P is for Pickapen: write a pickled peppoem in my YOUTH


by Steve ‘Fly Agaric 23’ Pratt.
2005. California. USA/

Eye see you
th’ glass of tyme, slowly melting
into new forms

Glass being transparent, like my
tongue thats apparent,
how not to be impressed, upon this window –
my nose smushed up against the payne.

I see children playing, lungs full of fresh air
sky blue n’ Everything in its right place.
Suddenly – i get a flash through time, its 4 billion b
sea-side thats before me.

Scholar mysticks throwinged biscuits to
divine the future, but it’s no ordinary bread,
like she said –

“Live from the Bread line”, in space and time..
Power of moons in runes to undo these
baboon tunes.

The domesticated primates in revolt.
Language revolting the revolution
measured in amps, heaven
it was always volts, revolting apes
with a finger on the switch.

Treatin women and kidz
like a troopa treat his bitch
bomb dropped flaps

kindness, forgiveness, co-operation.
These are the jewels of peaceful living.
And i feel it.

In these times, in the walls of my
adulthood i hide, afraid to paint the ceiling.
Afraid to paint my meaning.
And i dont stop.

keep turning over words like runes.
So to bring flowers and foods to government

in the windows of my youth
i find the soloution, foating in the aether,
in the wendy house i play’d in.

Imagination was the key to me becoming me.
You see, me was ste –
likkle kid with glasses sin the windows
of my youth

i used to wear dubble glazing – my werds
were splintered my paintings amazing.
yet the older i get the more i forget
about my paint palette.
thanks for fillin it. bringin it.

Crills spills down yr window, like
moisture layered between implicit and explicit.

if i was a prophet i might guess
that the future sounds like Charlie Moffet.
in my windows i draw pictures of letters.

letters scholar mytics forgot. letters
i remeber while lying in my cott.
When my head got hot, in windows of my youth
i got steamy and created condensation

poetry for a nation. In my windows
i see digits in mackintoshes.
Traded keys for brushes
beer for mushies.

In my windows i used to
draw gates in the winda moisture
conducting heavenly muzic
with my little finger, drawing in
the condensation poms for a nation.

Locked in youth i brake out
when the clouds open.
In my windows i found
doorways, paths to the future
of graffs.
Like prof’ Giraffes in masks.
Rewound windmilling turntableux

Clarity became the gravity
to prove to me that the dance
is wot it’s about, the dancehall
fire creatin’ moisture

hot sweaty dancers
i saw in the windows
of my youth.
Age 10 i looked down at

the bottom of the pool
goggles misty moist from super
bionic chronic sonic prayers i kicked
out my feet.
swimin through windows in my yoof.

Then i got out the pool
looked around and thru
school. So i finished up my time
and made friends and got drunk.

In my mind i was a goddisturber,
in my dreams i was a punk.
an orgasm addict listenin to the Clash
and Buzzcocks in my windy memora.

 I threw rocks and authority.
It scared me even then. Now it’s proof.
You gotta’ be fckn’ hooked on coke
to not see the “reality” being stuffed down

our throat. in my youth i was
unprepared for the new world order.
In my dreemz i used to
order chips and a battered sausage
a bottle of milk

so suckle nipple muther lost
and mebbe a point of beer takes
me myd off of the big mind?

likkle did i know
that by next year the “dark forces of evil
christian socialist materialism
the republicratic,

consolabour liers and prize pricks
the male dominator culture I
was unprepared, in my youth.

Now I got my tongue chemically
laminated with souperflowous bong juices.
in my youth i tripped with fear/and
i still do

lets get that clear, here it’s
Hiphop culture eara neara
although the beer slowly fogged
my googles

and the water trickled down my spine
full of Chlorine, and i became cheimcally
imbalanced, in the wintaos of my yutt

they put metal in my mouth
I knew not about floss
ignorance might result in
the loss of my teeth

but and i can still hold a
spliff in my mouth like a rocket.
boom boom i drop woids,
to move and fix thoughtz.

words for worlds
sake cuz hot weather
means shorts bro’

My windows were long
stretching from ear to venus.
I used to think the world wd/ never get
bewteen us.

