An ode to psilocybin mushrooms

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Photo by Christopher Ott on Unsplash

Dearest Psilocybin,

Psi-love you and your magic.
I see your gills flap like ancient pages.
I hear you whisper bizarre answers and stranger secrets.
I feel your saucers land upon my soul for an abuction.
Laying on the horn from your cockpit, you beckon so cheekily—
“Get in, loser, we’re going to Mars, to Andromeda, to the Elysian Fields,
and we’ll still be home before the dawn. ”

An adventure is boring in comparison.
I am lavished with gentle weirdness and harsh wonder. …


Scrittura Saturday Prompt: Sensations

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Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

I let my eyes close and my mind open, studying
the neon veins and speckled static that collage
like subconscious shifts of the color black.
If I focus, I can swap frenzied hues and forms
in and out of impossible foregrounds, backgrounds.

I notice how darkness is also a blue lightning.
How memories of green create dots of electric chlorophyll.
I think of sparks and watch yellow neurons sizzle.
I clench tighter and watch graphite mandalas slither.
I observe the bubbles and boils of the brain in its search
for a familiar sight, utterly lost within its own labyrinths. …


Spiritual Secret’s Saturday Prompt — Prayer

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Photo by Mareko Tamaleaa on Unsplash

We want
what we want
without ever knowing
why we want
It.

We ask for it.
We beg for it.
We scheme for it.
We suffer for it.
We pray for it.

Then we demand it.

With spite for
the magic and wonder
of the universe,
we tell it to obey,
to abandon all
peace and order
if it means getting
what we want —
It.

With rage for
its rhyme and reason,
we ask it to forfeit
all justice, all grace,
and all mystery
for the sake of
a silly desire —
It.

Only the universe
could forgive such pride.
Only god could smile
at such a conditional acceptance.
Only love could embrace
such hard hatred with such
a soft whisper…


A poem

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Photo by Nathan De Fortunato on Unsplash

We are anxious
when near

the page

the blank slate
a’slackjawing
organic ruff
beneath
index and
wetted thumb
a grip for
its edgings
or a plug for
our asses
sat bored
horned
scared
and numb
above
the ball point
smite.

If we were
squid we
would ink
the seven
seas until
there was
an 8th.
If we were
soil we
would cake
every sole
and mat
every paw.
If we were
looseleaf we
would pray
for raining
dust, for
kindergarten
slobber.

But human
we fill it
in darker
should
this wet
ink wane
could
this wet
dew wax
shakespearean
before
the white is
burned black. …


A poem

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Photo by Joey Nicotra on Unsplash

We are turned on,
but turned away towards
the smoking ticket of enlightenment.

We pace mezzanines beyond
the mind’s most lonely doors,
where blood boils cheeks to mush
and purples our digits and limbs
until they are each a fleshier,
more desperate sex organ
of their own.

Upon this stage,
consciousness is too solid
and the body too liquid.
Pleasure is too painful
and its release too ready
to return and squeeze
tighter.

Every eye, every gland,
every node, and every fantasy
bold enough to squat within
the imagination is inflamed
and swells like a bubble
about to burst, but
that never will. …

About

Aaron Quist

Poet. Reach out: aaronsweetjane@gmail.com

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