Photo by Europeana on Unsplash

I do not drink,
But I am living under this mountain
That might crush the life out of me
Any time, any day,
So, I drink anyway.

This charming man says:
Too much grandiosity
Dims the soul
Makes us old.

I hear the wise ones pleading, pleading when on fire,
So much screaming, as the flames they get higher:
Hebane, belladonna, mandrake, datura
All of these, like mescaline, can see right through yer.
A broom, a pitchfork, a basket, or a snake
The old religion of love,
For love’s own sake.

The beautiful Cathars
Heard the rumble far below
Looked at the surface,
Saw nothing, only snow.

Hares’ prints lead me on,
Lead me to this folly
Red berries on it,
The christmas holly.

I shall go into a hare,
With sorrow and sych
And meickle, meckle care;
And I shall go in the Devil’s name,
Ay, while I go then I will come home again.

Sometimes phantasma
Strip my wits away,
Sometimes for a minute,
Often for a day.
Glad to be rid of them
Pfff they are gone:
My wits for a minute
My wits for a song.

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