drgoddamndmt

[drgoddamndmt]

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“Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.” - Thich Nhat Hanh

via @quotemadness

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Apparently, a lemon is not naturally occurring and is a hybrid developed by cross breeding a bitter orange and a citron. Life never gave us lemons; we invented them all by ourselves.

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burnt tf out

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1006

Print Shop   •   Instagram @borrachas_insta

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Vicar Amelia - Maria Zolotukhina

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Read Full Article Here: 

5 Things to Remember When You Want to Give Up on Life

Follow @psych2go for more!

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[drgoddamndmt]

vault of heaven, resonating spirits, Kansas

Refluent words back to rebirth, over scilicet religion- heresy with leonine heart beating resurrection out of Gehenna and into liberty, Kansas,

I saw your vibrating spirits, and thus your beginning was created in silence where beginning started, where the Word started.

Kansas glowing abysses, glowing light bookstores, sometime November, I was incredibly lonely with artic Hemingway, lethargic missing home. Sat empty coffee shop empty city exegesis on consciousness, on Adam and Eve, on my unawake breathing sleep walking sleep thinking sleep anet candle Burning anet candles,

burning the room I sleep

burning the personality I,

burning the Bible thus

finally burning god, burning Ginsberg’s imprint of Blake’s imprint, now my imprint, burning marijuana belief burning breathing for the first time, lovely Kansas, burning for you.

My sweet pale faced prajnana morphined eyes, Lawrence Kansas, I was a dove above old souls not a single drug in you, so pure vibrating dirt, karma boiling veins hungry hipsters, beaten down, cold on the inside, everything inside.

vault of heaven slicing airplanes, I walked your muddy safe neighborhoods, prayed to wrong gods when I got scared, should have been in line with the young college kids rowing falling bouncing vermillion like the leaves here. I had no morals on those roads, you wouldn’t remember me, my name, or face, but I remember the energy I grabbed at,

I fought for, I cried over, I am not sorry or guilty I have leftovers of human birthright to evolve, yes, A birthright not even god denies the plants to evolve, plants grow, I do the same

I smoke plants like a fraudulent scientist bethlehaming the data, calling telluric woolgathering a shame, well that’s my livelihood, Is it cloudy every day here, Kansas? What exactly did I feel- complete isolation, Kansas, are you weeping with me?

Fantastic aged mores from you to me, only I can feel the glass hereness, the timeless cutting throat of 1960s Berkeley college suicide, or suicidal thoughts, I don’t blame them. Just victims of a society endangering word, making word more and more of the flesh, diving, finding lakeness, always water is near when I had psychotic holy mantra psalms, I yell at the cosmos because I love doubting god, I love not believing, I love both Abraham the killer of Issac and issac the accepter of death of great father Abraham, you are not my father, beauty Abraham holy

You won’t touch my flesh with word, I resurrect it without Jesus, I see gods. I see alchemy breathing dancing leaves called what I thought was god, you called a benighted gently shoving towards the Dylianian dark light,

cried high in the floor of an airport bathroom back to Arizona like the Marcus Aurelius lion man

I am.

The sun and the son of god are my sons.

I begat them for eternity and

for poetry

and for experience of my own never stolen

never rusted.

The end of humanity I hate you like I hate

the genius of nothingness doveling oh

Kansas I never did ask your name.

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“My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.”

—

Jack Kerouac

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The Beat Poetry Museum in San Francisco, California. I fell in love with this place on my trip to California in May, and talked to some of the most interesting and amazing people. Can’t wait to go back one day.

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Dogs can be our best friends, but the cat will never tell the police where the marijuana is.

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via @extramadness

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Diane Victor

http://www.davidkrut.com/victorGallery.html

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“Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.”

— Lawrence Ferlinghetti (born on this day in 1919)