Until Bush and company
popped up in myroom and i got
swept up, and out the door
with my own poetic broom.

Zoomin out to
space like Zao
Ming Chan.

I’m spittin some fittness.
fly in the jam.
Slamb ram aword configuartions into
my text for the masses,

putting maybe in drinks
and hoping it lassez.
lasts or lass-ou’s all writers
to throw down their blues.

99 percentage of humanity in question,
waiting for a meal, a dime a light
The fights underway and i’m not
qwhite lookin straight.

Still dancin in the wild white west
with the Bohemian groove

Blackapocalypse on the T.V. Culture
pirates imitate gangsters
who’s masters are priests,

TV execs. excuse me
while i flex some wind from my youth…
when i thought the Hospital was
hospitable, when i thought

god wuz good before i found out
that the devil was just d’ eevil
and word warriors hold
hopes in their imagination

And i imagine the windows
of my youth
have enabled me to see back
and feedback my seedback to back
to life –

to reality, reelee. Spillin crillic
it’s about 18 feet deep,
in dreemz of spacetime jump.

i just fell asleep, week to week i weep
willows for my home,
the pool the pond lake side
river side, o’er the pond.

Snakes pulling ladders
from pour window wipers.
Window cleaners left hangin’
with butchers and with cobblers.

Cops and Robbers,
the family mum and pops store gettin
eaten by Bigness.

‘Industreel Cannibulls of europe are eatin their litter.

These letters slide out from beneath
my finger nails onto
the screen.

Power cord pulled tracks slows down.
In the windows of my yute
i played flute and kidz follow

revolving thoughts, I was a bird ,
it was a Robin or was it a swallow.
I dunno i forget.

But Obe One Kinobe told me some
trooff about ice sickles,
and rhythm ripples,

Government be cripples, clogging the
system with unpoetic sentences relating to
bloodline rites and alphabetical
prison sentence.

self re/ferwrenshull turrrenshal terrestrial
anthropocentrick tried and tested true
liers the size Sirius B. I mean the size of
Dizzy’s cheeks or dirk digglas wiggle.

i got fresh perspective in the windows of my youth.
Unhooked, unhinged – unimagined and tonicked.
Subsonic soothsayer – with leo sayer
play’n on me rekkid player.

I say i say i say. In the windows of my youth,
i read this poem and blew my own head away.
The football season has not finished.

The final whistle has blown.
Fakers are in power blood suckers on the throne.
reptiles repin guilt, in 2000 years more blood has been spilt
than houses the so called “civilized” built.

So….i’ll quilt a new path on the fly right up
your legs and into yr/ eye, a whisper in silence
on the wind up on one hind leg, i beg the elements
to condense electricity and provide
power in this hour of exhibitionism.

poll liturgical things weigh way over the hill.
Yeah thanx you pick’d me ballx up rather smartly.
rather slight of handfully.

To brand an idea into the souls of my feet,
i have set keel to breakers and think funk it. xheet.
Live raps which rap up my tongue,
been dripping salivia pluralbellend
and now i lap up, like a prayrhee dog,
like a leary frog – light_-lee dunk.
Amber nectar, stick’n to me bckteeth your wright.

Mouth full of metal i got.
But the dentist likes me. implants
poems in the roof of my mouth –
roof of the world, axis mundi –
praxis tuesday – taxes wednesday –
waxing – thurdsday, my daY iz fli day,
a why day, knu dey.

Sun light and growth, imitatin my brudder
o’er pond frum howth. gro’th and groves
perception of different directions.,
erections and elections share similar
fractions in math and poetry and language
drip from the sam weepin willow noses.
passion has been looted from the fruitfullness
of our collective heritage damn it.

Our group porridge – now hoardin
in the “NwO’s garridge,
greedy blodd suckers lurk on the corner,
my peeps out in the streets sayin
“No “to the man, and werkin a slave life

we “All “slaves, and when you
wake up your tongue
takes over, no stoppin the word

when it hunts down the brutes,
the real heart of the problum,
heart of the beast

The imperial empirckle mirakle of the reel,
howz that for a start? me arts in it –
farts crumble empires built on gas
and hot air blown down ugly old fat white men,

not just white but all greedy. corpses gotta go,
waiting for them to die. yes. And in the meanitime
i’ll unfasten these strapes, write it write it.
dont fight it. fuel to the fire, lick it. ignite it.

