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Joseph S C Pope Jun 2013
There is nothing new under the sun, but it was night and the indifferent blinks of gaseous lives above looked down while my friends and I were at a new fast food joint that moved next to a now lonely Wendy's, with a faded sign tarnished by something the new fast food joint had yet to experience—mundanity by time. But I had my notebook with me while we ate outside, but it was in the car. My mind is always in that book, and I remembered something I had written for a novel in progress: 'Nothing is new under the sun. How is it possible to watch stars die? There is nothing new to their dust. We are the flies of the universes.'
It was just when I had finished my BBQ pork sandwich when Ariana suggested visiting a graveyard. I had the idea to visit a Satanist graveyard that our friend, Lanessa warned us against for the better safety of our sane souls—good luck with that. I wanted a revival of fear. How the beast would rip at the roof off our metal can of a car—the greater our barbarism, the greater our admiration and imagination—the less admiration and imagination, the greater our barbarism. But Ariana disagrees with words I never say, Nick laughs with my simple words to that previous thought. How funny it would be to burn eternal.
But then he suggested we should go to the Trussel in Conway. I had no idea or quote to think about to contribute to this idea. I wander, as I like to, into the possibility that his idea is a good one. Like some wanting hipster, I dress in an old t-shirt with of mantra long forgotten in the meaning of its cadence.
That is the march of men and women into the sea—honest, but forgetful and forgotten.
I was wearing a shirt sleeve on my head I bought from a mall-chain hippie store, and exercise shorts, finished off with skele-toes shoes. I was ready for everything and nothing at the same time. And that fits, I suppose. But all that does matter—and doesn't, but it is hard as hell to read the mind of a reader—it's like having a lover, but s/he doesn't know what s/he wants from you—selfish *******.
But there I was,  on the road, laughing in the back seat, sitting next to a girl who was tired, but also out of place. I could see she wanted to close arms of another, the voice of another, the truth that sits next to her while watching tv every time she comes over to hang with him, but never accepts that truth. She is a liar, but only to herself. How can she live with that? The world may never know.
The simple rides into things you've never done before give some of the greatest insight you could imagine, but only on the simple things that come full circle later. That is a mantra you can't print on a t-shirt, but if it ever is, I'm copyrighting it. And if it's not possible, I'll make it possible!
When we got to the Trussel, the scenic path lit by ornamented lamps seemed tame once I stepped onto the old railroad tracks. They were rusted and bruised by the once crushing value of trains rolling across it's once sturdy structure. Now they were old, charred by the night, and more than just some abandoned railroad bridge—the Trussel was a camouflage symbol birthed by the moment I looked into a Garfish's eye as it nibbled on my cork while I was on a fishing trip with my granddad when I was eleven. I remember that moment so well as the pale, olive green eye looked at me with a sort of seething iron imprint—I needed that fear, it branded instead of whispering that knowledge into my ears.
That moment epitomizes my fear of heights over water—what lies beneath to rip, restrain, devour, impale, and or distract me.
But epitomize is a horrible word. It reeks of undeveloped understanding. Yet  I want a nimble connection with something as great as being remembered—a breathe of air and the ideas  thought by my younger self, but I will never see or remember what I thought about when I was that young—only the summary of my acts and words. And by that nothing has changed—am I too afraid to say what I need to say? Too afraid to hear what everyone else hears? Or is it the truth—depravity of depravities that has no idea of its potential, so I am tired of the words that describe my shortcomings and unextended gasping hope. I am tired of living in the land of Gatsby Syndrome waiting for Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy!
But when we got to where the Trussel actually began I felt the fear hit like the day it was born—all hope was drained, and I was okay with abandoning all aspirations of having fun and being myself in the face of public criticism. I was flushed out by the weasel in my belly—the ******* beneath those still waters. I compare it to someone being able to handle Waterboarding, but can't handle being insulted—it's that kind of pathetic.
I stood just on the last understandably steady railroad ties that I knew were safe and watched my friends sit off the edge of the bridge, taking in the cold wonder of the night, and I was told at least I was smarter than my dead cousin who managed to get on top of his high school in the middle of the night, but had to be cohearsed down for fifteen minutes by a future marine, and future mourner who still grieves with a smile on his face.
The future mourner, he laughs at the times he insulted, or made fun of, or chilled with his now dead friend. It's never the bad times he cries about, there are none—just the good times, because they don't make them like they used to.
I watched them in that moment, and I don't know if I can deal with knowing my life is real. I began to blame my morality on this fear even though I already justified the fear just seconds before. But as I write this, I look over my notes and see something I wrote a few days ago: 'Life is ******* with  us right now. You laugh and I laugh, but we're still getting ******. The demon's in our face.'
As morbid as that comes off, it resonates some truth—what is killing us is going to **** us no matter what we do—and I don't want to be epitomized by the acts and words I didn't say.
I was never in the moment as a kid—I was raised by by old people and kept back by my younger siblings. The experienced tried to teach me wisdom, and the inexperienced kept my imagination locked in time. I don't want to go home as much now because I see that the inexperienced are becoming wiser everyday and the experienced are dying before my eyes. My idea of things is enduring leprosy.
But back to the simple moments.
Ariana saw a playground as she stood up and investigated the Trussel. It was next to the river, behind the church, fenced off by the fellowship of the church to keep the young ones in and the troublesome out. Of course, we didn't realize there was a gate and it was locked until Nick stated the probable obvious within ten feet of the nostalgic playground. And that's when Ariana pointed out the bugs swarming the parking lot outdoor lamp that blazed the fleshiness of our presences into dense shadows and more than likely caught the eye of a suspicious driver in a truck passing by. But I was still on the bridge—back in the past, never the moment. Me and my friends are still children inside these ***** forms. I muttered to myself: “Life ain't about baby steps.”
Nick looked over and asked what I said. I turned around, dramatic, like I always like to and repeated louder this time, “Life ain't about baby steps.”
He asked if I needed to do this alone, and I said he could come along. I walked rhythmically across the railroad ties, and heard Ariana comment that getting to the railroad up the small, steep hill was like being in the Marines. I laughed sarcastically. Nick and I had been to Parris Island before, and I know they test your possible fears, but they beat the living **** out of them.
I casually walk into the room where my fear lives and tell it to get the **** out.
When I reached the precipice of the last railroad tie I stood on before, I felt the old remind me that death awaited me, but there was no epic soundtrack or incredible action scene where I stab a manifestation of my fear in heart—a bit fun it might have been, but not the truth. I bear-crawled over the crossings of the ties and the structure of the bridge itself. I felt Relowatiphsy—an open-minded apathy self-made philosophical term—take over me. It is much simpler than it sounds.
There was no cold wonder as I imagined. There was just a bleak mirror of water below, a stiff curtain of trees that shadowed it, and the curiosity of what lies in the dark continuing distance past the Trussel.
Nick sat with me and we talked about women and fear, or at least I did, and I hoped he felt what I did—there was a force there that is nabbed by everyone, but cherished by few—courage. And I thank him for it, but I know I did it. Now I want to go and jump in that still water below—Ariana later says she's happy I got over my fear, but I'll probably have a harder time during the day when I can see what I'm facing, but I see it differently. During the day, the demons are stone and far away—like looking down the barrels of a double-barreled shotgun uncocked and unloaded, but at night is when the chamber is full and ready to go, and you have no idea who is holding the gun with their finger on the trigger and your destination in mind.
Then we threw rocks into the water in contest to see who could throw past the moonlight into the shadowy distance . I aimed for the water marker, and got the closest with limited footing, using just my arm strength. But it wasn't long before we had to leave, making fun of people who do cooler things than us, on the way to the car. I had to ride in the back seat again because I forgot to call shotgun. But on the way home, the idea popped in our heads what we should get my hooka and go to Broadway, and get the materials so we could smoke on the beach.
Nick's girlfriend and her friend joined us.
I missed a few puns against my co-worker as I was sent to get free water from the candy store where I work. I ended up doing a chore because I was taller than most of the people there. Appropriate enough, it was filling the water bottles up in the refrigerator.
All the while I loathed the fact that I would have to be clocked in tomorrow by two in the afternoon. I grabbed the water and got out of there as fast as possible without appearing to be in a hurry.
Impression of caring matters more than the actuality where I work—and yes, that makes me a miserable ****.
Perhaps it's not too late to admit I am recovering pyromaniac from my childhood and the flavoring we use for the taffy is extremely flammable. It would be a shame to drench the store in what people love to smell everyday when they walk in, and light the gas stove. Then, maybe I could walk away real cool-like as this pimple in this tourist acne town pops like the Hindenburg. The impression of splendor is like a phoenix—it grows old, dies, resurrects into the same, but apparently different form, spreads it's wings, and eats and ***** on everything simple, or presumably so.
I forget the name of the beach, but it was the best time I've had in a while. I was whimsy, and high on the vastness of the stretch of beach around us. They could bury us here. But me in particular. I rolled from the middle of the beach to the water, stood in the waves and shouted my phrase I coined when I realize something as wonderful as conquering a fear or realizing a dream;
--******' off!
And I stared at the horizon. My friends came up behind me and I looked back to see it was Nick and his girlfriend hugging. I gave a soft smile, put my hands in my pocket, and turned back to stare at the clouded horizon. What beasts must lie out there—more ferocious than the simple fresh water beings that wait beneath the earlier placid waters. I was a fool to think that was the worst. Nick said as I pondered all that, that I looked like Gatsby, and I tried to give him a smile that you may only see once in a lifetime, but I'm sure it failed.
I wanted to tell him that, “You cannot make me happy. It is usually the people who have no intention of making me happy that makes me smile the quickest.” But I don't. Let me be Gatsby, or Fitzgerald, if to no one else, but myself.

