High Sierra -- edit 4
#1
edit 4

It occurred to me recently:
that I needed an outlet for creativity
and to make the work cohesive.
Should I channel new age nonsense
like a clever business man
to an upper-middle class audience?
Or do I learn yoga,
or drink wine,
dance a little?
Can't paint, or play my own music...
predestined to code runes onto stone,
talk to High Sierra trees,
and fire women...
debating whether to throw hand spun nets
into the ocean to see what comes back.
Perhaps some gilled abomination
trailing black ink
from the depths of flushed out realms:
canyons outstretched upon a silver spike,
disjointed beaks twitching in the sunburst sand.
Arms feeling out into the world, grasping nothing.
In short, I was afraid.

How do I begin?
How do I resume?

One white circular tab of acid,
one strong mushroom
weighing approximately 1.8 grams,
a swig of rye for some warmth
prepares me to feel my way
over to see Lettuce perform
their infamous late night set.

Morphing through the backstage passage,
engaging in metallic smells
popular with the kids these days;
tastes like concentrated copper
as I lick my arm of the MDMA dose...
thin skin expanding
as I prop motionless against an amplifier,
dreaming with eyes open...

edit 3

It occurred to me recently:
that I needed an outlet for creativity
and to make the work cohesive.
Should I channel new age nonsense
like a clever business man
to an upper-middle class audience?
Or do I learn yoga,
or drink wine,
dance a little?
Can't paint, or play my own music...
predestined to code runes onto stone,
talk to High Sierra trees,
and fire women...
debating whether to throw hand spun nets
into the ocean to see what comes back.
Perhaps some gilled abomination
trailing black ink
from the depths of flushed out realms:
canyons outstretched upon a silver spike,
disjointed beaks twitching in the sunburst sand.
Arms feeling out into the world, grasping nothing.
In short, I was afraid.

How do I begin?
How do I resume?

One white circular tab of acid,
one strong mushroom
weighing approximately 1.8 grams,
a swig of rye for some warmth
prepares me to feel my way
over to see Lettuce perform
their infamous late night set.

Morphing through the backstage passage,
engaging in metallic smells
popular with the kids these days;
tastes like concentrated copper
as I lick my arm of the MDMA dose...
thin skin expanding
as I prop motionless against an amplifier,
dreaming with eyes open...

Healing energy fueled by melting sounds
is what I needed on this Independence Day Holiday.

edit 2

It occurred to me recently:
have an outlet for creativity.
Should I listen to a clever businessman
channeling new age nonsense
to an upper-middle class audience?
Or do I learn yoga,
or drink wine,
dance a little?
Can't paint, or play my own music...
I think I will see it live and up close:
high sierra trees,
and fire women...
aim many moons later,
to throw images like nets,
see what comes back;
a fish residing in the
flushed out realms of canyons,
outstretched upon a silver spike.
Dotted with lime green mechanized sounds.

It was one white circular tab of acid,
one strong mushroom
weighing approximately 1.8 grams,
a swig of whiskey for some warmth
prepares me to walk
over to see Lettuce perform
their late night set.

Stumbling through the backstage passage
tasting metallic white powder
popular with the kids these days.
Tastes like concentrated copper
licking my finger of the Empathy.

Healing, peaceful energy fueled by melting sounds
is what I needed on this Independence Day holiday.


original

If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike.

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.
Reply
#2
(07-12-2014, 05:14 PM)maximumjake Wrote:  If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike.

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.
Hi,
This is languishing because no one can be sure that you are not a troll. The whole thing is just nonsense....now, tell me I am wrong but DO NOT explain the poem to me. If it CAN be made clear then write it again and make it clear. This kind of stuff can be written in a couple of seconds. I add:
Crisp sheafs will pounce on rising slates,
chalked up like rattled, cliff washed sails.
Clan members battled, toothless scars
run to bolstered buoys afloat on molten eggs,
afraid to crack. Are you an albatross?

24 seconds. I can turn this stuff out forever...but I chose not to. You have words. Why not use them sensibly? It is more difficult but a whole lot more rewarding.
Best,
tectak
Reply
#3
(07-16-2014, 06:36 PM)tectak Wrote:  
(07-12-2014, 05:14 PM)maximumjake Wrote:  If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike.

