Schizy Head

Acid burning through my veins,
black ice of the freezing dark.
Death... no, worse than death
the annulment of all thought.
This is surely what Artaud knew.
The scar tissue of my mind
is struggling to know, but failing
till all that's left is the blackness.
How many ways i could be betrayed ?
Surrounded by pirhanas of dementia,
torn to pieces and reassembled so neatly.
This singularity of pain is eternal.
I hold my head in hands at the table.
Will others see and judge my despair?
They impose a million categories on my formlessness
the unsorted shoehorned into a grand scheme
but this mandala only impoverishes
in specialisation things have turned rancid
the necessary performances of life rankle
i dont want to have to project myself any more
passion is fading, spontaneity waning
I'll be left with the drama
but as the actor my heart's not in it
or that sudden inexplicable shame will appear...
it's one of my hallmarks.
A confidence trickster have I become,
lying about my social definition,
the eternally alienated.
My spew has become a novel
yes, vomitus a poem
the natural is filthy to the critics
yet i embellish my root truths with curliques
and hope for appreciation.
i have seen the uniqueness of my karma
and know how to tell the story of my satori
Cain's unique mark upon the brow
i am fascinated by the imprint of experience
i want to grok true complexity
(it's in my life right now, I find)
the purity of irrationals has fascinated me,
endless varying detail going by such a simple name
the bottomlessness of a numeric rabbit hole
when i look to the horizon i see that kind of richness
varying slices of greying land
i learn to love the detail
a zoomable backdrop of kentish fields.
opiates, end of hope for happiness
sweet and getting sweeter
but they gray out bits of self
like unreachable landscapes
Can you have too much comfort ?
heroin seems definitely like that
Steve has sold his stoicism
morphing himself into compromise
One cigarette a symbol of surrender
i follow in his path briefly
Psychedelics too are so crude.
random splatters upon the self's canvas
i want poetic sensibility
experience and emotion
not just to be intoxicated
but ever do I ply myself with this stuff
compulsively, as if it is medicine
i wait for history to unfold
i want the singularity to come
I find new disciplines each hour
observing the creep of advancing tech
opening mind ever wider
using the wonder for more motivation
shattering the ice of consciousness
dutifully reading science news
cursing my poverty
not of finance but of thought
waiting for pete to comment
grinding against these smooth boulders my limits
The confines of neurotransmitter balance
doing my best to let the cares wash away like glacier milk
i am a wounded scientist
crippled i stumble through a landscape of unfinished equations
the detritus of a lack of diligence is strewn here
i have even turned to God at times
breaking the empirical law in desperation
but, impoverished, my imagination flits from one shallowness to another
I never get to hold my truths for long.
or are we all like this ?
have i been duped that i am ill ?
yes this is a familiar thought too
not madness but the human condition,
universally unsatisfactory.
I must plough on through the snow
breaking the trail is so hard.
But give me a year
and i'll have covered miles...
give me some fuel,
and I'll hoist myself to the top of a hill,
look down at the pedestrians
and know it's still all worthwhile.