Hell is the deterioration of all that matters, and as the five of us sat around the hooka, and inhaled the thick blueberry flavored smoke that hinted at the taste of the Blueberry flavoring I use to make Blueberry taffy, there was a satirical realization that the coal used to activate the tobacco and flavor in the bowl is sparking like a firework, and reminds us all of where we're going.
It's a love affair between that hopelessness and hope of some destination we've only read about, but never seen.
By this point Nick and I are covered in sand, because he joined me in fun of rolling down the beach. We want so bad to be Daoists—nonchalant to the oblivion as we sit in. Just on the rifts of the tide, he and I scooped handfuls of wet sand, and I lost my fear of making sense and let Relowatiphsy take over again.
“Look at the sand in your hands. It can be molded to the shapes your hands make. We scoop it out of the surf and it falls through our fingers. There are things we're afraid of out there, and we sit just out reach of them, but within the grasp of their impressions. The sand falls through our fingers, and it plops into the tide, sending back up drops of water to hit our hands—the molders of our lives.” I said all that in hope against the hopelessness of being forgotten.
Then he said, “What if this is life? Not just the metaphor, but the act of holding sand in our hands.
I relish in his idea of wiping away my fear of an unimportant life. And by this point, it's safe to assume I live to relish ideas.

The last bit of sand from the last handful of sand was washed from my hand and I looked back at the clouded horizon, pitch black with frightful clouds and said:
“Nick, if I don't become a writer. If I live a life where I just convince myself everything's fine, and that dream will come true after I finish all the practical prep I 'must' do. I will **** myself.
I looked at him, Relowatiphsy in my heart, and he said:
“As a friend, I'd be sad, but I'd understand. But that means you have to literally fight for your life now—regardlessly.”
And he left me with those words. Just the same as my granddad left me a serious heed before he wanted to talk about something more cheerful, when I asked about his glory days fishing the Great *** Dee River. He said: “I wish I'd been here before the white man polluted the river. It would've been something to fish this water then”, then he paused to catch his breath, “Guess there are some things that stay, and others than go.” Then joy returned, as it always does.

But the idea of what was happening to me didn't hit me until we were a few miles away from the beach, covered in sand, but the potential of the night after conquering my fear of heights over water had been shed in the ocean.
Around midnight, when the headache from the cheap hooka smoke wore off and the mystic veil of the clouds over the horizon has been closed in by the condensation on the windows of some Waffle House in Myrtle Beach. There was a wave of seriousness that broke over my imagination. Works calls for me tomorrow by two.
There's not much vacationing when you live in a vacation town.
And midnight—the witching hour—spooks away the posers too afraid to commit to rage against the fear.
But there are others—college students that walk in and complain about the temperature of the eating establishment, and the lack of ashtrays—how they must be thinking of dining and dashing—running from a box, but forever locked in it.

