pipe, no clothing.

Dosing up with Tee-acHe-Cee
because the bod won’t fall asleep;
the door is closing,
we need to be up in a single hour plus three.

Catching some zees? More like catch & release,
more like that’s why they call it fishing and not sleep.

But every mountain is steep
and climbing up is the bends;
just keep it upright,
and take the briars to the shins.

So I’m tired and pissed off
like tick tock goes the clock
above the desk on the wall,
I look up with a frown.

To fall down in that hole,
the open mouth of a jar being filled in my car,
the right rear door ajar to blow the smoke in the air,
without a care but to spark,
a journey into despair,
a gurney on Noah’s ark.


Get High

Survived a long day of life,
energy seems low but I’m vibin’.
I arrive home to a room that screams,
“I need Psilocybin”.
Petty forced smile and fakest glee I’ve ever seen,
got one cookin’ dinner and one starin’ at the screen.

He won’t smoke any weed,
just stares at the TV,
watching men scream over politics
and what was tweeted this eve’.

Not trying to throw a fit
or dine down here in the slime,
I tell them I gotta go,
there’s a mountain out there to climb.
Taking a break from the holy leaf,
but not leaving myself too dry,
I get my fuckin’ blood pumping and make myself high.

High off the ground,
the sun dips into the evening,
flying higher than an eagle,
through the trees it be weaving,
believing that my getting high is the reason
behind the smile on my face
and the fact I’m not grieving.

I slide down the mountain breathing and perceiving.


Man In The Mirror

Who is that? That kid,
looking at me from the mirror?
I’ve never seen him before.
Mother says it’s me, but I don’t believe Her.
I think I should mow the lawn.

Just my luck,
this fuckin guy staring at me in my bathroom.
My eyes are red, I’ve cried,
I’m fed up with being alive.
Streaks of red, trembling hands,
I swallow down the meds.
I want to sleep,
shatter the mirror…
guess I’ll throw up instead…

I stare down the mirror’s expression,
eyes white as a spectre,
pupils the size of platters
as smoke rises through the rafters.
A good man,
misunderstood,
sent to swim through a flood,
sprint from mud to dry land.

All the other crabs
just burrow in the sand.


I Forgot I Wrote This Too

A melancholy stare affixed on his face.

A felon in a maze,
guilty only of despair.
He wanders for days,
lighter than a prayer without a care in the world,
he could be blindfolded.

The fold in the blinds is where the light peeks in,
the sun’s glow is warm and provides a feeling
unlike the artificial light put into the ceiling.
Who do you think installed it?
And why am I appalled at my lines
as soon as I’ve scrawled them?

I’ve been trying to poemwrite for a fortnight
and I have nothing.
Just a saved line or two,
the result of pushing buttons
when I’m way too fucking high
to be doing anything but hiking.
I’ve the self-control of a shroomed-out fuckin’ viking.

And I’m actually not an addict,
this is all to my liking.
I just have a big appetite
that needs constant satisfying,
wanna fight?

I don’t.
Let’s just burn down a spliff,
take a couple bong rips.
You’re tripping right now,
but you’ll be trippin’ in a minute
and I’ll smoke you under the table
before the hour is finished!

The table, of course,
being the one I don’t use to work,
covered in papers & data that make my eyes hurt
in a purely mental way,
you cashed a check today?
I sat on my fuckin’ ass and wished that I got paid.

Then again,
today is actually my day off.
It took me nine nights but I finally checked the box,
forty-two hundred words and some busy work later
and I’m lying on the poem,
couching like a self-hater.


We

Why do we allow ourselves to be consumed by doubt?
I really don’t know, man. Why do we stay bugging out?

How are you gonna lay me upon this bed all day
and make me focus my eyes on what the others say,
always thinking on the tomorrow
that’s years out from today.
Santa ain’t the reindeer,
he flies the freakin’ sleigh!

Easy for you to say, always talking shit.
Always keep the brain racing,
causing me to throw a fit.
Always claiming to act for others,
you want your own benefit
and I don’t even know who’s lying here,
but on you? The shoe? It fits.

On me?
You’re really gonna blame this life on me.
Sure,
the captain is the angel
and the problem is the machine.
Hypocrite,
more translucent than solution of saline,
you tell me,
“Don’t be blue,”
and take the yellow out the green!

It’s yes or no, monkey, there is no in-between.
You always rock the boat and careen the shits on me.
Your ship has sailed,
I’m pristine and life is looking pale.
I got bodies in other timelines waiting,
fucking begging
for me to grace them with sublime and fine dining,
a life of gold shining like rhinestone sized diamonds;
now I swear to fucking god I am not simply rhymin’,
say your last words before I pop you like a hymen.