Don’t listen to nobody but your self,
your own ‘Angels” mine are just jewels on show,
find yr/ own mind own it zone it clone it
and send a message to the breakfast table
of the cosmic blues burgar flipper
– the everyday chap – everyman, everywomen,
that’s who writes these wordz –
tryin to reach an equalibrium,
not all human but the tree if that be my story.

I the record, the needle tipp flipped dub
rubs in the jam, shakin dancehalls while
the best minds of our world are commited
to describing the destruction of our learning
center’s and Kultures of aboriginality.
One world party is a two edged sword
word, a Occamickle chemical quation.

A quaver of love
Party in the face of disaster.
Love the blues, feel the hurt and loss

compassion to come with. But
don’t let images and pain prevent
you breaking down the barriers.
from calling out the fake.

half fak’d theory called ‘Realism”
it’s up to me it’s up to you too,
so watch me stew my mind here

souper rap ego broths boil.
like a cook and professor of mythology
went nuts in a grave yard
digging up recipies from 3000 B.C,

diggin in the creates of the
phantom, sleepin in coffins like
vampires, counts life coin

from eggyptian lodge some
magical pirates are at war with the children.
tragedy of gravity imposed on the
young and flips and flows of this sung
left in dung.

music two hours a wik, math 8
geography 6, English tweleve,
History 9 n’ half hours

Political mystical experimentation
40 hours a weak.
Kids playn in the yard just hangin out,
rolling, goofin, slackin, it’s alright ma
i’m only goofinn Huck

Conneticut Clements –
imagine your there,
be the poet be yr/ hero.
Doctor savior lover muse and
then share bare bck to backstrokes.

open legs to autumn
and feel the gushing winds of change,
easy breeze.

Xneeze raps and wipe em up
with tripple clean X skip keels
to breakers, unstrapp the rapps
round the harbour, she shanties
about the salt sea moisture in panties

submarine coloured they were, lime green
Emerald panties skipper, tighty “greenies”
my flow watched em’ down 20 thousand
leagues i’m hot on fire,
talkin shit, forkin it

the words got me matey,
pirates stole the world
The word was snatched like a bag in
shoreditch, oh maytees
in a council state of mind,
im feelin that.

Baked beans and marmalade
dreams, lucid clouds and maxwells
hammer in the hands of John Bon’
singin tzolkien tales of Ol’e england,

Welsh, celtic root round the
breaky table, milky tea, dull silver
spoons reflect the down out high
rise lab’

skippers set keel to breakers
to the waves, break out and be free,
re-connect yr/ Turntables
dump yer CD’s Im not on vacation
i been here for years

amongst the cosmos, dollar race runny nose
like watchin “Liberty” skiddin down slope,
illusion familiar as cousins.

demons in sugar coated macs,
the devil in a record industry chair.
And i grow my hair,
stair fwd, rwd, reality
get a load a me, fuel for the fire
word is born Ohm

To Toast Higher.
on the….fly
Well im pullin down raps
rolling in my own dung,
singing my own sung, mebbe a bit
too long?

so although i still ain’t “gettin paid”
and yet still, i’m gettin planty laid,
i must say that i pay my dues.
refuting civilization.

Pulling down the veils of illusion
“hung” by the great pirates,
the thought police who tell you
which which is which,

well i got news. “Glitch”
in the
core it’s more
like I Ching to me,

Zeropoint probability zone.
instant. now. Zen.
refute all science,
reason and common knowledge.

All blown to the wind by the throw
of a dice and consultation with the oracle,
whos optical tropical chronicle
bionicle ancient temple
of natures cycles, seasons, equations,
archetypes, colors, branches, stems,
so on and so fourth it goes.

We are still just waiting for the new flesh to dry.
Painting wet in galleries.
artists damp with perspiration.
Anticipation of the revolution.