They make annoying music as I write this. That is how they deal.
This one was the unedited version (if I make that sound naughty or euphemistic).
Joseph S C Pope Jun 2013
There is nothing new under the sun, but it was night and the indifferent blinks of gaseous lives above looked down while my friends and I were at a new fast food joint that moved next to a now lonely Wendy's, with a faded sign tarnished by something the new fast food joint had yet to experience—mundanity by time. But I had my notebook with me while we ate outside, but it was in the car. My mind is always in that book, and I remembered something I had written for a novel in progress: 'Nothing is new under the sun. How is it possible to watch stars die? There is nothing new to their dust. We are the flies of the universes.'
It was just when I had finished my BBQ pork sandwich when Ariana suggested visiting a graveyard. I had the idea to visit a Satanist graveyard that our friend, Lanessa warned us against for the better safety of our sane souls—good luck with that. I wanted a revival of fear. How the beast would rip at the roof off our metal can of a car—the greater our barbarism, the greater our admiration and imagination—the less admiration and imagination, the greater our barbarism. But Ariana disagrees with words I never say, Nick laughs with my simple words to that previous thought. How funny it would be to burn eternal.
But then he suggested we should go to the Trussel in Conway. I had no idea or quote to think about to contribute to this idea. I wander, as I like to, into the possibility that his idea is a good one. Like some wanting hipster, I dress in an old t-shirt with of mantra long forgotten in the meaning of its cadence.
That is the march of men and women into the sea—honest, but forgetful and forgotten.
I was wearing a shirt sleeve on my head I bought from a mall-chain hippie store, and exercise shorts, finished off with skele-toes shoes. I was ready for everything and nothing at the same time. And that fits, I suppose. But all that does matter—and doesn't, but it is hard as hell to read the mind of a reader—it's like having a lover, but s/he doesn't know what s/he wants from you—selfish *******.
But there I was,  on the road, laughing in the back seat, sitting next to a girl who was tired, but also out of place. I could see she wanted to close arms of another, the voice of another, the truth that sits next to her while watching tv every time she comes over to hang with him, but never accepts that truth. She is a liar, but only to herself. How can she live with that? The world may never know.
The simple rides into things you've never done before give some of the greatest insight you could imagine, but only on the simple things that come full circle later. That is a mantra you can't print on a t-shirt, but if it ever is, I'm copyrighting it. And if it's not possible, I'll make it possible!
When we got to the Trussel, the scenic path lit by ornamented lamps seemed tame once I stepped onto the old railroad tracks. They were rusted and bruised by the once crushing value of trains rolling across it's once sturdy structure. Now they were old, charred by the night, and more than just some abandoned railroad bridge—the Trussel was a camouflage symbol birthed by the moment I looked into a Garfish's eye as it nibbled on my cork while I was on a fishing trip with my granddad when I was eleven. I remember that moment so well as the pale, olive green eye looked at me with a sort of seething iron imprint—I needed that fear, it branded instead of whispering that knowledge into my ears.
That moment epitomizes my fear of heights over water—what lies beneath to rip, restrain, devour, impale, and or distract me.
But epitomize is a horrible word. It reeks of undeveloped understanding. Yet  I want a nimble connection with something as great as being remembered—a breathe of air and the ideas  thought by my younger self, but I will never see or remember what I thought about when I was that young—only the summary of my acts and words. And by that nothing has changed—am I too afraid to say what I need to say? Too afraid to hear what everyone else hears? Or is it the truth—depravity of depravities that has no idea of its potential, so I am tired of the words that describe my shortcomings and unextended gasping hope. I am tired of living in the land of Gatsby Syndrome waiting for Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy!
But when we got to where the Trussel actually began I felt the fear hit like the day it was born—all hope was drained, and I was okay with abandoning all aspirations of having fun and being myself in the face of public criticism. I was flushed out by the weasel in my belly—the ******* beneath those still waters. I compare it to someone being able to handle Waterboarding, but can't handle being insulted—it's that kind of pathetic.
I stood just on the last understandably steady railroad ties that I knew were safe and watched my friends sit off the edge of the bridge, taking in the cold wonder of the night, and I was told at least I was smarter than my dead cousin who managed to get on top of his high school in the middle of the night, but had to be cohearsed down for fifteen minutes by a future marine, and future mourner who still grieves with a smile on his face.
The future mourner, he laughs at the times he insulted, or made fun of, or chilled with his now dead friend. It's never the bad times he cries about, there are none—just the good times, because they don't make them like they used to.
I watched them in that moment, and I don't know if I can deal with knowing my life is real. I began to blame my morality on this fear even though I already justified the fear just seconds before. But as I write this, I look over my notes and see something I wrote a few days ago: 'Life is ******* with  us right now. You laugh and I laugh, but we're still getting ******. The demon's in our face.'
As morbid as that comes off, it resonates some truth—what is killing us is going to **** us no matter what we do—and I don't want to be epitomized by the acts and words I didn't say.
I was never in the moment as a kid—I was raised by by old people and kept back by my younger siblings. The experienced tried to teach me wisdom, and the inexperienced kept my imagination locked in time. I don't want to go home as much now because I see that the inexperienced are becoming wiser everyday and the experienced are dying before my eyes. My idea of things is enduring leprosy.
But back to the simple moments.
Ariana saw a playground as she stood up and investigated the Trussel. It was next to the river, behind the church, fenced off by the fellowship of the church to keep the young ones in and the troublesome out. Of course, we didn't realize there was a gate and it was locked until Nick stated the probable obvious within ten feet of the nostalgic playground. And that's when Ariana pointed out the bugs swarming the parking lot outdoor lamp that blazed the fleshiness of our presences into dense shadows and more than likely caught the eye of a suspicious driver in a truck passing by. But I was still on the bridge—back in the past, never the moment. Me and my friends are still children inside these ***** forms. I muttered to myself: “Life ain't about baby steps.”
Nick looked over and asked what I said. I turned around, dramatic, like I always like to and repeated louder this time, “Life ain't about baby steps.”
He asked if I needed to do this alone, and I said he could come along. I walked rhythmically across the railroad ties, and heard Ariana comment that getting to the railroad up the small, steep hill was like being in the Marines. I laughed sarcastically. Nick and I had been to Parris Island before, and I know they test your possible fears, but they beat the living **** out of them.
I casually walk into the room where my fear lives and tell it to get the **** out.
When I reached the precipice of the last railroad tie I stood on before, I felt the old remind me that death awaited me, but there was no epic soundtrack or incredible action scene where I stab a manifestation of my fear in heart—a bit fun it might have been, but not the truth. I bear-crawled over the crossings of the ties and the structure of the bridge itself. I felt Relowatiphsy—an open-minded apathy self-made philosophical term—take over me. It is much simpler than it sounds.
There was no cold wonder as I imagined. There was just a bleak mirror of water below, a stiff curtain of trees that shadowed it, and the curiosity of what lies in the dark continuing distance past the Trussel.
Nick sat with me and we talked about women and fear, or at least I did, and I hoped he felt what I did—there was a force there that is nabbed by everyone, but cherished by few—courage. And I thank him for it, but I know I did it. Now I want to go and jump in that still water below—Ariana later says she's happy I got over my fear, but I'll probably have a harder time during the day when I can see what I'm facing, but I see it differently. During the day, the demons are stone and far away—like looking down the barrels of a double-barreled shotgun uncocked and unloaded, but at night is when the chamber is full and ready to go, and you have no idea who is holding the gun with their finger on the trigger and your destination in mind.
Then we threw rocks into the water in contest to see who could throw past the moonlight into the shadowy distance . I aimed for the water marker, and got the closest with limited footing, using just my arm strength. But it wasn't long before we had to leave, making fun of people who do cooler things than us, on the way to the car. I had to ride in the back seat again because I forgot to call shotgun. But on the way home, the idea popped in our heads what we should get my hooka and go to Broadway, and get the materials so we could smoke on the beach.
Nick's girlfriend and her friend joined us.
I missed a few puns against my co-worker as I was sent to get free water from the candy store where I work. I ended up doing a chore because I was taller than most of the people there. Appropriate enough, it was filling the water bottles up in the refrigerator.
All the while I loathed the fact that I would have to be clocked in tomorrow by two in the afternoon. I grabbed the water and got out of there as fast as possible without appearing to be in a hurry.
Impression of caring matters more than the actuality where I work—and yes, that makes me a miserable ****.
Perhaps it's not too late to admit I am recovering pyromaniac from my childhood and the flavoring we use for the taffy is extremely flammable. It would be a shame to drench the store in what people love to smell everyday when they walk in, and light the gas stove. Then, maybe I could walk away real cool-like as this pimple in this tourist acne town pops like the Hindenburg. The impression of splendor is like a phoenix—it grows old, dies, resurrects into the same, but apparently different form, spreads it's wings, and eats and ***** on everything simple, or presumably so.
I forget the name of the beach, but it was the best time I've had in a while. I was whimsy, and high on the vastness of the stretch of beach around us. They could bury us here. But me in particular. I rolled from the middle of the beach to the water, stood in the waves and shouted my phrase I coined when I realize something as wonderful as conquering a fear or realizing a dream;
--******' off!
And I stared at the horizon. My friends came up behind me and I looked back to see it was Nick and his girlfriend hugging. I gave a soft smile, put my hands in my pocket, and turned back to stare at the clouded horizon. What beasts must lie out there—more ferocious than the simple fresh water beings that wait beneath the earlier placid waters. I was a fool to think that was the worst. Nick said as I pondered all that, that I looked like Gatsby, and I tried to give him a smile that you may only see once in a lifetime, but I'm sure it failed.
I wanted to tell him that, “You cannot make me happy. It is usually the people who have no intention of making me happy that makes me smile the quickest.” But I don't. Let me be Gatsby, or Fitzgerald, if to no one else, but myself.