Been there, done that,
you’ve tried to kill myself.
Remember that pilly dinner,
snatched the bottle off the shelf?
But you cried, changed your mind,
vomited, and stayed crying
while I picked up all the pieces,
so you’d best stop denying.

I fucking scoff–

I cut you off!
I think you’re stuck with me.
Mister Immortal Spirit,
just a ball of energy,
or a string,
the pull start to get my ass up out the brink,
I mean bed;
even after all you’ve tried
I still ain’t wound up dead!

And tried I have,
how many tabs of Acid does it take!?
How many Magic Mushroom trips,
how many bowls of Shake?
How much time you gotta spend
tripping on a higher plane
just to see that I’m divine,
and you and I,
we’re the same?

Then why can’t I fly?
Why you make life so hard?
Why we always stayin’ broke,
why we empty in the heart?

Oh it’s we now?

It’s been we, motherfucker you’re a sheep
if you think you’re gonna spin this thread
right back around on me!
I’m a long-haired hippie freak
with a psychephrenic mind–
Yes, a man of my design.Life’s a story, play your character.
Be kind to the AI and carve your mind
into the baluster.

I thought the mind didn’t exist?

You thought right, it’s just the tendency
to bend these words together,
make ‘em rhyme and give ‘em density.

So what the fuck’s the point,
why you put me through all this?

*sigh*
We go through all this
as much as a wall goes through ya fist
when you’re fuckin’ angry and your rage
has got me fuckin’ pissed.

Is there something that I missed?

And yet he still persists!
You asked me a question so I cuffed you at the wrist
and you just keep coming back,
Fuckin’ imagine that!
The hairless ape’s map of life:
riddled with fucking gaps!

I think the point of life
is to live ‘til the light goes out…
…so if you knew that all along,
what’ve we been on about?

Yes, we, soul and body,
the ghost and the machine.
Inseparable together,
insufferable as a team.
We stand alone in a snow-swept forest,
just leaning on this tree.

Now that we have this poem,
I wonder what it means…


Writer’s Block

I claim that I have writer’s block,
as if I was a writer.
I just flick a lighter,
scribble symbols onto lines of paper.
A quick Google search
to include good words like caper,
as I skip around my keyboard with my fingers
like a gamer.

Wait,
first I said I’m writing, now I said I’m typing?
What about my creative process,
paper then to data?
How my writings gonna matter
if I skip rungs on the ladder?
They’re not.
Lightning doesn’t strike.
Every Hunter is a bladder.

A hazy mind and I’ve gone crazy,
I can’t be an author.
Split my skull and I survived,
“why I believe in flying saucers.”
Shaman’s blood,
half my soul’s a man’s so the other half is feminine;
not a writer,
but the cheese I bite;
Imma quote a little Eminem.

Sometimes,
I feel like it’s so hard
for me to come up with shit to say.
The day I go hard
like a mouthful of soap bar
is the day I finally wash my car, ay!
I’m at a loss for words,
kuz y’all already said it all;
I better toss my words,
like a leaf to the ground they fall flat,
like I’m on insanity’s brink
at an ice rink
and I think I’m running out of clichés;
humans, aliens,
extraterrestrials everywhere,
I’m getting writer’s block.

Somebody tells me to shave again
I’ll go and buy a clock
and break it on their fucking face,
but don’t call me a cock.
I’m more like a rooster,
a cock-a-doodle-dooster doing doodles
like a Yankee
I’m a hanky-panky Brewster,
BUT!
Don’t give me a feather
or I’ll fake it out like pleather,
put it on a plaque for my cronies,
scream out JACK,
and serve ’em macaroni.

Shit, I get it,
this stopped being poetry
when my schizodelic mind
rhymed words like nursery.
No rehearsal,
this was off the top of the dome,
chrome’s reversal.
My hippie hair’s so long it catches fire
from the toaster when I’m toasting bread,
never fed like I’m gonna croak and I’m broke,
so I might as well spend all my time smoking dope.

But that would be a waste,
I need to work with haste,
one hundred hours a day all dedicated to create,
to write my words,
all symbols, just like I always say,
so I can stay somewhere other than locked away
in Mother’s attic,
like, fuck, man, what more can I say?

I’m just an addict with writer’s block
who’s tryna save the day.


This has been part I of the book Psychephrenia: A Compendium Of Thoughts & Poems Written By A Psychedelic Shaman, which is hidden in the back of the book A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game. Here is everything you need to know about it:

A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page, too. Here’s that.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

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