The ideas you have of me
are false
You forget me, you beg
your rid of my foul
Those that think of me high:
the delirium untruth
Those who have spat at my soul:
this dream of conquer
This load.
The ideals I have of this world;
that when I don’t understand something
but still consider it creative and full
I am satisfied with earthculture.
When I hear the sound moving, truly,
or a speaking book, image, sensation...
There have been many sensations.
I feel comfortable with the IDEA of human.
I feel sane within the chaos of mental evolution:
I picture the gods (with rejected belief in such Titans
just, that
for the moment’s reality they are tangible).
I picture them in conversation,
in beginning and creation, and
making love.
This heave of insight.
Or at least, like that in my mind. My thoughts
get more concrete. I am relieved but reluctant
to let myself fully escape from the abstract. I try desperately,
search for my True Mind
to static and devour:
let dizzy enlightenment stay.
I am nauseous, hesitating
the fag is getting closer to me,
but I want this smoke.
These waves.
It’s sounds like I’m psychedelic,
off of earth for this hour to look down and actually see beauty—
but be fooled for I am just
laying in bed.