Hell is the deterioration of all that matters, and as the five of us sat around the hooka, and inhaled the thick blueberry flavored smoke that hinted at the taste of the Blueberry flavoring I use to make Blueberry taffy, there was a satirical realization that the coal used to activate the tobacco and flavor in the bowl is sparking like a firework, and reminds us all of where we're going.
It's a love affair between that hopelessness and hope of some destination we've only read about, but never seen.
By this point Nick and I are covered in sand, because he joined me in fun of rolling down the beach. We want so bad to be Daoists—nonchalant to the oblivion as we sit in. Just on the rifts of the tide, he and I scooped handfuls of wet sand, and I lost my fear of making sense and let Relowatiphsy take over again.
“Look at the sand in your hands. It can be molded to the shapes your hands make. We scoop it out of the surf and it falls through our fingers. There are things we're afraid of out there, and we sit just out reach of them, but within the grasp of their impressions. The sand falls through our fingers, and it plops into the tide, sending back up drops of water to hit our hands—the molders of our lives.” I said all that in hope against the hopelessness of being forgotten.
Then he said, “What if this is life? Not just the metaphor, but the act of holding sand in our hands.
I relish in his idea of wiping away my fear of an unimportant life. And by this point, it's safe to assume I live to relish ideas.

The last bit of sand from the last handful of sand was washed from my hand and I looked back at the clouded horizon, pitch black with frightful clouds and said:
“Nick, if I don't become a writer. If I live a life where I just convince myself everything's fine, and that dream will come true after I finish all the practical prep I 'must' do. I will **** myself.
I looked at him, Relowatiphsy in my heart, and he said:
“As a friend, I'd be sad, but I'd understand. But that means you have to literally fight for your life now—regardlessly.”
And he left me with those words. Just the same as my granddad left me a serious heed before he wanted to talk about something more cheerful, when I asked about his glory days fishing the Great *** Dee River. He said: “I wish I'd been here before the white man polluted the river. It would've been something to fish this water then”, then he paused to catch his breath, “Guess there are some things that stay, and others than go.” Then joy returned, as it always does.

But the idea of what was happening to me didn't hit me until we were a few miles away from the beach, covered in sand, but the potential of the night after conquering my fear of heights over water had been shed in the ocean.
Around midnight, when the headache from the cheap hooka smoke wore off and the mystic veil of the clouds over the horizon has been closed in by the condensation on the windows of some Waffle House in Myrtle Beach. There was a wave of seriousness that broke over my imagination. Works calls for me tomorrow by two.
There's not much vacationing when you live in a vacation town.
And midnight—the witching hour—spooks away the posers too afraid to commit to rage against the fear.
But there are others—college students that walk in and complain about the temperature of the eating establishment, and the lack of ashtrays—how they must be thinking of dining and dashing—running from a box, but forever locked in it.

They make annoying music as I write this. That is how they deal with the inevitable death of the night. They bruise the air I breathe with love and faith and trust with no meaning—without even meaning it. But what do they know what I didn’t feel when I sat on that bridge or cowered on the fringes of the ocean? Their hands aren’t ***** like mine—their confidence does not seem fractured by these words that will never reach them, or their kids, or grandkids.
As day begins to move, I know I work at two and will be home by midnight again. The witching hour—where some stay and others go.
Glenn McCrary Sep 2012
Is the occultist aware she’s daring,
That she carries the shadiest orifice?
No.
She just defecates and scars remain.


Akin to the likes of an unmarketable comedian:
passion on one side, narcissism on the other.
‘Twas unforeseen.


Enemies working together,
Exchanging callous banknotes.


No one had foreseen this.


