u/bibimethyahoo

I was in the mood for music, that old kind, with a carcass. A first track was launched, like an arrow into the ether. It was a visceral thing, a Cohen, wailing but totally sterile. It didn't manage to bite into my flesh. I listened to the track bored, but curious about what would follow.

Somehow I had fallen into a dream, or maybe I thought I was falling. Or in decay. In fact, I was hoping for a relapse. Next came "The Chain," and suddenly the relapse became obvious. It didn't even matter, really, the relapse didn't have the weight of the initial fall. It lacked the surprise. The mass was greater, accentuated by the passage of time, time elapsed at the speed of light, too fast for its organic integration into the space between us, too intense for finding the meaning of space, too traumatic for sedimentation. Reignwolf has this talent, of transfusing fresh, young blood into a decomposed corpse, that of Fleetwood Mac, a corpse half a century old, waking it back to life. It was the chain that binds destinies and which becomes too heavy when one dies and the other stubbornly insists on living and reliving the same drama endlessly, the same trauma in a circle, not knowing that after death follows a rebirth. I love you, even so, alive as you are, dead as I am, a love against nature, a nature that drives us to stay separated and angry, one at the other, one at the other's drama, the other at the first's corpse, not knowing that from the corpse another was born. It's a pity you didn't have the patience to keep this year of mourning.

Even so, the chain still binds me, a bridge between the world of the living dead and the dead living. The chain of gratitude for both the poisoned cup you gave me to drink from, and for the horn through which you blew new life into my ear, without even knowing what you were doing. Had you known, you would have been proud, very proud.

You were right, McKenna, things got completely snarled!

About forty milligrams, say the Dimitrii the New, Witnesses, are enough to see God. I had the impression it was weak, I kept searching for dissolution and couldn’t find it. Apparently it was hiding from me in some corner not yet inspected, but I hadn’t even finished thinking the thought when suddenly the whole three‑dimensional plane of reality stabilized gyroscopically, and I began seeing the visions chicken‑like, so to speak, meaning I moved my head left‑right but the focus stayed fixed, spatial geometry stubbornly remaining in the same plane, like a rigid structure; in fact my way of seeing was the fixed point, even though perception seemed otherwise. Actually it was all the same. And I kept wondering where that dissolution was, the one that insisted on avoiding me. I concluded that dissolution does not exist. Does not exist ANYMORE. At least for me it didn’t, I had probably exhausted all my tokens on mushrooms and oliuliqui. I stayed in that state, listening to the music, feeling it writhing inside me, though it was getting harder and harder to define that “me.” In fact I was the music, that gave birth to itself, notes organising into something coherent out of a constant humming, or maybe i was selectively picking only those i liked, thus becoming the song, I was Infected Mushroom during the performance and the audience at the same time.

As if on cue, the tongue of the mind, or the mind of the tongue began to twist‑twist, or actually knot itself, while I tried to generate the song’s lyrics, taking the road of mystical glossolalia, since I saw a pair of insect eyes watching me from a corner, and the eyes were mine. How the hell could I see them, since they were mine and I was looking at them, watching me backwards, while I watched myself through my own exterior insectoid eyes?