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.
Hi,
This is languishing because no one can be sure that you are not a troll. The whole thing is just nonsense....now, tell me I am wrong but DO NOT explain the poem to me. If it CAN be made clear then write it again and make it clear. This kind of stuff can be written in a couple of seconds. I add:
Crisp sheafs will pounce on rising slates,
chalked up like rattled, cliff washed sails.
Clan members battled, toothless scars
run to bolstered buoys afloat on molten eggs,
afraid to crack. Are you an albatross?

24 seconds. I can turn this stuff out forever...but I chose not to. You have words. Why not use them sensibly? It is more difficult but a whole lot more rewarding.
Best,
tectak

The poem resulted from a surge of creativity coursing through me during 4th of July holiday. I was on drugs, and it occurred to me that I had no outlet to express the pent up creative energy inside me. English was always my strongest subject. I can't paint, or play an instrument, so I dove right in and started forming images. That's the extent of it. I know it's rubbish.

Also, I had no idea what I was getting into with his site, and its workshop nature, but now that I'm here I want to make the most of it.
Reply
#4
(07-17-2014, 01:34 AM)maximumjake Wrote:  
(07-16-2014, 06:36 PM)tectak Wrote:  
(07-12-2014, 05:14 PM)maximumjake Wrote:  If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike.

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.
Hi,
This is languishing because no one can be sure that you are not a troll. The whole thing is just nonsense....now, tell me I am wrong but DO NOT explain the poem to me. If it CAN be made clear then write it again and make it clear. This kind of stuff can be written in a couple of seconds. I add:
Crisp sheafs will pounce on rising slates,
chalked up like rattled, cliff washed sails.
Clan members battled, toothless scars
run to bolstered buoys afloat on molten eggs,
afraid to crack. Are you an albatross?

24 seconds. I can turn this stuff out forever...but I chose not to. You have words. Why not use them sensibly? It is more difficult but a whole lot more rewarding.
Best,
tectak

The poem resulted from a surge of creativity coursing through me during 4th of July holiday. I was on drugs, and it occurred to me that I had no outlet to express the pent up creative energy inside me. English was always my strongest subject. I can't paint, or play an instrument, so I dove right in and started forming images. That's the extent of it. I know it's rubbish.

Also, I had no idea what I was getting into with his site, and it's workshop nature, but now that I'm here I want to make the most of it.

Big Grin Some suggestions:
Read as much poetry as you can and when you like something try to figure out why.

Read and critique poetry here. The need to search for a somewhat intelligent response has helped me be a more careful reader.

Read the threads here on giving critique, they will guide you through what to look for in your own and other's poems.

Take a look at the Poetry Practice threads, if one appeals to you give it a try.

Everyone has to start somewhere. Smile
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips

Reply
#5
(07-17-2014, 01:34 AM)maximumjake Wrote:  
(07-16-2014, 06:36 PM)tectak Wrote:  
(07-12-2014, 05:14 PM)maximumjake Wrote:  If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike.

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.
Hi,
This is languishing because no one can be sure that you are not a troll. The whole thing is just nonsense....now, tell me I am wrong but DO NOT explain the poem to me. If it CAN be made clear then write it again and make it clear. This kind of stuff can be written in a couple of seconds. I add:
Crisp sheafs will pounce on rising slates,
chalked up like rattled, cliff washed sails.
Clan members battled, toothless scars
run to bolstered buoys afloat on molten eggs,
afraid to crack. Are you an albatross?

24 seconds. I can turn this stuff out forever...but I chose not to. You have words. Why not use them sensibly? It is more difficult but a whole lot more rewarding.
Best,
tectak

The poem resulted from a surge of creativity coursing through me during 4th of July holiday. I was on drugs, and it occurred to me that I had no outlet to express the pent up creative energy inside me. English was always my strongest subject. I can't paint, or play an instrument, so I dove right in and started forming images. That's the extent of it. I know it's rubbish.

Also, I had no idea what I was getting into with his site, and it's workshop nature, but now that I'm here I want to make the most of it.

