My mental rebellion...

Of late, for a while, or at least a few days, I've exhausted my personal range of emotions and ways of 'being' in a variety of settings; eclipsing both 'ballsy' and blasé. I've drunk myself sober and admired the aesthetic that is life, that is living. I had lost a certain amount of myself and was greeted with prophetic dreams and languorous visions that encapsulated my grave distaste; all the while not certain of what I was really thinking or feeling, because I was heavily drunk or else, just not in a frame of mind to think or recall sober events with clarity. The harm I've put my body through is likely to be repaired and reversed, the strange  documents of half sense and the names that have been written are my only true souvenir of this transformation that is constantly taking place.
This is an example, and I don't know what they mean:

I Was Awoken by a Voice

His name is ‘Mark’;

Sleepily,

he wakes from rest-

post coitus-

and answers the phone for another:

a woman.

It is early

and his duty,

he forgets.

His silence and subterfuge

were all that

were wanted. Now he speaks and

now his fate is sealed.

You awoke me from my visions,

Mark.

She travelled far

to return to you

the docile-with-sickness,

Panther of my mind.

‘A rat!’ She cried,

exultantly

and slipped through the cracks

of the night.

In the fresh morning air

is the scent of a cigarette

that I never smoked. And

so-

she has been here,

but she didn’t stay long.

The Boat Rowers

Then they started

rowing a boat,

at least,

they pretended to be,

and I thought:

No, not they,

though embalmed in light

they be