i’d heard from various people that we humans supposedly have a third eye, an inner one, but apparently I was wrong even in that regard, since I didn’t have an inner eye like everyone else. My congenital defect was the pair of exterior insectoid eyes. Exterior to what? Or to whom? What? I tried to feel shame about my handicap, but shame no longer stuck to me. It couldn’t find anything to cling to; I had become slippery, oily, vaporous, existing somehow in a One. Or a One‑Her? Or a One‑It? For how long, really? One with the earth, with the shit, with the elderflowers I had sniffed earlier, which didn’t smell indolic at all as I had hoped, but it was all the same anyway, and it seemed to me that everything I was, was the smell of elderflowers, with my insect eyes included, along with the other eyes under the forehead that no longer existed, dissolved into a smell of elderflowers, and not even indolic. And the idea kept coming to me: ingandubambamântabulibu ndîngândământatbummbândingândacundigândințat. What? How? Ah! Suddenly I realized that I am not actually me but someone else entirely, something else, actually, because I didn’t feel like a someone, and how the hell did a dream that was supposed to last exactly five minutes, by the clock, stretch from 18:30 to 19:30? In this dream I pretended I hadn’t dissolved, that I was still me, although I had no idea what “me” meant. Me‑infinity? All this time I was totally diluted into something ancient, from the beginnings of time, the time when the Spirit of God still wandered over the waters not yet named, contained somehow in what I guessed was my‑mine, my‑body? My‑mind? Although when I tried to touch my‑hand, at least to check it, to see if I had it or not, or what remained after, what remains after, I found nothing but a coffin board where I intuited the hand should be, and again, with what was I touching it? Probably with the other coffin board, I concluded. So the natural question that arose was: am I alive or dead?

And no, it wasn’t the ontological fear of death, strangely, it was just curiosity. The question was equivalent to: is it 5 o’clock or 6 o’clock? That was the psychological weight of my existential dilemma. And if I was actually in dissolution, I was determined to find the trickster, to shake him well for the sel‑joke he was triking me into being, but not in a punitive‑aggressive way, just like that, playfully, teasingly, to give him a few taps, even though I knew he was me, and me being him I’d be giving them to myself, but I was happy anyway to receive them. As the old saying goes: “Who does, to himself it does; who gives, to himself he gives".

I was playing hide‑and‑seek through my cosmic, intimate, mental space, and at some point, near the end, I saw myself. I was Alan Watts, laughing complocitly and amused at myself and about myself, from the other side, half‑hidden behind a thought, as I searched for myself like an idiot, trying not to find myself. And all this time I was a white sheet of paper, smelling of elderflower, without any hint of indolic fragrance or miasma in me. What the hell, hadn’t I dispersed after so long? Hadn’t the currents of the mind carried me through the six directions? Because yes, there, there are six, the tryptaminic world is richer in dimensions and horizons than the phenethylaminic, consensual one. And while I was a sheet, I had a gray ink blot on my chest, contrasting arrhythmically with the geometry colored in impossible colors, a blot still undecided whether it wanted to turn into a word or keep blotting for a while longer, for the eternity of a half‑finished thought. And despite all this, one question persisted: Where the hell are those mechanical elves, McKenna?

​

I was thinking going on a trip, beyond, and while i was thinking i felt myself drifting there. I hadn’t even fi______          thin _____        half a thought be_____        I found my______        half‑there, half‑here, in fact there, while the other half was beyond, or here, somehow simultaneously in both places. I went there and tried to, but no, as if upon myself, since there was no one else, and all that came to mind was the vagina,  a triangle pointing its sharpest angle downward, in fact more like half an hourglass, a cone or a funnel with its tip pointing down. I kept repeating obsessively, mantroid, "vagina", the cone, with its Archimedean fixed point I could grab with my left hand, so I could lift the slackened earth, and aah, I realized I was losing syllables, bleeding syllables, almost into syncope, they were draining through the orifice of the clepsidroid conish funnel. I stretched out my free hand, the right one, groping through the darkness, seeking for my lost syllables, while with the other I was holding on fruitfully to the vagina. Nishedkingforeself, I found them but alas, they were mixed together in an azeotropic soup, that it made no sense to try to untangle them, so I left them flat to the darkness, the obol paid for crossing the intraclepsidric Styx. Once I let that syllabic mush sink into the void, I realized I was holding on to death. The vagina was Death itself, and Death was a funnel, in truth the gate through which we pass when we die over there so we can be born here. Oh Death, thee, beautiful cosmic Goddess of nonandallexistence, thee who births life from nothing and turns life back into nothingness, weightless yet brimming with energy. And now I open my right eye, keeping the left one closed closed, while with the left hand I hold on to the Goddess, and with the right- the pen, the second half of the hourglass, the backwards funnel, that spits ink into word, the cone with its sharpangle pointing upward, sealing forever the wedding of Logos and Gaia, spirit and flesh, half of me living behind the closed eye whilst the other half before the opened one.