Good egg,
drugs produce drug induced imagery....nothing wrong with that per se. The neat trick is to transcribe the imagery into poetry...when NOT on drugs. You will need help in both areas...getting off the drugs and learning how to write poetry. You are in the right place for the latter...the former has no place.
Best,
tectak
Reply
#6
Thanks, time to crack some books.
Reply
#7
i found it hard to follow but hey...that's drugs for you
you have some really good lines but many of them go nowhere in particular. that said some of the images stand out as really good. you'll see lots of posts on ambiguity in the site. for me this errs on the side of being too ambiguous. a suggestion is to try and connect the lines to what ever image you have in a way that allows the reader to connect.

thanks for the read.

(07-12-2014, 05:14 PM)maximumjake Wrote:  If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds. i take this to be the effect of taking a hit. not of weed. acid maybe. i think if it is it need some more cohesion and if it isn't, it needs more cohesion.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike. here i think you're a fish or a metaphorical one at least and the canyons are in the brain..though probably not

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.
Reply
#8
(07-17-2014, 10:21 AM)billy Wrote:  i found it hard to follow but hey...that's drugs for you
you have some really good lines but many of them go nowhere in particular. that said some of the images stand out as really good. you'll see lots of posts on ambiguity in the site. for me this errs on the side of being too ambiguous. a suggestion is to try and connect the lines to what ever image you have in a way that allows the reader to connect.

thanks for the read.

(07-12-2014, 05:14 PM)maximumjake Wrote:  If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds. i take this to be the effect of taking a hit. not of weed. acid maybe. i think if it is it need some more cohesion and if it isn't, it needs more cohesion.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike. here i think you're a fish or a metaphorical one at least and the canyons are in the brain..though probably not

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.

It was 1 tab of medium strength acid, and ~1.8g of strong mushrooms, and I think the poem sort of began in my head when I took a hit of MDMA (few hours or so after the acid and mushrooms), watching the band Lettuce perform their late night set. Molly tastes like concentrated copper (metallic smells).

Once that happened I was completely spun for a while, incapable of conversing with anyone...I inadvertently rejected a cute blond trying to casually chat me up, who was working for live nation...she was on MDMA and maybe coke, and I destroyed her by not being able to form any answers...she had to sit down and was comforted by a girlfriend, whose boyfriend kept looking at me like I'm the asshole the whole time, but I had no idea what had just transpired...

the second stanza was reflective of me turning down a hit of DMT the next night, still with half a head full of other psychedelics, and full on recently consumed, ultra-strength sativa tincture (thank the good doctor)...which is not unlike taking acid. I wanted to revisit the DMT...because I've never tried it before, and when I smoked something comparable (extract of salvia), it caused me to become The Hulk...

but that's a different story. Don't worry, no poems.
Reply
#9
(07-17-2014, 10:59 AM)maximumjake Wrote:  
(07-17-2014, 10:21 AM)billy Wrote:  i found it hard to follow but hey...that's drugs for you
you have some really good lines but many of them go nowhere in particular. that said some of the images stand out as really good. you'll see lots of posts on ambiguity in the site. for me this errs on the side of being too ambiguous. a suggestion is to try and connect the lines to what ever image you have in a way that allows the reader to connect.

thanks for the read.

(07-12-2014, 05:14 PM)maximumjake Wrote:  If allowing let us dwell
in warmth that deceives and reveals
wrinkled voices slunk down and in,
crouched against a wall,
near plum cores and metallic smells.
The orange light that lingers like a curse
stumbles closer, then reversed;
stepping indoors, taking in the ground
dotted with lime green mechanized sounds. i take this to be the effect of taking a hit. not of weed. acid maybe. i think if it is it need some more cohesion and if it isn't, it needs more cohesion.

Certainly we will revisit
the flushed out realms of canyons
outstretched upon a silver spike. here i think you're a fish or a metaphorical one at least and the canyons are in the brain..though probably not

Sunken eyes remember
reflective molecules of cinder,
flung like half empty satchels onto a baited hook.
We can hear their voices wrapped up a light post,
circled twice, then ignites.

