The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance

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Touch It

Touch It

It takes wounds to write,
Several. And if there are none,
We must hurt ourselves to create;
Through wounds the light can come out.

From what glorious futuristic vision,
Does our elation stem from?
It feels like that good feeling,
Which we chase our entire lives,
Hoping to touch someday,
Forever eludes us, cheating, escaping us.
It seems that our imagination is discontinuous,
With the heat that operates our bodies.
We have decorated ourselves with job titles,
Expensive suits and beautiful wives, husbands, whores,
Jeweled our invisible images with neat talk,
Defensive vocabulary, heavy wallets and hearts,
Spyked with the endless thirst to be emperors of our world

As we build elevators to glassy penthouses,
And leave our eyes in the basements of our dreams
We come to hear the toll bells of our honeyed hells,
Through the streets of our cities, that like garbage dumps,
Harbor and nurse the whims and what nots of our erect penises.

We are a “touch it” world, where we need to feel,
Our toes wringing in maddening glee
Every inch of our feeling selves dancing,
Every cell mourning and dying to ecstasy;
There is nothing more than that
In all our endeavors;
Our chivalry, our righteousness, our goodness,
Our poetry, our dance, our glorious revolutions;
Everything is a “touch it” thing,
And if it isn’t worth our mental erection,
We will abandon it by dawn.

Two types; one the suited, the other—the nature guy,
Both don’t know and both are right, both wrong.
They will battle till this chapter of life comes to naught

Our wounds will be ointmented with whipped cream,
Made from steel butter and urine ice.
Our world moves toward a dark time,
When hell will erect its massive edifices on our lands;
Our endeavors flourish only for entertainment,
And death comes racing; greatly motivated,
To move this wheel of time into nature’s deepest abyss

Our satin-saffron clad priests will perhaps survive this descendence,
Chanting their verses in praise of their Adiyogi.
But they would’ve missed, they would’ve missed.
Life is no great thing without the darkness,
Without the hurt, without the fear,
Without the knowledge of possible annihilation,
From a very un-enlightened perspective

I will come back,
To give you better renditions of our mysterious fates.
Until then,
Bask in sweet sorrow and drink to our demise,
Chasing the dreams that you can touch,
Relaxing in crisp and clear sensation,
In confident erection, eyes open,
Tongue tucked behind gritted teeth,
And a loudly beating heart.
We crave all things that ask and beg and plead,
Mourning, “Touch Me.”

Screamjack

Adam

Adam

I discovered that most things we say,
Are distant ramblings of the waves in us,
That are forged by unknown waters,
That burn and ache with each of our memories
I discovered that there’s no more wine remaining,
In all of the seventy-nine kingdoms of the misunderstood universe,
That can silence my curiosity to an endless darkness
I have found and danced in the light of knowing,
That all my dreams were source-less and uninspired,
Wavers and quivers of light that moved aimlessly,
In the sky, through the moon, through me, through you
And that all I believed to be the meaningful lyric in my head,
Was nothing but the wandering nothings of sunshine,
That came from some other galaxy

I have found and learnt to remember,
That nothing we can talk about,
Matters. That all things we describe,
Are more the violent repressions of our realer selves,
Are more the unfair destruction of our truer desires
I have learnt and understood the ways of remembering,
How the things we speak of throughout our days,
Are cravings for the seasons of the ancient mushroom,
The endless aching for the mystic, for magic, for love,
For dreams and color, for excess wine and lives of delight
I know the workings of your heart in the chasms of your nightmares,
Of how somewhere within, you remember the days,
When you walked Eden, by Eve, kissing her, moving her,
To endless orgasms by apple trees and gentle waterfalls
How sweet was that Eden? How sweet was Eve?
And now in this wilderness of several Eves and timber trees,
We’ve wandered away,
From our home of magic, from our eternal splendors of dancing, prancing,
Away into a wilderness of office doors and dimly lit floors
Before lit up screens and dead old dreams,
Writing the eulogy of our magic, that died within us,
Perhaps because of us, perhaps maybe not,
But dead anyway

I remember how Eve tasted,
And now when I sip through the many shades of fragrance,
That you wear, lavender, strawberry, peach,
I remember how you wore your one shade of eternity,
On your neck, with the beads of your magical being,
Dangling over your soft breasts, calling me,
To come drink in the splendor of your existence
And now I see you, my many Eves,
Wandering this world, lost, doomed to demise,
Hoping for me to come find you again
But now sweet Eve, now that you’re many,
And now that you want me to want only you
How will I ever find you again?
What was one, has splintered into galaxies of fragrances,
Millions of lips and trillions of breasts, the many minds,
Of all these many women
The many hearts that ache and creak for the embrace,
Of my one soul, that in delusion,
Mourns deeply at night,
Remembering his Eve, seeing her still, every morning,
But now as a thousand suns clouded by thick memories of disconnection,
Hatred, violence, betrayal, and the endless screaming of creation’s child

Sweet Eve, you who now walk the forests of this Earth in billions,
I remember that first morning in Eden
When I lifted your cheek to look into the gleaming eyes that peered all things,
And said, my goddess, my queen, let’s walk up to that stream,
And make love until the white orb in the sky,
Comes to dance to the vibrant tune of our mourning,
Our mourning that will create a great new world, a multitude of men

