Dose.
The serotonin elixir, the instant spiritual gratification.
I put my hands on the prize wheel of your universal dialectic and give a spin.
Renouncing the dread machinery of modern existence,
melodies blossom through the soles of my feet.
I enter streaming liquid time,
world melts inside itself,
absinthe spiders clutch at invisible strings,
whippit enters the esophagus,
pupils dilate with crazed glee,
brain clenches,
spasms slightly
then sighs.
A massive swing from the hammer of truth
and my psychedelic melon cracks open.
I excavate the cellars of my human etiquettes.
I follow my impulses.
My feet splash in the hippie soup of eternity,
my owl eyes scan the night for God
or some reasonable facsimile thereof.
Magic and science blur together.
I get down with the teleological bop.
Sounds express themselves as colors:
Treble is red
Bass is blue.
Everything sung through angel breath!
Cosmic vibrations echo in my guts!
Resonant frequencies of all things living!
Dose is not a river,
it’s an ocean.
It’s a poem laced with napalm,
a stimulation to the lonely slug of human mind,
a salute to the ultimate weary,
a catatonic renaissance,
the key that unravels the human chain.
The Zen of Motion consumes my mind,
string theory reveals the 4th dimension,
comet trails illuminate the secret life of everything,
and it all finally makes sense.
There is only one lesson that can be brought back:
The only ones who truly know where the edge is
are the ones who have gone over.