#psychosis poetry
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laikacore · 1 year ago
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rash decision
text and photos by laika wallace
click through for better quality
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visgrapplinghooks · 2 years ago
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02.02.2023
In the back of my head, In the back of my mind, I hear voices, Whispers.
The whispers, They tell me many things, Wonderful, horrible, Loving, cruel.
So cruel, The things they tell me, They love my fear, They steal my breath.
My breath slows, As does my heart, I listen carefully, Listen to the whispers.
The whispers, They bid me to follow, Follow them into the dark, And trust them.
I trust the whispers, They tell me many things.
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sounds i can't see
voices surround me
i think they're behind me
voices speak violent truths
they're just outside the corner of my eye
i hear two barks
quick succession
i whip my head around
no dog is in sight
over and over and over
they speak in my own voice
i heard it, i swear
where did it come from?
i walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
reality is a circle of hell
a layered inferno of sounds i can't see
eyes follow me down the street
everyone is looking at me
someone is coming for me
what do they want from me?
alone in my home
footsteps down the corridor
open the door
no one else is home
blast music through my headphones
drown out the unwanted sounds
deafness, come to me
i don't want to hear them anymore
i walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
trapped in a cave of fear
the darkness, it's all around me
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grendel-menz · 8 months ago
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a little diary about trying to find a middle ground between being spiritual and being a schizophrenic
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noraqrosa · 1 year ago
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at one point, she ventured far away from the realms of sanity and never seemed to find her way back
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holesss · 1 year ago
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Some sort of Yellow Wallpaper moment
Lingua Ignota // Adriana Varejao // Virginia Woolf // Sarah Kane // The Yellow Wallpaper // Sylvia Plath // Jericho Brown // @ person918x
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madd-madd · 11 hours ago
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itscontinental · 4 months ago
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VILE: WET again, appologies, no scannner, no more. A clear transcription of text can be found at the bottom, beneath the the paragraph of exhausting excuse and exposition below; If it is not apparent already: we are quite embarrassed with all the VILE. This is the only piece of the VILE series that was ever subject to change. As progenitor to the series, our rule of ceaseless movement was merely applied on a whim to the first iteration of "WET" and we did not follow it with intentional adherence. So the two subsequent versions pictured here are technically the first official additions to the "VILE" series as they were the first to be produced without a moments pause whatsoever. This being said, these were only an exercise at the time, we did not know that we would experience a continuous compulsion to pump these pieces of shit out one after another. We still find it funny to reference them as a series considering they are some of the worst things we have ever written, but there are so many, and in sharing them with you, we are forced to read them ourselves for once and thus access all the introspective bullshit that people claim can be gleaned within strict, unwavering, stream-of-consciousness writing. As we were getting wet, getting violent and vile, the "series" was yet to exist we don't like its existence. It just is as we are just yours Even our most vile parts especially the VILE:
For visual clarity, we will transcribe the text below. We will fill in gaps of missing letters and correct some spelling errors severe enough to make a word unclear. other than this, no edits will be made.
VILE: WET (Small/duplication) everything about this city is wet, the arid summer made up in sweat; it is deafening:dumb I cannot hear over the water fountains and sweat and the ponds that they made there full of viscous liquid making me sick making me violent and vile. and when i dream i am hanged and exsanguinated (THIRD) and being left and turning and being salting and turning to jerky and as i awake i am wet, releasing wet into wet and bathing in all that wet lest the wet become putrid, walking in my soggy shoes and glistening in oil-- polished as a doorknob: Confessions of a Shoe-in; I am so fucking wet. VILE: WET (extension)
remaining there you there with him in his robes sink into the eb and flow of the sink and this city is soaked everything in the city wet, the arid summer made up in sweat; it is deafening--dumb: i cannot hear over the water fountains and the fountains making mechanincal and the ponds they installed there full of viscous liquid making sick making me violent and vile and when i sleep i dream of insanguination, being hanged and insanguinated, being left and turning, salted and turning to jerky and i awake and am sweating through the bedsheets and it stings and i hope its sweat because it stings and itches and expires sooner so sooner than jerky would by many although i do not know if it spoils when the meat is wet, my meat is wet in the middle and the out place, perspiring from the outplace and the outside where the wet falls and reminds you that the clouds are mist and that you cannot grasp or walk on or touch or grasp like lumps of of cotton but rather would soak you and will and does upon my forehead from out and out and inside burning wet and boiling like the sacrament like i once beleived in jesus christ and ive been soaking and sick and baptised and so sick, sad i think maybe but soaking all the time since he told me we no longer have anything in common but i can keep the water the sacrament whatever id like, my share, and it is wet and i am wet releasing wet into the steam heat of this vast and vile machine and bathing in all the piping and wet lest the sweat become rancid, putrid in the city wet and walking in my soggy shoes and glistening in oil, polished as a doorknob: confessions of a shoe-in showing signs and everyone cold and soaking and and cold and mostly showing regret shewn portraits damaged in the moisture of my storage in the attic where it rises and settled to douse my portrait and anoint it anointed forever in the eyes you no longer have anything to talk about nor in common save the rain, the sun&sweat and see you and see you and coughing black that only may be blood and beginning to forget. Other "VILE" pages linked below: IN LOVE
DRY
DARK
BRIGHT There are more many more somewhere in THE STACK we will post them as they present themselves although, they are not entirely In tact
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lttledog · 3 months ago
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4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane.