Eventually, she’ll *******
from depositing and withdrawing.
But no one knows.
No one can ever know.
Cole Nubson Apr 2014
If you wreck your own morals you will feel alive
Because people tell us to believe crazy things:
Don't say I love you until you mean it,
But say what you feel or you will bottle your emotions!
Don't beg for *** and only lose your virginity to your one true love,
But if you're still a ****** after high school you're too conservative!
If you don't believe in God you are a satanist,
But only follow his laws when you're sitting under his steeple!
Do what we tell you to,
But be your own person.
We control you,
But consider yourself
Independent.
evolove Sep 2021
Saturn = Satan = Death Cult

Michael Jordans number was 23.
(2x3=6)
Saturn is the 6th planet from the sun.
Michael Jordan played for the Chicago Bulls. C(3)× B(2) = 6
Saturn's planetary symbol is a bull.
Michael Jordans nickname was "Air Jordan".
Saturn is the god of air (A.K.A. The prince of air)
Michael Jordan also has "6" championships.
Michael Jordan played 15 season (1+5=6)

Do you see the world around you?
Are you awake...
katie Dec 2013
There is no great guide and conductor
taking you through some great plan.
you wont get through any golden gates
because you were scared into doing good.
chances are chances and wishes are wishes,
not a preplanned destiny.
Do things because theyre right
not because some character in the clouds
told you to.

guide yourself through good and bad
have faith in that maybe we're responsible
for our own greatness.
have faith in us as a species and not a
sim-ulated play mate.

i sleep with a light on
because I'm scared of the dark.
my mind tells me there are dangers of the dark.
sleeping in the dark wont hurt me.
in many ways the dark is my light.
you might think so too.
What am I?

I am not White.

I am not Black.

I am not Hispanic or Asian or Native American.

I am a Human Being.

What am I?

I am not a Christian.

I am not a Satanist.

I am not Jewish or Muslim, or Hindu.

I am a Human Being.

What am I?

I am not a Racist.

I am not a Sexist.

I am not a ******, or a ***** or a *******.

I am a Human Being.

What am I?

I am not a Number.

I am not a Sheep.

I am not a Folder or a Report or a Profile.

I am a Human Being.

What am I?

I am my Mind.

I am my Heart.

I am my Soul.

I Am.

What are You?
Joseph Childress Oct 2011
The Terrorist

Do you know
What terror is?
Terror rising
Like the threat level
News televising
Different views
Like
Christian or Hindu
Muslim or Jew
How many Satanist
Crashed planes in
Places containing
Millions?
Murders of a martyr
Muttering under his breath
Not before a jump
From a building
But before
Walking through its doors
Trench coat
Drenched in sweat
No words spoken
But the name
Of a God
à la God
Allah!
Alas
A last breath
And a final moment
Gives a button
A fast press
Blast!
Explosions
Cold as the
Look he gave
Before he left
On his quest
Like a crusader
Crusading a nonbeliever
Then crucify
If you try
To stay true to self
Well, take me
As I am
And know
I never claim to know
I worship nothing
That creates war,
Whether real
Or not.
zebra May 2016
i love Satins *****
she means a lot to a bard
i hope shes a switch
but life can be hard

a satanist has class
and has a lot a will
and i love your sweet ***
and i work in Satan's mill


I know about archetypes
there my best friends
ive seen all there lights
and ive lived in their dens

thank god for the devil
hes been a hella good friend
i love you to hurt me
on that you may depend

a blade up my ***
ill shimmy and shake
and give you no sass
hope you want what you take
brandon nagley Dec 2016
i.

Sometimes angel's don't always fly,
Sometimes their amongst us;
In human form as disguise.

ii.

Sometimes angel's don't always soar,
They canst be thy child;
Or thy neighbor next door.

iii.

Sometimes angel's don't always wear wing's, they canst crieth, they bleed;
They art thy son's, daughter's,
Poet's, feins.

iv.

Sometimes angel's take upon them mortal flesh, yet they giveth their blood for other's; til their souls art ****, undressed.

v.

Sometimes angel's don't walk through wall's, sometimes they build those bridges, work night's or morn's, their backs art torn;
Their hands art raw.

vi.

Sometimes angel's art poor and rich,
Some abide in prison cell's, some hath seen heaven-hell; some give the raiment off their shoulder's, some work in muck, other's grit.

vii.

Sometimes angel's cant spell nor write, yet in times of hurt, their the ones polite; pouring out their love as God doth command.

viii.

Some angel's speak in silence, other's with distress in their eyne; some angel's hold up sign's reading
"This is the end of time".

ix.

Some angel's art from the middle East, other's from places cold, some on warm sandy ground, some in the divided land of the free, some down in Mexico;

Some angel's hide in mountain's,
Where the smoke doth never clear;
Some sleep near Creeks, in huts, in street's; some hath none home,
Some art cast away's- by their
Families considered freak's.

x.

Some angel's art light, and yet some art dark, some art Asian, Filipino, Malaysian, Chinese, Pakistani, African, Indian; all hath dreams.

Some eat fast cooked poisons, made from restaurants, other's chow with just their finger's or plow's, the opulent with forks and glitz;
Steak and egg's with clean shaved head's.

xi.

Some angel's sleep in ghetto's, meadow's, gutters; other's watch in heaven, looking down upon another.

xii.

Some angel's lie and wait for what tomorrow brings, smiles on their face, yet heart's crying; with sickness or losing their place.

Some angel's art right in front of thee, though thou canst not see;
Those angel's art the poet's
Whom hath given me strength
In mine time of need.

xiii.

So dear poet and Poetess, to those whom hast prayed for me in love; I thank thee, now look above, for God's glow is in this room, I feel his presence, I wilt tell thee truth.

The truth is this dear poet's, friend's of mine; forever show the creator's love and forgiveness, for those art God's commands, as Jesus stands beside me.........

He hold's mine hand.

©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Dedicated to all the poet's praying
for me and thinking of me in such a hard time I'm going through. I've been pretty sick lately so wanted to thank each and every one of you while I am ok. As putting all into gods hands. And for anyone who doesn't know yeshua hamashiach( meaning in Hebrew Jesus the Messiah as savior I have many links on my page links below plus in poems how to accept Christ as your savior. He died for all of you no matter what wrong you've done in life or continue to do. We have the son of God who died for all mankind's sin's for atheist, agnostic, Buddhist, Muslim, satanist. Pagan, witchcraft dabbler. Doesn't matter who you are. My Jesus loves each of you so much and wanna know how to be saved in him and why please look in past writing's on salvation and truth what's coming to this planet as is already happening now. I know this poem probably won't be very liked because i mention my lords name. As Christ told his believers long ago ( they would hate me because they first hated him) and how sad that is when he died rose again the Third day for every single human. You want truth seek Christ before to late. Because he is the life. He is life love forgiveness and the only way to heaven. Pray you accept him as Lord and Savior if haven't yet.