All things that were one, have now been made many,
And I’ve ceased to seek you in the throbbing of humanity’s ambition
I’ve ceased to seek you entirely,
As now I remember, that morning in Eden
Of how you sweet Eve, were no woman outside of me,
But the most cherished movement of my eternal imagination

And I, the man who moved the sand,
Was and is the most cherished movement of an ancient dream,
A dream that had no dreamer, has none now,
And a dream that answers only to eternity

Image by Thomas Cole – Garden of Eden

The Story of Creation

The Story of Creation

Sometimes too often stuck with papers,
Some moments when two things are interesting
It’s too often that this daytime job,
Gets to become a string of dull choices

Do I want magic or money?
Food of leaves or golden beef,
Sometimes too often,
I’m wandering astray,
Into a maze in which color is non-existent,
Into a maze with no dance and music,
With no enchantment
And I’m lost,
With no inspiration to tickle my neck,
No fire to burn my emotions

Most people, are stuck

Life is this great LSD story,
At the beginning of which,
God had himself a champion dosage
And wandered off into this endless dream,
Of which we are all so sincerely part of
Becoming fragments and fractals of this ancient dream,
That spurted forth like paint on an invisible canvas

It’s true, life is God’s great LSD tale,
A psychedelic dilemma,
Forged into molecular abstraction,
An atomic explosion,
In the non-existent mind,
Of an eternal being
This great psychedelic story,
In which somehow,
Death became a feared antagonist

Somehow, this whole color show,
Turned out to be,
A social drama around death

Where are the champions of the light,
Who lovingly tripped this Earth up to ecstasy?

God’s tale, his color tale, his foolish tale,
His endless tale, his bloody tale his wretched tale,
A psychedelic tale, after all
And it’s still being told,
By that formless champion tripper,
Who’s decided to get sober for a while,
To get drunk with the characters,
Of his own delusional painting,
Of this life story
Who is God you might ask!
Tell me who’s asking the question,
And I’ll tell you,
About God

And after that,
We’ll take a walk through the garden of the void
As two gods clothed in light,
And start for ourselves another great dream,
Like children at dawn
Sewing cosmic works with Lego toys
We’ll create this other whole new world,
This other orderless color spur
And keep on dancing,
Till shit happens again
And change it again,
And again,
Again

Soul Sewage

Soul Sewage

You can’t help but wonder,
If a writer writes because words are his drugs
If you look harder,
Deep into the chasms of individual intention
We look to excrete the things,
That bind us
The very knowledge that we hold dear,
Is what binds us

Most concoctions of lingual wonder,
Are blasphemies in time
Decorated with candor and innocent chirping,
To instigate the wondrous
In seeking hearts,
To captivate the broken,
The mad in the heat of life’s sun,
To show the way to stars,
With a sense of gullible decency
To elate and intoxicate the curious,
And to impress the bored

The world cannot exist without inspiration,
At least the way we know it
Every man seeking fervently,
For the heroic
For magic in these years of endless bore,
For a sense of the excellent,
When every movement,
On this dull canvas of activity,
Seems gray, distorted,
And somewhat senseless
As we are tossed above and below,
From summer to winter,
Unknowing of ourselves,
Of the true things that we are,
Not simply packages boned into skin and flesh,
Not simply that,
But with a hope of being,
Something,
More heroic, or at least, lasting

We cannot help but wonder,
Over that evening whiskey
If this entire hoax of living,
Was made by us or something else
But wondering is that very thing,
That creates this torment,
We’ve so lovingly named,
Suffering,
Pain,
Misery

It’s over if you look at it once,
At the whole sham of things
Without whisky and rhyme,
If we see it once,
It will be over

The delights of sweetly-clad women,
And candy and wine,
The many tastes of ice-cream,
And the stench of war and poverty
The many romances of art and revolution,
The chastities of morality and culture
If we see it once,
It all ends

But it ends to begin what?
There is no question like that,
You cannot ask such things
It’s over

Rabbits eating carrot at midday,
Know this truth,
And still love and eat,
And run around,
Like yesterday never was,
And tomorrow will never be

Whiskey teaches you nothing,
That the pale winds,
Of this virgin summer,
Cannot

Just one look,
It will be over

Let’s Swim

Let’s Swim

Truth is so vast and endless that it can neither be told nor written. Sometimes though, we all are so full of ecstasy and expression that we need to burst out on paper or conversation.

The Satori Times is a universal column that is intended toward nothing. Poetry, love, and a romantic perspective toward life is the theme of this little column of nonchalant expression.

If ever man needs to find a sort of fulfillment in writing, he needs to write without the shackles of lingual law, moral limitation, and the ever-enslaving need for the approval of his readers. Here in the satori times, you will find nothing but the delicate congruence of the synchronous universe pouring out its feathered nectar of unselfish ecstasy and limitless curiosity.

This blog is for dancers and dreamers, who dare to cross the perfect world of intellectual understanding into a realm of romantic simplicity, yearning for raw honesty instead of decorated meaning.

Come, if we forget what we have been, and hope not much for the colorful offerings of tomorrow, together we might stumble upon something that is marvelous, something that we have never imagined, and who knows, perhaps something that has been waiting for us for a very long time.

I invite you to drop the robes of knowledge that clothe you and dive into this cold yet soothing pool of life that lies here before our senses, and to swim with me, for no reason at all.