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trinalwilliams · 4 months ago
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They cannot find me by the root… But dey smooch
Larie Williams - April
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laikacore · 2 years ago
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There was a demon at the top of the stairs
I tried to tell you but you didn’t care
There wasn’t anything down there
I told you the truth i promise i swear
Don’t inflate your ego
You’re nothing like a dog, my dear
You won’t go where he goes
He’s nothing but a cog, my dear
But then again, did you really have to break my bones?
Nothing left to swallow but stones
But then again, it’s all over once the big man knows
You’ll never escape what he owns
Don’t pretend he’s feeling
He’s nothing but a dog, my dear
Don’t pretend he’s healing
He’s nothing but a dog, in fear
dog by laika wallace
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see people celebrating plurals who are plural BECAUSE of psychosis and its like
you are plural
you are valid
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loneberry · 6 months ago
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POETRY AND PSYCHOSIS
Five days without REM sleep is all it takes to enter a state of psychosis.
Delusions of reference
the metaphoricity of the world—
all elements talking to each other.
Isn’t that the paranoid state of the poet? 
I ask Sherah if she thinks limerence is on the neurosis or psychosis side of the spectrum of psychopathology—she says “psychosis.”
I remember Dr L describing my thoughts of constellated signs (“the universe is speaking to me”) as “psychotic.”
See Denis Johnson’s poem “The Song.”
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There’s a paranoid logic at work in the poem, when the poet hears the hum of the refrigerator as the beseeching of the stars.
Jorie Graham once said she co-taught a class on Walt Whitman with Johnson, but instead of teaching, he just read passages aloud from Leaves of Grass and wept. She described him as “constantly in need of salvation” (the kind of people I tend to like…).
What binds The Thing to its analogical double? The poet. The poet-as-bridge. Poetry, with its excess of signification, is close to psychosis, delusion (is it a coincidence that many of my favorite poets—Pizarnik, Rosselli—were diagnosed with schizophrenia?). 
Poetry traffics in association rather than causality. It is closer to dream than reality in the way it gets at some psychic or spiritual “truth” at an angle, through displacement. 
Plato rejected poetry on the grounds it resonated with sensibility, not truth. Yet truth is made of language, and language is always a lie. 
Poetry is not merely language that utilizes metaphor—it points toward the metaphoricity of language itself, the chasm between The Thing and its signifier-double. If we follow Nietzsche’s claim in his 1873 essay “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense,” truth is merely stale metaphors, metaphors that have become so naturalized they masquerade as truth:
“What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions — they are metaphors that have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force, coins which have lost their embossing and are now considered as metal and no longer as coins.”
“He forgets that the original perceptual metaphors are metaphors and takes them to be the things themselves.”
Thus, we arrive at the truth-effect: the mistaking of the analogical double for The Thing itself. 
Poetry, through denaturalization, is the wondrous restoration of the gap, the wispy tendrils connecting the nodes of the world. 
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faithintherippleeffect · 17 days ago
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Sleepy Head
Yesterday I spent the whole day in bed Thoughts & dreams tangled in my head A fitful night followed suit Too much sleeping can bear strange fruit. Such vivid dreams played on my mind Alternate worlds of a colourful kind I arose at daws not so fresh as a daisy Smoking in the sunrise, feeling hazy.
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sorynwrites · 1 year ago
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O God, Sometimes I have vivid, grotesque dreams Of taking a gilded dagger to my skull, Carving into the crevices of my doubt Bone fragmented, stitched together with sin I hungrily devour my own flesh Blood, brain, sinew, all And I look up to watch my reflection Twist obscenely, muscle warping into itself Again, and again A roiling mass of snakes Before shifting into a creature Familiar and foreign A stranger wearing the mask Of a face I knew intimately A smudged painting, ghost captured in film Screams echo from a distant nightmare Before an egg cracks Yolk bleeding into white, broken by its shell Protective by design, destructive by nature The creature smiles when my eyes open And prayers spill from my upturned lips Gasping for a reality That is whole, that is real Oh God.
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redkoi1 · 5 months ago
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Twin Flame
You terrorized my faith because I lacked the strength, when it's been Patience, not a wait
That played it out that type of way, and You're really not that worried? Well, I just wonder, still afraid?
Numbed to my core; another day My soul locked up with rust My spirit snuffed, I'm forced to pray
I woke up from a rest "It was a setup", disregarded in array If I really cannot love you, I'll just force myself to hate
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