God bless.
Your friend Brandon nagley.

Note to fellow Christians( keep strong always look to Lord, and always I mean this with strong words
( ALWAYS show others love even if hated, if one takes your cloak give them the other also. If one snacks your cheek turn your other to them as well that they may smack the other. Take no vengeance. God's will be done not yours. Always always always FORGIVE one another and love one another. And you are the temples in which the holy spirit dwells, let God work in you let God's love flow through you like you flow words on your phone and laptop. Let God's forgiveness he gave you be given to all. Holding no bitterness or grudges in your human heart. God's greatest command to you and me is love so give it. Loving God first especially by keeping his words) commands, and loving man next no matter what they do or have done to you. Step out of the world yes it's hard sometimes as I got my own issues battling the flesh so I judge noone but trust God. We're saved by grace of God through our faith in Jesus Christ. Let not that faith die but live it out daily. Listen to another, help another. Let God soften your hearts he's the Potter we the vessels. Let God's love shine out of you be not of the world for the world knows its own as our Bible spoke but God knows who are his. So live for Christ because we are his fellow Christian. And be not weary our Lord will call soon , as Bible speaks we won't know the day nor hour Christ will come for us but we ( WILL know) even by all the signs when it's at the doors. And he's knocking at the doors by all signs. Be ready for Christ's calling ( bride of Christ) meaning the church Christ is coming for his Bride. Be ready Christians heed my words. You don't always have tomorrow or tonight get things right now with loved ones you hurt, friends, family. Anyone youve hurt apologize to. Anyone your holding anger against forgive them today. Anyone youve never said you love them to say it. Make wrongs right and rights better. Let others see Christ because his spirits in you. Stop sleeping look around what's happening and be ready for the trumpet to blow.
With love
Poet Brandon.
Canst- means can in archaic form.
Thy- your.
crieth- another form of ( cry).
Art- are.
Abide- live, stay.
Hath- have.
Raiment- clothes, clothing.
Doth- form of does.
Eyne- eyes old form.
Chow+/- eat.
Opulent- very wealthy, rich.
Lie- as in position laying.
Thee or thou means+ you.
Mine- my.
Joseph Childress Sep 2010
Do you know
What terror is?
Terror rising
Like the threat level
News televising
Different views
Like
Christian or Hindu
Muslim.
How many Satanist
Crashed planes in
Places containing
Millions?
Murders of a martyr
Muttering under his breath
Not before a jump
From a building
But before
Walking through its doors
Trench coat
Drenched in sweat
No words spoken
But the name
Of a God
à la God
Alas
A last breath
And a final moment
Gives a button
A fast press
Blast!
Explosions
Cold as the
Look he gave
Before he left
On his quest
Like a crusader
Crusading a nonbeliever
Then crucify
If you try
To stay true to self
Well, take me
As I am
And know
I will never claim to know
I worship nothing
That creates war,
Whether real
Or not.
evolove Sep 2021
Turn the "M" sideways.

Marshal Mathers
Marilyn Monroe
Marilyn Manson
Matthew McConaughey
Meghan Markle
Mac Miller
Melissa McCarthy
Mads Mikkelsen
Mandy Moore
Max Minghella
Malcom McDowell
                            
M.J                 (M) 13+(J) 10 = 23 (two threes) 33

Michael Jordan
Michael Jackson
Michael Johnson
Magic Johnson
**** Jagger
Marc Jacobs
Milla Jovovich
Montel Jordan

C.C               (C) 3+(C) 3 =  (Two Threes)

Chevy Chase
Cindy Crawford
Chelsea Clinton
Courtney ***
Chris Cornel
Christopher Columbus
Charlie Chaplin
Camila Cabello
Chris Cuomo
Chuck Connors

B.C or C.B               (B) 2+(C) 3 = (Two Threes)

Bill Clinton
Bill Cosby
Bradley Cooper
Benedict Cumberbatch
Billy Crystal
Ben Carson
Chadwick Boseman
Christian Bale
Chris Brown
Charles Bronson
Chris Benoit

                           Companies Hiding Evil Numbers

BBC=223   Skull and bones 322 (biblical)  just Google 322 bible. They are trying to become God's.  Eat from the tree of life and live forever.  What do you think that means?
WWE Flip the letters around and you get 333. For 33.3
CNN logo is CW for 33 (C)3 + (W) flipped is a 3
F.O.X in the hebrew alphabet is 666
Hopefully you get what I'm saying...
Jeremy Duff Aug 2012
Strings.

Our world is never going to be enough.
We want to know what's beyond,
what comes after,
what was before,
and I 'm no different, don't get me wrong.

So, we have a robot flying threw space about to land on Mars.
We have Christians praying to their God and Muslims to theirs.
We have Atheists being Atheistic and Satanist being Satanic.
Punks are acting punk like and triple X-ers are passing the blunt right back.
We have scientists trying to cure cancer and theoretical physicists trying to understand dark matter.
We have you and I trying to work things out.

why.

What really is the point.
There are a select few things I am absolutely sure of.
I am alive.
I am going to die.
I love you.

why.

Why don't I just die already?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y
JP Mantler Nov 2015
Doesn't have his hands to hold the camera

Doesn't have his head to see through the lens

He's just a sitting duck on a ladder

He doesn't have to worry about friends
Anonymous Freak Jul 2019
A sweet
Sad Christian girl
Walked into a bar,
And tending it
Stood
A disciple
Of all cautionary tales
She’d ever heard.
And he poured her a drink.

She sat,
Legs crossed
Tied in a bow,
And he pulled the string,
With just a smile
And a few looks
That lasted too long.

