Sometimes after (or during) SWIM's trips he writes about the bizarre world of psychedelia that he encounters in his unique style of writing.

I'm going to use this thread to post those entries in his collection of "psychobabble"


Subordinate Mind

Jaw stuttering in mid-waltz chill, carved out from chalked stone granite, were the last thoughts of the evening. They were hinges flung open in the hidden flesh of a vegetable intelligence, ready to close in on eternal slumber, or so it had seemed. A mandala of sirens soared through the midnight squeal that rang heavy on the ears, cold kiss of audio hallucinations singing paralyzed lullaby's. A coma made its way into the wishing well and chocked the coin toss pipe-dream to a blueish shade of suffocation, mending hope to the life support of creative impulse. It made shade in the winter air, clasped souvenir tears on a return flight from tomorrow to now, arriving early to the graduation dinner. Those final thoughts of a candle light eve made silly remarks in my fingertips, in an effort to brush away the straight face of redundant fate... giving rise to rhythm and taking ease on reason. Letting the mind fly freely.

-Matty

My Eyes Are Itchy

The syrup crawled off my lip last night after I stoned the nightmare to death, severe with immediate sinking ships that docked on my bed. I could hear the seafarers sneeze in unison as they shoveled away heavy samples of insectivore meat onto the deck, following the arrows that pointed outwards from the captains chapped lips, getting their kicks from carnivorous cats (they would dance for them). They all swarmed above me in a green smoke that would rise and dissipate in cycles, cycles measured in hits from a cigarette. Changes in pupil size determined their fate as they slandered gravity and soared like feathers caught in a psychic hurricane, flinches of second hand psychosis, fingering the phoenix until she is climaxed in flames, rising restlessly from ashes. In and out, fallen from above, spherical and smooth sighs bounce out of atoms like soap bubbles blown from the mouth of infantile gods, mocking the phantoms of thin morning air. Bright was the moon in the curtains palm when the sun began to rise in my heart... and the ocean was calm.

-Matty.

The Trees

Oh to be one of the trees, whose arms extent into vast space and wait in moonlit stanzas for the haiku of day break. To be fierce in the ground, gripping firm to rock and waste, waiting for the moist hands of nature to prune rotted roots, with such strength to withstand endless winds, to soar silent in the ether with watery dreams unknown to mans sleep, is to sit at rest in the height of being. Still, motionless, tame and patient with calm whispering of the vocal chord leaves in a chorus with the deep breath of the wind, soothing the sayer and seeping into the gentle ears of lovers.
Oh to be evergreen, not yielding to seasons, maintaining pigments whatever the weather, keeping shade in the fever of summer, hugging warmth within the bark in the below zero winds. Untouched, never burdened by outer forces or unforeseen climates, that is the way of the mighty evergreen.
Would that my soul could stand as tall and wide as a sequoia, passerby straining their necks to behold my majesty, eagles nesting in my concealed branches that tower out of mans reach, I would shed seeds of potential in the soil of hearts gathered round about my trunk, making oceans out of dew drops.
Oh to be one of the trees, strong and untouched, hidden in a height that hands cannot reach.