Language bck’ in the handicrafts
heads and hearts of the people.
never take that away.

Tanks roll in the street,
and i bring them crumpet
and tea bags for breakfast.

Teleporting planets here
in by the back garden shed.
nuff said. Acrillic spill it. unedit.


WINDOWS OF MY YOUTH by Steve ‘Fly Agaric 23’ Pratt. 2005. 
Edited Jan. 2012.



If the battle lines are drawn by bully boys from the Church of ignorance and plain simple religious zealots; drunk on their own prejudice and delusion that seeing is believing and believing is seeing, then, i hope to illuminate certain details here, and combine some 21st century scientific facts with timeless mythological metaphors and create an image, all-at-once, cutting through Christian materialism and naive realism, with luck.

Moanism (is) trapping and clogging up the full human potential and capacity for co-operative co-existence, friendly trade, open compatibility between information, spiritual practice and sacred ceremony. The major obstacle seems to me to be the evidence that theology and religious politicians feel threatened by oriental entities which are unconsciously smothered with occidental psycho-religio glosses and mistaken as being “religious’.

In some sense the Eastern way or ways, relate to an all encompassing flux of being; a way of life, not just sporadic prayer or specialized ideological faith.

The eye’s which see are the projectors which play on the interplay and discretion between the seeing and playing, the pushing and pulling remains a moment-to-moment sensitive balancing act.

Contrary and anti-polar to the supreme truth, fact, or rhetorical western word symbol corpsemanure. Dead bodies litter pages in dead languages. Meanwhile the Orient paints nature shadow with ideograms, word pictures.

Dogmatic thinking circles around supreme stupidity; mistaking the inner-dwelling divinity of self, and therefore; projection, onto all conscious and unconscious signals; the limited and prejudiced fundamentalist world view; moanism as the cure for duality and a rejection of the finite because of an intoxicated hangover from the infinite flux of being. Whatever critter knows certain things cannot have those things in its critter nature.

As a metaphor for the unknown mystery and dicotomy between mankind and nature, self and ego, conscious and unconscious, i present an example of a symbiotic relationship in nature between different species.

Drosphilia, Muscaria and Mr. Toad; Farther, Sun and holly spyrt. This example outlines further investigative research into form and function, etymology and neuro-pharmacology. In fact, i seem to notice Amanita Muscaria everywhere i look, in the same way christians see christ every which way they look. The difference i am outlining though, is my flie relationship with the biological world, as well as the mythological attributes. In these spacetimes i feel that the time has come for me to speak my mind, blog it, and call out to the occidental and His political religious leaders in particular, with an alternative view.

A new “way” of seeing if you like, in which “all” things are sacred and the relationship between man and his symbols of nature and nature; can co-exist together, united by understanding, relativity, correlation of form and compassion. Jeremy narby calls this revolution stereoscopic thinking, percieving both the forground and background simultaneously, i love this metaphor because it paints a three dimensional picture in my own mindscape i can realte to.

In the individual quest for a one world; united in respect for both the individual and the group social critters; i have chosen Amanita Muscaria as my avatar, or simulation of Christ. I offer my results and findings in a self styled poetic gloss, in hope that the ugly analytical and stale language of western science, and so called objective reality, will become infused with the ancient rhythms and the spirit of experimentation, required to herald the new age and world unity i dream of and hold as a genral goal mantra. If i may be so bold, the art of godmanship as Alan watts called it.

We have to be responsible for our actions and conduct and our speech, the gods never left us, they just went on holiday into the world of symbol and idea.

Don’t be fooled by a second or third coming, nothing departed. Now they are knock knocking on heavens door, knocking on our own temples of the mental with alphabetical spells and sentences. Keep breathing and don’t loose your nerve.

In my search for a way to illuminate myself to the infinite flux of being, i once upon a time found an old old heresy, hidden inside a riddle within a riddle within a riddle. it is hidden, and it is hidden, and it is hidden.

So, i played hide and seek for 9 years with this riddle, infusing myself into different aspects of its being, moving around the intangible pieces of its puzzle body. Grabbing fragments which occasionally reveled themselves to me in actuality; only to find when i opened my hands that they had vanished, soon after i had the feeling that thought and memory of its being had vanished too. I was often left excited and bewildered at the same time, foolishly thinking i had something in my possession, which i most obviously on second and third thoughts, did not.