In the arms of a sinful man,
Is where I
fantasize
about being.
In a room full of things unspoken
She felt like a satanist in a Catholic Church as her lipstick stained his vest.
But she was a saint at best
Never lived to taste this kind of distress
her heart like a murmur but she was slipping off her dress
And he,
With his claws in her chest
Loved what she kept from the rest
He viewed her as a masterpiece
The kind that raised each strand of hair on his arms
A mind thats never truly been discovered
Traveled by the fickle and the blind
He asked her is this corruption or free will?
She replied with a kiss of her stained lips and a whisper of words into his ear,
the context of which he has always feared.
His questionable behavior hid him from the embrace he couldn't bring himself to allow
Always running back to her
To the one he let in
The only one he holds value to
He knew one day she would hold the title he was so afraid to feel

(C) Tiffanie Doro
Charlotte Graham Mar 2012
I’m a pagan, said quietly
She gives me a look, no, you're not.
I smile and nod, yes I am.
I believe in duality
in this world and in a balance
between life and death, good and bad,
man and nature; that awful things
have a reason to be; that there
is magic in nature, in us.
So why is it wrong to believe
in the goddess and in the god?
Tell me that I’m a satanist,
tell me that I’m going to hell,
or tell me that I’m ignorant,
argue all your scriptures at me,
but don't sit there and say nothing,
pretend you aren’t about to say
everything you can when I leave?
That you won't inform your sisters
and whisper how it's such a shame
to have one in the family,
and ask them all to pray for me,
ask your white, forgiving god,
to help me end my evil ways.
But just let me tell you that it
has taken me twenty-one years,
but I finally have found God,
just not from where I expected.
I finally found something that,
makes me feel a little more hope
every time that the sun rises.
So just let me tell you that I
am beyond your hatred, judgment,
anger, ignorance, mistrust and
dishonor, because I have found
A God and my Goddess for me
So don't waste your breath, decide here
and now if you can stand knowing
that you've got a black sheep in
your daughter and your granddaughter.
I've been a Pagan for less than a year, and I've wanted to tell this to my grandma and dad, but I can't because I couldn't stand knowing how they'd see me. I'd be a "devil-worshipper," I'd be "poor Charlotte, who doesn't know any better." And I can't deal with the ignorance and hate. So, here's how I imagine the conversation to go, and what I might say. And I somehow managed to make every like 8 syllables. I don't usually do that.
Anna Vida Aug 2013
because when I was fourteen,
I'd put on my angsty coat
With its burlap pockets
And its itchy collar
And its ill-fit
And I'd go out with my middle fingers
Toasting the world
Blaming every stranger on the street
For every night I couldn't sleep.

And sick was a cold
Sick was a fever.
Sick was the shakes from not eating.
Because I'm a girl.
And my value does not stem
Past my appearance.

When I was sixteen
I rimmed my eyes in charcoal black
And donned a matching outfit
That would bring out
The feigned vacancy in my prying eyes
As the ambivalence of wanting to eat the world
And wanting to hide from it
Weighed on my narrow shoulders.
And a boy thought I was a Satanist.
And he avoided me.
And I loved it.

Now I'm older --
But still just a kid.
And I wear real clothes
That make me look like I'm twelve.
But at least I'm happy.
And sick has a different meaning.

It's reaches past the physiological nausea that accompanies
And into the aches and pains of waking up every day
And through the cold, cold labyrinth in which I've been lost
For seven years
And the sickness is laughing my *** off
In a room full of beautiful people
That I love
That I would do (almost) anything for
And trying to decide whether or not tonight is the night
With absolute glee I ponder
Is tonight the night
When I can cut the crap
And finally get a good ******* night's sleep
And not feel the obligation
And not deal with the fact my ******* body
Is crapping the **** out on me
At nineteen.
And that whatever the **** this is
Is only enough to make me miserable
And not enough to **** me
Because most days, the curiosity keeps me going
And going
And ******* going
And then I'm in pain.
And I laugh,
Because I take myself way too seriously.
And life is a **** beautiful gift after all
right?
And I've got the whole world at my feet.
Who cares about a little pain?

I need to be awake in seven hours
And tonight I don't feel destructive.
I want to apologize to my mother for being so cold
Even when I try not to be.
And I want to buy her a nice house and all the clothes she wants
So she can feel comfortable going to work.
So she sees that she's beautiful.
Even if it's superficial.
And I can't fix anything
And I can't turn my brain off
And this isn't even art anymore.
This is..
It's...

Because who the **** doesn't love being sick.
Just remember, the most common face can hide the most sinful acts of humanity. And generally no worse the rest of us. For any evil to be accepted, one must spend time demoralizing it in the public sphere. Let it become normal. Remember, ignorance is bliss and Lavey first Satanic sin is in regards to stupidity. For most, morals and ethics are for the others in suits and one’s in isolated libraries. For it at times, monotonous, boring, lowkey, faceless and holding no emotion. In a fog, you can buy a gift for a boy, jumping joy and wagging tail, to which lives in amazement, as smiles from friends, surprised to see crime in the streets as no one places value on education. Do not judge the one who preaches evil, but judge on the size of the mob and every individual there. Anyone in modern age can be anything, including a higher power and veiled pagan attributes. Evil is cannot be cured with evil, as it eats on the same table as you. As a Satanist, I am my own hero and greatest enemy. If I contribute to reality, that is my only connection to a larger society. For both goodness and evil is relative. People work, people live, people love and people cry. Nothing in this world people hold more dearer to their hearts than the things they had worked for. As for that, it is where evil will value. To be completely successful in this life, requires a lot of ego and more ignorance, when it’s too late, your soul had been lost.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1532992472&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince
A RANDOM STORY WITH A GRAMMAR CHECK
By Darcy Prince

It’s a long leep between knowing wisdom & the wise life.

I look at the mirror. “I have emotional needs and wants. Though my soul collapses in the confrontation of feeling fear.” I breathe and sigh. Lighting a cigarette than wiping a smudge of the mirror. “Why can’t write this **** on paper.”

The bathroom door opens and the music from the house blasts into the bathroom. It distracts me than I snap out my gaze. A random guy I haven’t meet had seem to get luck with Annais. She giggles, crunching her body up. Giggling loudly as the guys smoochies her. Making their way into one of the toilets. I must admit, I do laugh, internally wished them luck and exited the bathroom.

The dance music is loud. As most of the party invites are standing off to the wall. Either alone or holding one on one conversation. I puffed and made my way past people dancing, on the floor passed out or just standing there.

Outside, where the sound of the music is slightly quieter. I put out my smoke and walked to the side, the part of the fence that seems to be less occupied by people. It's a shame that my flaws are embedded into my being. I looked at my phone, flicked over my messages, she’s online, not talking to me, my heart sunk and grew a little more anxious. I lit another smoke and do my best to forget her. But I did only come here on account of her.

“Howard.” A voice behind me spoke. Clearly grabbing my attention. ‘****, it’s Bill’. Walking towards me, with his stomach hanging over his belt buckle. His baseball cap covering his bald head at night, and a half drunk beer in his hand. “I want to know why you quit being a literary critic and be an actual writer.”

I laughed. “There’s less money in it.” I answered.

Bill chuckles. Placing his hand on my shoulder. “ I love your work. I tell everyone that I know you.” Giving me a play slap on my chest. ‘The ladies seem to love your work.”

I now want to leave the party completely. “I know. I get fan mail.”

