zarkotics-blog

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Peril | zarkotics My new sounds

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Check out this new sound, motherfuckers! The Descent! | zarkotics

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tails Added ban on ip '' until 2012-05-12 22:44:00 because You are permanently banned from Allpoetry and all related sites for gross violations of the rules & policies you agreed to when you joined. Your vile 'poems', pornographic and disgusting images and obnoxious behaviour are not acceptable or permitted on this site. Your page will be cleared, remaining posts removed and returned to the email registered on the account. If you attempt to re-enter the site on any other account it will be banned immediately without warning. Take your perversions elsewhere, you are not welcome here. Maatkara, Moderator

Maatkara, the Censorship Nazi

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Mother's Day; Night of Necrophelia (my entry for a mothersday poetry contest in high school)

Dear Mom,

I bought you a dirk SHANK! That's for never loving me RIP! That's for using me to traffic coke STAB! That's for not letting me have friends SLICE! That's for touching me SMILE! That's for not breathing LICK! That's for going cold GROPE! That's for not talking PENETRATE! That's for my erection

I love you, Mom

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Reflective Essay (First paper I submitted in college)

         Friday nights for me are typically a time for being unspeakably drunk and high while attempting to hold a conversation with people I barely know. They say substance abuse is a great substitute for being articulate and nothing says, “Come to bed with me” like one of my famous Cigar-and-Scotch French kisses.  Truth be told I’m a much less than charming drunk and most of the time getting bent on weekends doesn’t even get me laid. I’ve been rejected by every 16 year old I can name off the top of my head and I lose peoples respect like it earns me money. There was a time, however, that I honestly considered giving up on drugs and alcohol. I guess I figured it would do me some good to be coherent and become cultured on the weekends. I was probably wrong and that’s when I started drinking cough syrup.

 I remember the Friday night of my biggest dose like it was yesterday. I was chatting on Facebook with some nameless broad and twiddling my thumbs a lot. Everyone in my house was sleeping and I knew that if I was going to do something I needed to do it now; I couldn’t have everyone wake up in the morning and seeing me stumbling around the living room gibbering into an invisible cell phone. Quiet as a church mouse, I gingerly lifted myself out of my chair at the computer and silently glided into the kitchen, careful not to make any unnecessary noise. I produced two bottles of Zicam Cough Max cough spray from my pocket and eagerly began stabbing holes in the bottom of them. After a few minutes of what looked like a midnight snack turned withdraw episode I triumphantly poured the contents of the spray bottles into a single shot glass, snatched up the glass in both hands and guzzled the bitterly minty liquid. The taste was otherworldly. It was as if Zicam had concocted a way to bottle and distribute death, plague, famine, and heartache in a single bottle. The bitter sting of toothpaste mixed with an intense Cough Syrup taste dominated my senses. With no delay I ran to the fridge and scanned for something to remove the awful taste from my mouth. It could have been karma or just my bad luck but the only thing in the fridge that night was water, and it did little to mask the horrible sensation. Feeling defeated and disgusted I collapsed onto my couch and waited for nausea to overtake me.

It was barely 30 minutes before I started vomiting violently. Everything from the omelet I had for breakfast to the water I had guzzled a half an hour before was regurgitated. I wish I had the foresight to put a bucket beside the couch or at least some newspaper, but alas foresight was never one of my strengths.  I struggled to suspend my limp body over the side of the couch and covered the surface of the neighboring coffee table in my stomach contents. Every wave of vomit that forced itself out of my mouth smelled, burned, and tasted like battery acid.  It was only after about an hour of gut wrenching pain that I collapsed from fatigue and a hot flush surged throughout my entire body.  I and everything around me was covered in vomit, and after the violent regurgitating episode I didn’t have the strength to clean anything up. I just laid there, closed my eyes, and melted into the couch.

I remember hearing music, loud music. Unimaginable sounds of plucked bass strings and dozens of metronomes flooded my ears. It sounded more melodic than anything I will probably ever hear in the term of my natural life. I couldn’t place where it was coming from and I didn’t care; I was too enthralled with how I was melting into the couch. Then the music became everything, I could interpret it with all of my senses. The beautiful sound was permeating the air, I could smell it. I would smack my lips and taste it, and when I lifted my arms I could feel it against my skin like I was elbow deep in rhythmically undulating loose sand. The music looked like shadows flowing harmoniously across the ceiling; I felt entranced by their movement. Then I came to the realization that my eyes were closed, and I hadn’t moved an inch of my body in what seemed like days. I was experiencing the music with all five senses, without really using any of them.

 I’m not quite sure how or when I came about contemplating the legitimacy of my own thoughts, but I vividly remember doing so. I wanted to know what I had really been doing all this time so I opened my eyes and looked around the room. It was spinning around an axis in the center of my field of vision and although I could blink a few times and return it to a stationary state I would quickly find the shadows of the dark room blurring into a single blanket of spinning shadow. I plummeted back onto the couch and had the epiphany of a lifetime; I could see through my eyelids. I’m not quite sure how it made sense logically but at the time it did. I viewed the room over and even walked around my house some from the safety of my couch, via the backs of my eyelids. I got up for some coffee and even played with my dog. As I was petting him, however, I began to doubt if it was really happening or if it was just the hallucination that it was. Before I could even begin to answer questions about the coffee, my dog, or the eyelid reality my senses descended into the blackness.