Thus the game of hide and seek continued day after day and time after time again i got my hopes up and then let down again, chasing my own tale with my puzzled mind, looking for a objective thingymajig, looking for loveglue and time binding devices; the only remaining ideologies i believed were actually capable of making it real and tangible, in the flesh, the only method of keeping it here, keeping it real and present.

On and on the river flow and i got pulled and swished around by the undertow, painting puzzle pieces into my flesh, drawing them on walls, translating them into different frequency vibrations, music, poetry, yoga. I tried to split the riddle in half between my ego and self, between the moon and the sun, between the microcosm and the macrocosm, even between life and death itself, and after all my suffering and heartache, careful attention, patience and suspension of disbelief; i still found myself running in logical circles each morning when i awoke, with yesterdays wisdom on the tip of my tongue but with incompatible speech pattern recognition software uploaded into my domain.

My dome, my human bio-computer. I felt lost in spacetime on many an occasion around about noon or 2 PM, i had constructed the universe since waking, and, as i say, always felt bogged down around 2 o’ clock; just as the stars were congressing, and i was getting hungry since having only a blueberry donut for breakfast and some electric kool aid around 12:12 this afternoon.

Some days i would keep it real way through into the evening hours without deluding myself too much, it bacame kind of psycho-sadistic for a while there, i would neglect even my notion of “I” in the confusion i felt in the early stages of divining between ego, self, super self, super-ego, supra-conscious and the stoopid unconscious.

Round and round like a caged mouse wheel at full spin cycle, i spun for a hold reality, i spit out spider words, consciously, or so i thought, directing them toward solid structures, biological systems i could swing between and blend myself into, but most of the time my web of words hit a seemingly solid structure, which would without warning turn liquid or slippery and unstable, i found myself wondering…”can there be such a thing as an unwobbling pivot? I doubted it, and doubted again. And for all my doubting i just recall the pain. The suffering of seeing through the veil, of seeing my fellow human beings impaled upon alphabetical empires and squashed like grapes inside the imperialist sovereign empire; the super proper gandhi machine. crushing the fruit of wisdom with the sheer weight of metal currency.

Choking the natural abundance of wealth with ideological hierarchies, similar to the Christian blinker which obscures the infinite flux of being with finite spells ‘ABOUT” the infinite flux of non-being, or the death of manjesus and the resurrection of the super spirt being christ. The supreme being of infinite stupidity and ignorance, this seems to be the same being as the being who the money gods worship, the abstracted spirit from the symbol, resurrected through the ideology, the conscious projector of prejudice.

With Dollar symbols and Pound signs leaving their trace every which way these suckers look, and every way they indent grace with their vulgar language and ugly categorical rhetorical dream of a mericle, a dream in which they can cash in all their stolen ideological loot for the real.

The worshipers of the money gods dream of the day that Christ turns their golden bonds into another symbolic system, more dissproportionatly rigg ratioed so that they can steel more actual natural abundance with their monopoly money, their empire enforced credit. Their so called wealth.

They are dreamers who created a metaphor of my own spiritual quest for the elusive infinite flux of being, wherever i turn my gaze throughout the havoc and haze of this life, i pull down the veil, to no avail. Do not stop and stair, they say, just walk into the bank of heaven, and reinforce the trixsters of the finite world in their project of world domination through flipping the poles of infinite and finite to produce a world word war of terror, in which the national pride and collective ego plays the role of abusive farther priest to the only begotten son; the individual, the self evident infinite flux of immortal spirit, the Chrudder self, not bound to any book, doctrine of ideological symbol system by necessity, but, by choice.

The sheeple need a sheperd, or so it seems to me, even though the fences and social hedgerows have been refuted and denied to exist as limits in any way shape or form since the begining of time, since the onset of self consciousness and self realization. The chains of law have been broken, why don’t the people want to play anymore.