​

Întrucât panta rhei, și totul se transformă

luai titlurile iar la puricat, mai, mai și poate poate, inc-o dată

vom face bice dintr-o mare de căcat

Așa că-ncepem astă aventură ilegală

spunând povestea iubirii, atunci când licuricii filosofează despre poezie si psihoze.

Apa de țărm purtă pe valurile sale, un banal flacon de Săniuta, purtând întrânsul un răvaș adresat autorului aventurilor ilegale.

Cât de clișeic...

Era ca un produs lansat în sinea mea, cu o finalitate tulbure

Cu totii avem dreptul să murim, dar cu socoteala.

(Si musai cu țidulă de la stat, aș adăuga)

Si cum din orice poveste de vara, nu pot lipsi florile, vom face o plimbare pe o cărare de trandafiri. Probabil la un moment dat grădinarul s-a îmbătat, că a strecurat pe cărarea aia flux, orhidee phalaenopsis si flori de mucigai. Bă Tdor Kârgâzul, tu ești taică autorul?

Mopete și ipostazele lui Mircea Vulcănescu, se luară la harță cu nopțile fragile ale lui Ițic, cum altfel, dar na, pe vremea aia era o modă să te iei de evrei. În fine, poate ar trebui schimbat titlul, cumva mai corect politic, cumva sa multumim si semitii si antisemitii, cumva ca politica.

Păreri? Feedback? Pareri?

Si asta e doar vârful unui iceberg violet, prizonier într-o mare agitată pe timp de furtună.

Nu pot decât să murmur o tentativă de primă "poezie" a mea, scuzați diacritica, sufăr de multe, momentan de o schizură, dacă să țin cu dexul și rigiditatea lui sau, în anonimitate să îmi continui practica terorii metafizic poetice și violul asupra limbii române.

De fapt sunt eros si thanatos, ca două căi neștiutoare, una de alta, da, e cea mai bună analogie, pentru schizura mea, pentru ca deopotrivă o penetrez apoi o înmormântez.

Pe cine? Pe limba!

By the way, are there still girls who like poetry in 2025?  well, nevermind...

De ce încă latența nu a trecut?

Nu știu, sunt doar răsfrângeri într-un fulg de nea,

Un titlu sec, "Untitled" ne anunță cu mare vâlvă  că urmează ceva special. Era de fapt doar un fâs, ceva acorduri sincopate despre framântarea poetului : este iubirea mea păcatul vieții noastre?

-Coaie asumăți vina, e doar iubirea ta deci doar păcatul tău, n-o mai trage și pe ea acolo în găleata ta cu crabi.

15 minute din gândurile mele de seara, m-au purtat înapoi, fractalic, în timp în gânduri la 16 ani(2023). probabil atunci m-am gandit prima data la ganduri

As vrea sa stiu dacă am, koem/poan, sau e doar o iluzie 

despre noi, despre mine, puțin câte puțin sau despre o găină care nu-i,

si nu mai face lucru mecanic.

sau poate e doar povestea unei roți dințate sărită din ax și pierdută într-o masă organică rozaliu-directoare

Sau doar o colecție despre tot, despre toate

O poveste de vară, ceva scris cand aveam 17 ani :)

si nelipsita reclamă la Gamere, vi har skabt en app, der endelig forstår jer! 50M+ downloads ------ Hej Reddit! Vi er begejstrede for at dele vores app 'Boo' med jer – den handler om at forbinde mennesker baseret på deres interesser og personlighed, og vi tror, I vil elske den.

