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

Advertisements

Sway With Me

Sway With Me

From the depths of my empty self,
A little verse has now come to tell itself
I wonder, if I can write without impressions,
Without the prudent forcefulness of desires,
For superstar perfection and stardom,
I’ll begin.

Unshaved, and lying in bed, the many days are passing,
And I watch my life slip through my toes, fingers,
I watch the same clockwork cut out,
Tick tock tick tock, toward my six feet under.
A better dream is set to come true,
In a few weeks, I think three or two
And yet, tick tock, tick tock,
I march in nonchalance and broken pride,
To my sweet six feet under.

The older you get, the verses change,
They behold no more color, no more stories,
Of ecstatic voyages into intricately threaded psychedelic splendor.
Now the verses drown deep into reflection,
And hey, I’m not even old yet.
Somehow still, I feel older than the stars.
Answerable to the invisible gods that bring monsoon,
And change winter to spring. I feel answerable,
To excuse myself before their perfect selves,
And ask them for forgiveness,
For the dump in which I’ve laid waste,
The endless possibilities of my mind and body.

A strange sleep has encumbered me,
Has come to remove the light from my eyes,
A sleep that feels like it will be victorious,
Over my final gasp for one last breath.
We change every day, like trees,
That rejuvenate themselves in Spring.
We are not simple people, simple persons,
With simple dreams or simple songs.
We are like trees that die in autumn,
Trees shaped tall, small, twisted, broken,
We are trees that die and fall,
And rise from the soil again.

Who is the real me?
The little child at three, looking up at the stars,
And finding no words to express its glee?
Am I the curious 12-year old,
Misunderstanding his sexuality,
Hoping to bury his head,
In every pair of breasts he sees
Being tough in school,
Trying hard to hide his embarrassment,
Of newly initiated masturbation,
And failed attempts at pornography
Am I the intelligent 18-year old,
Broken in love, and resurrected,
Seeking semblances of permanent sense,
In this strange world torn between spirit and science
Or am I this, this scarred young man,
Twenty- five but old, dancing in balance,
Between awe for women and misplaced misogyny
This young old man, drenched in extreme experience,
Fondling with boredom like with the tits of a whore
Heart racing at every opportune moment,
To rocket his soul into blinding euphoria
Which one am I?

Life races to nowhere, kindling only new feeling,
Breeding confusion, chaos, and candle-light delight,
In its subjects who carve its marvelous reflections
The purpose here is nothing but movement,
And we, confused children beneath the midnight moon,
Wage war against our ends with words and sonatas,
With triumphant symphonies and graduate degrees,
Sparing no second to let the thought of our deaths,
Suppress us into silent melancholies

We are the children of the sky,
Who are born to offend, the nature of all things
And in our diabolic efforts, we kiss the deepest feelings,
And jive and trapeze with the subtlest discoveries,
Cause hey, we’re human.
We weren’t born to sway with the breeze,
We were born to make it sway with us.

Come now, drink this wine,
And sway with me.

artwork – Spacedance (http://jacquesmayou.com/)

A Current of Reflection

A Current of Reflection

This morning, we shall chart our hearts,
And find the few pearls of memory,
That wage war with our destinies,
And win to our delight

Inside sometimes, little drops of heaviness,
Bring a milky solitude to me
Like cream that tastes of infected phlegm,
There are many ounces of regret in me
Through the rays of endless remembrance,
I cannot know if in this life or beyond
I feel a weary ache that decorates me with loss
A fiery torment that rages like the waves in an ocean of fire,
And me, a simple soul stranded in chains of tears
In surrender, in sorrow, in mindless poesy mourning,
At the glorious delight of humanity’s tragedy

If you look hard enough through my sweetened words,
You can find a broken soul, vulnerable, fragrant, yet broken
It’s all yours to touch, for you to break more—eat into my spirit
The currents of reflection come like a storm,
To tease my tired mind out of idolism to elation
We’ll keep on teasing ourselves into this wondrous game,
Of love, rejection, denial, and laughter in autumn forests
We will forever drink from the chalices of friendship,
Finding connection in mutually adored vulgarity
Seeking touch in the palms of our poisonous counterparts
Craving their tenderness when we know that all comes to naught
We will still sell our hearts to our women,
And love them in winter and nourish their wombs,
With more than our seed, more than our hopeless romanticism

We will shake ourselves from our anxiety,
As the winter reveals its treachery in the summers of sunshine
I pray for that hour of redemption,
When our non-existent dreams are exiled into the abyss of awakening
When we look into the eyes of our children,
And see the tricking secrets of our older selves
Tonight perhaps, I will come to see that our children,
Are our older selves
And life moves backwards, not forwards,
Returning to an age of accepted imperfection,
Where we let our fingernails grow into the soil,
Leaving our cheeks to tan themselves into a dark peach,
Allowing our hair to smell of all undesirable fragrances
A world without mirrors, an innocent world