“Don’t be afraid of the riddler” was a mantra i repeated when i thought about the imaginary walls of authority enforced by the imaginary essence of occidental identity, and maybe, the solution to the problem of identity being the explosion and brutal destruction of further investigation, or fair, reasonable, deductive criticism by the blind hammer of monism. Certainty. non-doubt. Full compliance with the – more often than not, in examples of severe violence and forcefully imposed suffering – male orgasmically missaligned and sexually unacknowledged ego center. 100% male certainty that death is the only answer, complete destruction the only cure, pre emptive strike the only option. Your either with us, or against us. One or the other, not both.

Duality must be smashed and reformed into a pure sword of truth, a sword which, although sharp, and well made, can never split anything in two, because by the very nature of its forgery, it can never create duality. Everything it cuts moves into reform and remould process by the power of a singular god, in the case of Christianity the God Christ, he, who makes the world whole again, he who has one way and one heart, he who cannot listen to reason and accept the splintered nature of self or selves, he whom dare not enter the 20th century or the 19th century in fear of being forced into two parts, or unveiled or unmasked to his true and multiple identity.

A sword cast from many chemicals allied with mag-stery a sword -word which has been known to have a mind of its own, to be unpredictable, a sword which turns into a lightening bolt or a stream, this sword is now the principle of metamorphoses. Only adaquatley described in the western tradition through metaphysics and super abstract propositional functions which bear about as much resemblance to their signifiers as a typewriter resembles the Amazonian rain forest.

These are the thoughts which sometimes came to visit me on an evening, if i ever got that far into my search for the infinite flux of being, inside the finite flux of this keyboard. You really should of being there over this last month or two, i must have seemed crazy to other people, setting up ghost traps and fancy phantom attractors or landing docks for the unconscious other.

I found that on my quest the spirit knowers and so called psychics are annoying and irritating to me, what you know cannot be a part of your nature i used to shout, but after the first time of saying this i realized my own infinite regress and fall into meaninglessness. Since that time i have being constantly vigilant for any knew techniques or methods for transferring my insights about my conflict with the flux and yet avoiding the many pitfalls and come downs associated with psychological showvanism in the west. I invented myself as a superflux hero, with wings and bionic powers, but at the same time, still had to take a shit and take showers.

One day i turned my critical insight upon myself and discovered a hidden garden of passionate and vibrant energy, fluttering between scenes, always on the move, everchanging, semi recognizable but very interesting. She was interesting, and she was a female. I must confess what happened to me myself and i, when i found out i had a women inside of me all this time, and she had never raised her head or made a murmur until that day, the day the earth stood still, and “I” came to realize myself and her relationship with the other, my other brother, our mother and great great great grandmother identity flux.

She made me mad as a poet, mad as a street cleaning vehicle, it was a miricle how i ever found my way backto back here, into a sentence with a semi logical flow, a sentence with a release date somewhere in view, rather than a prison term called life, with no end in sight, with no new beginning possible for that very same reason.

She had taken me from the end of the beginning and backtoback through the middle part and onward to the beginning of the end, on so many occasions that i had become a timelessness critter of the immortal Tao. Well, thats what i call myself now in this alphabetical plot to tie a know into form with structure wrapped around your cranium, vibrant, beautiful like a well watered geranium. Tao the way everyday, everywhen, everyman, everywomen, all the time and all-at-once, moment after moment, before before and after after, the now Tao has a timetravel function, in which it can construct a future universe scenario and aim to apprehend the event.

With a bit of luck i hope to apprehend Christianity with the Tao, let it come down, before the monotheism and ignorance of the western religio-political predator tears to pieces or bombs to bits anybody whom will not swallow the godma of tyrannical sovereign nations; hell bent on acting out their favorite parts of their favorite book, by their favorite author. Beware the critter of one book, and be especially aware of the reader who takes the infinite literally. Beware the Supreme sovereign farther of the divine identity.

He may rape you, steal your belongings and take advantage of you with His grand title. He may sentence you to death with a poison pen or mistake you for the villain inside His own rotten heart. Beware the monotheist and the naive realist, beware the saviour; question authority.

Steve ‘fly agaric 23’ Pratt. 2005. Paragraphed January 29th, 2012.