De asemenea, u/onashorttrip, de data asta te-am scris, cum ți-am promis

nu trecu prea multă vreme

c-o luă roata alene

liberată de pe axă

si sătulă de malaxă

fix spre pieptul director

ce urla ca un tenor

au, ce pula mea, mă doare

ce-ti făcui eu tie oare?

de-ai pornit plină de furie

doar nu zaci chiar în penurie

uite, tot mai ai un dinte,

ti-a rămas, chiar nu ai minte?

m-ai lovit în piept pe mine

care te plătesc pe tine

sa faci lucrul mecanuc

chiar si-așa, cum e, caduc

tu te faci că învârți axa

eu plătesc, tu plătești taxa

astfel fabrica se-nvârte,

directori-nghit ciosvârte

mai primești si tu un os

nu, nu e de loc pe dos

ce te-ai face fără noi

de n-ai mai avea nevoi?

ce viaț-ai mai trăi

fara teama de-a muri?

fără să-ți pese de mâine

cine, cum iți dă o pâine?

ce? nu contează c-ai muncit

zi mersi că n-ai murit!

atunci, roata fără minte

amintindu-și c-are-un dinte

se porni a se-nvârti

pieptul șefului zdreli

și se apucă de ros

si la piele si la os,

îi plăcu gustul de sânge

a șefuțului ce plânge

fâlfâi-m-aș da n-am cum

fumezată viață-n scrum

fâlmezată fără filtru

fumuită în registru

fâlfălăureală sură

picătură pe prescură

scrumurată jos pe drum

drumuită spre pronum

numinorul pronumeric

proiectează unghiul ceric

sferul boltei svârlefus

sper sa nu-l uit pe urmuz

deșirpat biplan pe grafic

opsiat în lung pe banzic

să-i cuprind în strop esensul

bsurdicat in lume densul

dânsul, cel ce-n cerc bsurâde

nonvalent la platitude

platină plângându-si plana

ca scroafa ce-și cerne slana

blana care-o înconjoară

pronumeric bunăoară

ori reaoară, ceasul rău

o facu să muște greu

tija din asomator

sângerând în numitor

despre o găină care nu-i

trasez cu creta linii pe asfalt asteptând tactic găina vecinului sa vină să se uite la liniile mele trasate tacticos căzând în cursa perfect crețită anume pentru ea minunându-mă cât de proastă poa să fie, căzând pentru a mia oara în aceeași cursă probabil gândindu-se că de data asta fi-va diferit nemaisfârșind pentru a mia oară-n tigaia mea oh doamne ce găină proastă

sau poate?!? să fiu eu prostul oare? trasându-i convenabil liniuțe pe asfalt, pe care ea, să le tragă în secret pe nară prefăcându-se catatonica, în timp ce-și râde în sinea ei de prostul care-i prepară liniuța

în fond, pentru a rezolva disputa, ar trebui să consultăm tigaia

Par faur făurit făr de fărâme de fiere

prin păr pălit și perpelit ca prepelița prin miere

amară dulce-amară fiere scursă-n miere

sau miere scursă-n fiere făurită de faur

am parte de fapte departe de parte de drept,

de soarta deșartă postată la poartă pe spată și piept,

pieptiș piptășorii piptează pipterul din icterul fierii de faur amaur fărâma de far postată-ntr-un par,

par perpeliți păliți prepeliți piptășori pritociți pe-o pungă de aur

pierdută de faur făr de fărâme de fiere prin păr

ie nupăr sau nufăr, răspunde-mi că sufăr mă pierd în sufixe când caut prefixe, când nu mă asfixe de noxe din vape, cristale lichide, împlămânate luând-o la deal pineal,

indi ferent fără sol ventriloc omotor, sau mă car să mă car biloc omotor amator de omor, al ego ergo sum, că de cogit nu mai, ce ziceai?

pareidolic pare cerul pardicilic pescăruș

despicând un nor în zborul lui încet de trepăduș

pescărușă pare zarea unde se lingea cu marea

pescărușa noară curge lin pe-o linie cu sarea,

sară trasă pe o nară in plămâna-mi inimioară,

sare linsă de pe mare și întinsă pe spinare,

presărată-n lung pe pana pescărușei pareidol

lua-va-ș sufletele-n cor, atât s-a putut, pentru mai mult, insert coin