Sonnet: Someone's Chemtrailed My Consciousness

Something's wrong with consciousness. Whatever will we do?

Sparks don't fly; morning leaves don't have the same shimmer;

my froggy tadpoles don't have a single swimmer.

Aliens have taken over the mental zoo.

My dreams have phantasmagorical viral warts.

I punched a guy in the face who said, Kafkaesque,

and I went looking for some killer shrooms and mesc

to tide me over. I was feeling out of sorts.

Just imagine if you had gremlins in your head,

felt all Truman Show, had thoughts not yours, and voices

mocking you with timelines and double-bind choices.

Bloodsport fascism. The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

I'm not crazy, north by northwest, as Hamlet says,

but the ghosts are chasing me, one's wearing a fez.