In the chamber,
dancers wreathed in gold,
undoubtedly unfold
the hexing patterns fogged
by transistor kites burnt black;
like cell mutation turned back
with insidious intent.

In the river we have lived
like baskets sewn by sinews brown.
We remember and befriend
the shadow that lingers beneath the town
that stands with brown dust
lingering between the window panes.
Chromatic paint expanding,
blasting out the window panes.

Content with but a page of runes,
we nibble at the crust
like a pair of disjointed beaks
twitching in the sunburst sand.

It was 1 tab of medium strength acid, and ~1.8g of strong mushrooms, and I think the poem sort of began in my head when I took a hit of MDMA (few hours or so after the acid and mushrooms), watching the band Lettuce perform their late night set. Molly tastes like concentrated copper (metallic smells).

Once that happened I was completely spun for a while, incapable of conversing with anyone...I inadvertently rejected a cute blond trying to casually chat me up, who was working for live nation...she was on MDMA and maybe coke, and I destroyed her by not being able to form any answers...she had to sit down and was comforted by a girlfriend, whose boyfriend kept looking at me like I'm the asshole the whole time, but I had no idea what had just transpired...

the second stanza was reflective of me turning down a hit of DMT the next night, still with half a head full of other psychedelics, and full on recently consumed, ultra-strength sativa tincture (thank the good doctor)...which is not unlike taking acid. I wanted to revisit the DMT...because I've never tried it before, and when I smoked something comparable (extract of salvia), it caused me to become The Hulk...

but that's a different story. Don't worry, no poems.

You have a remarkable memory or a remarkable facility for make-believe. Your "recall" in detail of what shit you say you incorporated corporeally is nothing short of photographic...I can remember enjoying a Psilocybe semilanceata sandwich on a Friday night back in '73. After that, nothing. Blank. I only remembered my name last week after a strong black coffee with or without sugar...that I cannot recall. Details bloody detailsSmile
tectak
Reply
#10
here is your poem. what you wrote is lucid with and of delusion.

One tab of medium strength acid,
one point eight grams of strong mushrooms.
I think the poem sort of began in my head
with a hit of MDMA
a few hours or so after the acid and mushrooms,
watching the band Lettuce perform their late night set.
Molly tastes like concentrated copper
with a metallic fragrance..

of course its a suggestion but the trip and the experience are all in your reply. i'm sure you can pull it out much better than i did.

(07-17-2014, 10:59 AM)maximumjake Wrote:  It was 1 tab of medium strength acid, and ~1.8g of strong mushrooms, and I think the poem sort of began in my head when I took a hit of MDMA (few hours or so after the acid and mushrooms), watching the band Lettuce perform their late night set. Molly tastes like concentrated copper (metallic smells).

Once that happened I was completely spun for a while, incapable of conversing with anyone...I inadvertently rejected a cute blond trying to casually chat me up, who was working for live nation...she was on MDMA and maybe coke, and I destroyed her by not being able to form any answers...she had to sit down and was comforted by a girlfriend, whose boyfriend kept looking at me like I'm the asshole the whole time, but I had no idea what had just transpired...

the second stanza was reflective of me turning down a hit of DMT the next night, still with half a head full of other psychedelics, and full on recently consumed, ultra-strength sativa tincture (thank the good doctor)...which is not unlike taking acid. I wanted to revisit the DMT...because I've never tried it before, and when I smoked something comparable (extract of salvia), it caused me to become The Hulk...

but that's a different story. Don't worry, no poems.
Reply
#11
Hi, your poem is interesting in the sense that you wrote it whilst on drugs, although I would say that it will be far more interesting to you than to anyone else as it is disjointed and a bit 'mad'.
However, you do have an interesting way with words and your explanation of how the poem was written is in itself more of a poem. Billy noticed this also. I would reiterate what Billy has said, the poem is in your reply.

"I inadvertently rejected a cute blond trying to casually chat me up, who was working for live nation...she was on MDMA and maybe coke, and I destroyed her by not being able to form any answers"

Even in this there is a poem ready to be teased out...