There lies, a whole world of madness and brilliance,
Behind the multi-colored irises of you and I
A secret world, a drunken world,
With fairies and alien whores, with magic
And if we transcend our addictions to touch,
That world attracts to itself the mantle of reality

As I lose myself to perpetual abstraction,
I will put up my hands to bring you along
The absolute place does not exist,
The promised land is here
I am your milk, and you my honey,
And our blood the water of this fragrant soil
I must forget the delightful offerings,
Of this selfish society
I must reject, your ambitious plans,
I am a child of the Earth, a prophet of blasphemy
And here I am, offering myself to you,
To crucify me,
With the nails of your limited understanding,
To the cross of your own demise

There is no word that can awaken the world,
There are a few sounds, a few visions,
But these are too few in this age.
So forget awakening, come smile with me,
And we shall go dancing into unknown galaxies,
And make love to the stars,
And birth more dreams and more eternities,
More words and more numbers,
More wine and more divine,
To feed the curiosity of our future selves.

Tea today, no wine.

Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Old friend, sweet friend,
You might remember those sunny afternoons
After having our chicken rolls,
Laced with egg and ketchup
We lay in that old famed tropical garden,
Smoking things that made us remember
Of fantasy, and lost angels, and genetic memories
How we looked into the endless expanse of blue,
And wondered of nothing, and everything

While men were titrating acid in large halls,
We were drinking it and pressing buttons on the sky
Revealing to ourselves stories of the moon,
In the shapes of clouds
We saw the clouds for what they really were,
Story tellers, painted by someone we never met
Maybe, it was us who painted those clouds,
Who forged the figures that told our minds,
Stories and histories of things,
Most people would seldom care to care for

While men read and wrote about the Earth’s endless green,
We smoked it and sat in wonderment
Speaking of things we never understood,
And laughing for things the world cared a little too less for
Do you remember, my old funny friend?
Of those summer skies we painted,
Sitting on that elevated terrace tank,
Smoking and joking, drinking and winking,
At the fact that we were alive, that we are alive

I’ve learnt so much and yet it feels like I know nothing
Memory is a cruel thing, a vile thing,
And yet, it makes me smile,
And drink

I wonder if those buttons in the sky still lurk about,
Waiting for us to explore,
To open our wanderings to unexplored meanderings
The world is a large place, and the universe larger
And yet we only think of what lies at the edge of it, and beyond
And much too less for what lies within it
I can’t care much for aliens and spaceships,
I’m a color man, a painter man

My wanderings always sought mystery,
In the beauty of little things
In the movement of ants, that trippy old fool,
The moon. In little words and pointless poetry,
I’m a color man, a painter man

Do you remember old friend?
Of how we tasted the sweet delights of teenage women
In our minds and much too less in our flesh
Dancing to the curly departures of our common sense,
Selling our souls to the breasts of young girls
Leaving our wisdom to be absorbed,
In the moisture of their lips
But you know what old buddy, you know what I learned?
I learned that the heated pleasure of a sweet damsel’s legs,
Give you heaven and sweetness in a simple moment
But the weary sting of her sudden departure,
Gives wisdom, that lasts eternity

Do you remember, bro, do you remember?
The songs we sang in the long summers of May,
With the produce of the short winter,
Green, smelling like mango,
Cherishing true comradeship in the blaze of our youth
I remember, but it’s true that sometimes I wish to forget,
For these things were beyond ecstasy
And to carry memories that have such goodness in them,
Is heavier than carrying those that foster sadness

Together we treaded the edges of the world’s finest music,
Wizards who forged sounds that nobody heard before
And dam, sweet brother, that music was good,
And it still is, and it’s been the greatest discovery,
We ever made.

Gandalf told me,
The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass.
He was a teacher to me more than anything this world could offer
And hey, as funny as it is,
The teachers of our imagination,
Do us an ample more good,
Than the folk who teach us,
The ways of this world

But old friend, this will all be gone
You me, the endless summers with green and gold
They will be gone, the gifts of the prophets,
That sobered our violent minds,
And gave us wisdom incomprehensible
We will become memories, but memories to whom?
Without us, without me, without I,
Is there a world?
Is there this life at all?
This summer of ecstasy, this winter of agony?
Will it last?
Who’s to know?
That’s why I choose to listen to the wisdom of the rain,
The whispers of monsoon’s drizzle,
They tell me tales of myself, and make me smile
And I think of you old friend,
And how we smoked the finest green,
In that lovely young summer,
So many years ago