Blackness slid into every pour and from there seeped into every nerve. I saw only the blackness and I gagged on a mouthful the blackness. The blackness had no distinct characteristics outside of being black but I remember being able to experience it on every sensory level and understood how all the blackness was a single thing, not many small things. The one entity of blackness swallowed every part of my mind. I did not feel trapped, scared, hopeless, happy or sad; I only felt the blackness. I dwelled on it and what was going on all over my body. Looking back on the experience, I think now that the blackness was just a necessary precursor to the Eyelid World.

I first saw the Eyelid World as little pinholes of light in the backs of my eyelids. I focused on them to escape the blackness and soon saw that they were stars. I studied the stars for a long while before realizing that no matter what constellation I searched for, whether they were fictitious or not, I spotted almost immediately. I saw the pinhole stars become an entire galaxy that stretched on forever and ever and before I knew it was I gliding among them. I took a moment to glance below me and saw a lush green meadow, a breeze rolled gently over her. I’m not sure how I knew the meadow was female but she felt very warm and loving, like no matter what I did I her soft cool grass was there to catch me if I fell from among the pinhole stars. Confident that the meadow would aid me in any endeavor I flew off into the sea of stars and searched for answers. I remember seeing images of anything and everything. There’s no real way I can describe this part outside of saying I saw everything, literally everything. I saw everything that existed and everything that didn’t, or at least I got the overwhelming sensation that I did. The only still image I remember vividly is that of a bulky brass robot mildly tarnished to look the color of good whiskey. The Brassbots eyes were bold red emotionless circular reflectors and his chest was a robust brass cube. An old fashioned studio microphone on a stand was smashed downward directly into the center of the Brassbots head and carved a path directly down the top of his chest cube.  The Brassbot was the only image I remember but I feel as if I saw a nigh infinite number of images that I cannot bring to memory.  The images came at an increasing pace and soon I began to peak.

                Anyone familiar with drug abuse will tell you that peaking is when effects of the drug are at their highest level of intensity; it happens once every last bit of whatever substance you consumed has been absorbed and is being processed by the body. I remember while I was flying amongst the space-images I could feel an increase in the rate at which the images were flying by me.  The maddening pace quickened exponentially until I felt like I lost control and became subject to the will of the meadow, the space-images, and the backdrop of the blackness. The feeling of being demoralized and lethargic was short lived. It was my brief period of fatigue after the orgasmic climax of psychedelic euphoria, and it was then that I knew that I would return to the normal mundane world of sober society imbued with valuable knowledge that no one would ever care about.

Those last few hours I felt like God floating around aimlessly in the blackness, though this time not as the blackness’ victim, but as it’s shaper. I molded it into shadows that pleased me; first a beautiful succubus, and then a room full of them. And when their shadowy lord came to reclaim his harlots I simply willed him out of existence. The effects of the drug were under my control, now. I began creating whatever popped into my head but before I could fully enjoy any of my new found godhood I felt my brain again. A light turned on in the kitchen and golden threads of artificial light slithered around the dark walls of the living room. I knew now that my godhood was merely mastery over my hallucinations and that my brain was finally able to differentiate the difference between the Eyelid World and the Real world, even if it still could partially experience things in both.  I opened my eyes and in the quivering blur saw a couch covered in vomit and heard my father digging around for a midnight snack in the other room. For the rest of the night I tried desperately to cling to my vanishing ability to escape into the eyelid world. My thoughts soon became dull and simplistic and my euphoria became drowsiness. I lied there missing my distant kingdom for longer than I care to remember, until sleep claimed me.

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Never Again

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fer1972:

Ahab’s torment  by Mark Arandjus 

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melhoneycat:

Pain/Pleasure by J. Morgan

“Oil on Canvas (2009)

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artandopinion:

The Bull

1945

Pablo Picasso

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klg19:

“Oedipus and the Sphinx,” by Gustave Moreau (1864)

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Hell is Other People

The title phrase is obviously a quote from the esteemed Jean-Paul Sartre, but it is often left just as it stands in the title and rarely elaborated on. The line originates from Satre's book No Exit in which Sartre inspired great change in the philosophical mind set of the time, particularly the Existentialist movement in Europe and the rest of the western world. Satre claims that Hell is other people because other people always have the ability to strip you of what makes you you. All of your hopes, dreams, aspirations, all five senses, and every thought you've ever had can very easily and often be ignored by other people. This rather demoralizing truth is greatly due to solipsism and the idea that because you can never be sure if other people experience life in the same state of mind as you because you can only experience the world through your own state of mind. The primary consequence of this truth is the underlying fact that other human beings, by their, nature can strip you and everyone else of what makes you human and turn you into an object in their world as opposed to a person in yours. Call it a fun fact; Hell is other people.

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Me singing

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There is no heaven of glory bright, and no hell where sinners roast. Here and now is our day of torment! Here and now is our day of joy! Here and now is our opportunity! Choose ye this day, this hour, for no redeemer livith!

Anton LaVey- Book of Satan (IV-2)

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No creed must be accepted upon authority of a "divine" nature. Religions must be put to the question. No moral dogma must be taken for granted-no standard of measurement deified. There is nothing inherently sacred about moral codes. Like the wooden idols of long ago, they are the work of human hands, and what man has made, man can destroy!

Anton LaVey- Book of Satan (II-6)

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They must find it difficult, those who accept authority as the truth, rather than truth as the authority.

Gerald Massey

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It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.

Jiddu Krishnamurti