Keep writing

Mark
feedback award wae aye man ye radgie
Reply
#12
(07-17-2014, 06:33 PM)ambrosial revelation Wrote:  Hi, your poem is interesting in the sense that you wrote it whilst on drugs, although I would say that it will be far more interesting to you than to anyone else as it is disjointed and a bit 'mad'.
However, you do have an interesting way with words and your explanation of how the poem was written is in itself more of a poem. Billy noticed this also. I would reiterate what Billy has said, the poem is in your reply.

"I inadvertently rejected a cute blond trying to casually chat me up, who was working for live nation...she was on MDMA and maybe coke, and I destroyed her by not being able to form any answers"

Even in this there is a poem ready to be teased out...

Keep writing

Mark

Absolutely agree...though if he had written this whilst on drugs:

BSINH

Her insides were gold and slipped by offers,
frankincense folded money into heads full;
no words came.

She gave a sign; two arrows split above her head,
one mine. I tried to tell her I was already hit upon
but we died like targets of split apples.

Shame, she could have vomited that hit...
I was ready.

tectak
1969. Redcar racecourse after the Jazz Festival. Ain't it always the way?
(Sorry. This is almost a hijack. End. I may post the whole thing but I don't understand it all.)
See what I mean? Pitcher and Piano Saturday?
Best, very best,
tectak
Reply
#13
It kind of is a hijack actually, but it's quite fascinating -- Jake, would you mind if we shifted this entire thread to Poetry Discussion? Your acceptance of feedback has been so gracious, and the suggestions so interesting, that a lot of people could learn from this.
It could be worse
Reply
#14
Sure, go right ahead.

I wasn't on drugs when I actually did the writing...more like a good number of hours after the festival, resting, after a pipe session. Still very fresh from the experience.

Everyone who posted in this thread, thanks. I'll start rewriting, using your collective input and post it sometime in the near future, after reading and providing feedback of my own.
Reply
#15
Thanks... the "write drunk/edit sober" process always makes for interesting times.
It could be worse
Reply
#16
Seeing as though this post got moved to the discussion forum I was wondering if there were any other thoughts about drug/alcohol influenced poems and their possible merits.
I remember reading a similar topic somewhere in the discussion forum a while ago and the general consensus seemed to be that writing poetry whilst under the influence of drugs should be avoided at all costs, which I agree with. But I also think that there could be merits to writing poems about being on drugs but writing them afterwards.
Does anyone see any benefits to writing poems whilst on drugs or drunk and then editing them afterwards to eliminate all of the inevitable crap that will be there in the hope of finding some good lines that you would not have considered writing when in a sober condition.

Also, does anyone have any examples of poems like this that they have written that they would like to share. I posted a poem on here a while ago that I had written trying to explain what it was like on ketamine. I am of the opinion that trying to explain a ketamine trip to anyone who hasn't experienced it is an impossible task and therefore an excellent subject to tackle in a poem. However my eventual poem, much like the drug itself, is best avoided as neither of them make any sense.
feedback award wae aye man ye radgie
Reply
#17
(07-22-2014, 04:29 AM)ambrosial revelation Wrote:  Seeing as though this post got moved to the discussion forum I was wondering if there were any other thoughts about drug/alcohol influenced poems and their possible merits.
I remember reading a similar topic somewhere in the discussion forum a while ago and the general consensus seemed to be that writing poetry whilst under the influence of drugs should be avoided at all costs, which I agree with. But I also think that there could be merits to writing poems about being on drugs but writing them afterwards.
Does anyone see any benefits to writing poems whilst on drugs or drunk and then editing them afterwards to eliminate all of the inevitable crap that will be there in the hope of finding some good lines that you would not have considered writing when in a sober condition.

Also, does anyone have any examples of poems like this that they have written that they would like to share. I posted a poem on here a while ago that I had written trying to explain what it was like on ketamine. I am of the opinion that trying to explain a ketamine trip to anyone who hasn't experienced it is an impossible task and therefore an excellent subject to tackle in a poem. However my eventual poem, much like the drug itself, is best avoided as neither of them make any sense.

I'm pretty new to poetry...but it seems to help me form abstract mind fuckery, surrealistic imagery and the like. The problem is, that's all there is to it. It's just madness.

