A poem:
Prohibitionism and Legalisation
Prohibitionism and Legalisation
Prohibitionism and Legalisation
Prohobitionism and eegalisation
Prohibitionsm and legalisation
Proibitionsim and legalisation
Prohisiniotibìsm and kelagisation
Rojsadh ands legasisn
Ash dash sashdpasda
The words break under the weight of the hypocrisy. They dissolve into the static. By the time the state is finished with a concept, it’s just noise—ash dash sashdpasda.
The binary is a trap. A clinical cage. A clinical cling. A clinical cringe.
What’s wrong and what’s right? What’s legal and what’s illegal? What’s good for me and what’s not? Do those overlap or do they clash? Who decides? Do I, do you, does somebody else? What’s the criteria? Yours, mine, theirs? And do I care, do you care, do they care? Is it Absolute or relative? Why do we have to care or decide? Why not to care or decide? What interests are we serving?
The criteria is always the same: The Algebra of Need, aka the Mathematics of Greed. How much control can be extracted? How much extraction can ben controlled? At best like a good solid GMO or Barbara Bud, we can get to 7-8%. Some might 10% but it’s all a lie. Like those beautiful 38% THC from a Gorilla Glue. Too good to be true, yet a temptation too strong to resist.
But who gives a flying F nowadays? You? “Yeah, yeah, right! right! right!” “Yeah! Yeah! Hah hah hah hah hah hah hah Right!” Me? “You” care because you’re breathing it, smoking it like there’s no better tomorrow. “I” care because I have no choice. I am a sick man… but I am a man with a light. A mix of the mad man with the lantern (Nietzsche) and the Undeground Man of Dostoevsky. Get it? Nah, I am afraid you don’t. Your eyes have yet to adjust to ultraviolet ultra glo of a terpenic myrcene scented LED light yet.
So let me make it clear for you and for those who still go around chanting “Legalise it!” like a flock of doped sheep who have always lived their lives and “have seen the world” from their thick, opaque little fancy fenced polder. Legalise my ass, motherfuckers. And now that I’ve said it, the static settles, I calm down and explain the autopsy even better.
As it’s been said thousands of times now, prohibitionism has failed. Maybe. But maybe it’s just evolving like a horny Pokemon, or a like a deadly virus in our weak modern corpses. Disguised as a progressive politician from the past, or a fake activist who couldn’t cut it as a green dealer, legalisation is not about actually making a real change, but rather breeding sterilised consensus and maintaining the status quo. A technicolor in full grey scale. In simpler words, it changes only for a few, but it’s always the same shit for the rest of those psychonaut wannabe. Yep, true story.
Because legalisation is not about setting it free, but rather lock the real soul of it behind some paywalls, carefully erected by some little lobbyists, who’ve been working in the glowing shadow. They were drawing the blueprints for the Cage, while we were being chased through the mud by the dobermans of the Upper Forces. In most cases legalisation is like a pre-packed meal or a celluloid salad: it looks nice and fancy, but it tastes like a plastic tube or burn out cigarette filter. Or, if you’re lucky, it has no taste at all.
The real green vibrating, grandiosely resinous truth is not for the most, but just for a few, selected group of upper class people who hold the soft and smooth velvet network of connections to get there before anybody could hear or even think about it. Matter of fact, they’re the architect and engineer of this wonderful system. Legalisation is to fight for something that’s already being prepped up as the next big scam. And you’re not even barely aware of it, because you’re there still struggling to learn the grammar and vocabulary of an ever changing language almost nobody speaks. But that’s ok.
So do your job. Wag your tail.
People have spent years in the darkness, in the underground of basements and DIY indoor facilities, built on fever, dreams and possible electrocution, trying to breed, grow, distribute (without necessarily an intent to sell and profit) the green spirit of a higher nature. All at great risks of the inevitable dissolution of their lives. Yes, of course, they weren’t all heroes and good samaritans. There were greedy-ass scavengers too, trying to make money on others. But the driving force was and still is (for some of us) a biological insurrection. Like a Jesus Christ in a chequered t-shirt and brown stained jeans. Breeders, growers, extractors, the driving force of an up and coming industry, finally making to the surface and potentially savouring the light of the day.
Then the “legalise it” movement arrives, with its heavy smell cologne, smooth suits and ties and big corporate words about the future, scientific discovery and progress. Pure BS. Well, they are dancing on the skulls of giants., profiteering, stealing and taking over a frequency they didn’t build or discover, and cannot possibly understand or operate. Yet they slapped a label and a bar code on a miracle and made it their own.
And we? We’re just clowny dogs, wagging the tail and happily barking at the hand that’s harvesting our perfectly washed brain waves. Chasing holographic dreams while they blow digitized smoke into our eyes—wrapped in a lab-tested label that promises nothing but healthy illusions.
The pixels are starting to flake off the walls now. The floor is turning into a grid, or an excel file. The sky is just a low-resolution wallpaper of the memories of the good, old underground days.
“I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”