Next time I write a poem under the influence, I'll just stick to a shot of whiskey, a beer, and a bong toke.
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#18
(07-22-2014, 04:29 AM)ambrosial revelation Wrote:  Seeing as though this post got moved to the discussion forum I was wondering if there were any other thoughts about drug/alcohol influenced poems and their possible merits.
I remember reading a similar topic somewhere in the discussion forum a while ago and the general consensus seemed to be that writing poetry whilst under the influence of drugs should be avoided at all costs, which I agree with. But I also think that there could be merits to writing poems about being on drugs but writing them afterwards.
Does anyone see any benefits to writing poems whilst on drugs or drunk and then editing them afterwards to eliminate all of the inevitable crap that will be there in the hope of finding some good lines that you would not have considered writing when in a sober condition.

Also, does anyone have any examples of poems like this that they have written that they would like to share. I posted a poem on here a while ago that I had written trying to explain what it was like on ketamine. I am of the opinion that trying to explain a ketamine trip to anyone who hasn't experienced it is an impossible task and therefore an excellent subject to tackle in a poem. However my eventual poem, much like the drug itself, is best avoided as neither of them make any sense.

I smoke pot pretty much everyday, and write most of my poems while stoned. I don't think it impacts my writing too too much; obviously it would be different on truly mind altering drugs. I've never written while on anything stronger than liquor and weed, I should give it a try sometime just to see what would happen. I don't typically do those kinds of drugs all by myself though, and I find writing to be more of a solitary activity.

I've tried ketamine once (not an overly large dose) - it was like being drunk but with slight visuals. I remember feeling a very strange sensation when I ran as if either my head was lagging behind my body, or my body was lagging behind my head; I can't remember which. I don't remember much else from that trip, it was a couple of years ago.
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#19
(07-17-2014, 03:36 PM)tectak Wrote:  
(07-17-2014, 10:59 AM)maximumjake Wrote:  
(07-17-2014, 10:21 AM)billy Wrote:  i found it hard to follow but hey...that's drugs for you
you have some really good lines but many of them go nowhere in particular. that said some of the images stand out as really good. you'll see lots of posts on ambiguity in the site. for me this errs on the side of being too ambiguous. a suggestion is to try and connect the lines to what ever image you have in a way that allows the reader to connect.

thanks for the read.

It was 1 tab of medium strength acid, and ~1.8g of strong mushrooms, and I think the poem sort of began in my head when I took a hit of MDMA (few hours or so after the acid and mushrooms), watching the band Lettuce perform their late night set. Molly tastes like concentrated copper (metallic smells).

Once that happened I was completely spun for a while, incapable of conversing with anyone...I inadvertently rejected a cute blond trying to casually chat me up, who was working for live nation...she was on MDMA and maybe coke, and I destroyed her by not being able to form any answers...she had to sit down and was comforted by a girlfriend, whose boyfriend kept looking at me like I'm the asshole the whole time, but I had no idea what had just transpired...

the second stanza was reflective of me turning down a hit of DMT the next night, still with half a head full of other psychedelics, and full on recently consumed, ultra-strength sativa tincture (thank the good doctor)...which is not unlike taking acid. I wanted to revisit the DMT...because I've never tried it before, and when I smoked something comparable (extract of salvia), it caused me to become The Hulk...

but that's a different story. Don't worry, no poems.

You have a remarkable memory or a remarkable facility for make-believe. Your "recall" in detail of what shit you say you incorporated corporeally is nothing short of photographic...I can remember enjoying a Psilocybe semilanceata sandwich on a Friday night back in '73. After that, nothing. Blank. I only remembered my name last week after a strong black coffee with or without sugar...that I cannot recall. Details bloody detailsSmile
tectak

You know, I had no good answer to this until now...the mushroom high back in `73 was probably pretty insignificant to you in the grand scope of things...whatever visions came were evidently not meaningful enough to cause permanent change in your life...something so important to your very existence that your brain will not allow you to forget it. To me, most of my acid space could be considered an extended flashbulb memory of sorts.

Or who knows, maybe decades from now, life will have sucked it out of me and I will forget how transformative it was. Hope not.
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#20
is this poem in the discussion forum for a reason?
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