Standing about a foot away from me. “Despite my endless amounts of questions and your personal philosophy. I want to know if you are willing to read some of my Satanic poetry.”

I took his beer out of his hand. Sipping it empty. “It’s payment.” I Finished my smoke. Flicked on the garden bed, “You’re a Satanist now?”

Bobbing his head up down. “Yep. I read the Satanic Bible and decided it so.”

I plant my open palm on his shoulder. “Good-luck.” I walked away. “Thanks for the beer Bill.”

I decide to leave at impulse. It’s freedom on drugs. Abundant with choice. Ability to create. Definite modern God. Who is the Muse to all philosophers?

Out on the road where all the cars are parked. I look around. Gave one look to the house and said **** it under my breathe. I walked home. I conjure up words that I’ve always to say to her. Knowing full well I should be writing them down for the next time I see her and that at one random moment I will forget. But to what Bill asked me. Alone I diver into self-publishing. Funny enough, I made some sort of success. Im free again. And my thoughts drifted into the strange thing of fame in contemporary art. Classical terms. Fame as a by-product of hardwork and talent. Like Clapton or Dante.

Glorious endeavour with high rewards. Movements of my will. A desire with a proper end. Languishing such things now. I am nothing without art. Surprise to see Bill turn to something as such of Satanism.

I got home and fell asleep.

I woke up. Had a morning coffee and cigarette.

I read the daily paper.

A few chapters of my current book that I’m reading.

Another smoke and coffee.

I begun to write with the radio playing in the background.

The street noises aren’t distraction. It is the capitols music. Just without harmony.

I write.

Stopping in the middle of the dat for lunch.

I watched ****.

I wanted to sleep. But one thing more important than the success of one's art. The effort the artists puts to create art. I forlorn my vice and continued to write, this is one model of freedom.

We’re at liberty when we can create who we are. A noble calling, shaping the clay of my existence. I choose the ideals to embrace.

At the end of my writing day. I decided to open my lounge room window. Hanging out on the window still, smoking and reading a book by Camus. A couple below caught my attention. I giggled. It’s her. With another man and I instantly lose faith in romance. Like Bill, I too have read the Satanic Bible. I took the ideals of her Muse and applied it to myself. I have no vendetta against God. Only humanity.

I flicked my smoke down to the street. Closed my window. And went to bed for the night.

In vain I always seem to rise to a higher self. Funny. I never give credit to the pain I feel. Serene. Untroubled by the undying yearnings to blast humanity of not of their sins. But only their ignorance.

I awoke. Like most of my mornings. I start the day with smoking too much and spending a couple of hours of reading. Seemingly dull and mundane, but it does wonders for my eternal being. I am a sinful prince.

I finished my novel and decided to place it on the pile of planned unpublished manuscripts for life after my death. Like many Satanic based writers before me. I decided to write on similar themes. Late modern society is principally concerned with purchasing things, in ever greater abundance and variety, and so has to strive to fabricate an ever greater number of desires to gratify, and to abolish as many limits and prohibitions upon desire as it can. Such a society is already implicitly atheist and so must slowly but relentlessly apply itself to the dissolution of transcendent values. It cannot allow ultimate goods to distract us from proximate goods. Our sacred writ is advertising, our piety is shopping, our highest devotion is private choice. God and the soul too often hinder the purely acquisitive longings upon which the market depends, and confront us with values that stand in stark rivalry to the only truly substantial value at the center of the social universe: the price tag.
Wisdom is the recovery of innocence at the far end of experience.

I had forgotten about her. At random she never did find the guy she ever wanted and I ended up being namecheck in her suicide note. Stating I was the only true, complex, beautiful soul that could match hers and how the regretted turning me away. Bill did the same. But only because I ignored him that one time at the party. In the publication of my Satanic novel, the Pope condemned to Hell. I sent him a letter that I wanted to do a confession with him. I have not yet heard of a reply. Catholics still protest.
Valerie Csorba Feb 2014
There will come a point in life
when you find out things you didn't know
'cause everyone keeps things hidden;
locked them up behind vessel and bone
to never be brought into light again
until someone finds the key.

"I'm secretly a Satanist."
"I'm secretly a Christian."
"I secretly cut myself
because you never listen."
"I secretly don't like you."
"I'm secretly a *****."
"I secretly listen to what you say
behind that closed wooden door."
Everyone has secrets,
and everybody lies,
everybody gives someone pain,
and everybody cries.
Be careful what you wish for,
be careful what you say
one day you might regret it all,
and you'll watch everything decay.
from high above the clouds billions of raindrops
shapeshift in free fall weightless collective vertigo
moonlight's glow casts a shimmer on the screen
blink-and-you'll-miss-it stabs of lightning
slash holes in dark clouds that reconnect with
the exhilarating, damning clash of God's displeasure
deafening earth-shaking thunder one after the other
I turn my music down so I can hear the din
all the windows in this hail-washed house have drapes drawn apart, shades rolled up
so I can watch the majestic display and pray
for a tornado to swing by just close enough
for me to gaze at but so faraway as to assure no damage to my observatory

these storms call to mind
secrets, reminisces surprising, in their own personal way terrifying

knew a dude in high school
found out too late he was the go-to man for controlled substances in those days
this kind of weather would send him to the phone
dialing Rhonda's number and she knew exactly what the call was about
the wind that swirled 'round the eye told her
she hit the ignition in the cute cherry red Ford truck he'd given her and braved the storm until she made it to his house

maybe it was an adolescent power trip
the sensation he felt through his ***** when the thunder spoke
then when it screamed he ******
she melted, the explosive crash drowning out the involuntary gasp which escaped through clinched teeth, the precursor to secret tears she seemed to have no control over
pitch dark, intermittent lightning strikes to illuminate the Storm King sprawled out beneath her, the look of aroused determination on his face growing more elastic with the clatter of hailstones on glass windows

I never knew about the drugs, didn't need them then, though I sorely need them now
but I knew he called Rhonda every time weather turned severe
the talk amongst peers was that the two of them were never seen together in an underground shelter no matter how bad the moon may have risen
Nudge nudge wink wink a nods as good as a wink to a blind horse say no more, squire, say no more!

I envied them
I broke cheap champagne glasses when the storm came and used them
to carve snaking tendrils across my wrists
barely any blood shed but scared the *******out of that witch my dad married after mom left
it was my failsafe procedure to assure at least another month away from them
yes, the mental hospital was preferable

the rain fell ******* the Doctor's house
weatherman said tornadoes were inevitable
flipped a switch in my brain, activated a mean streak
Doctor's favorite was insufferable
brewed a gallon of sweet tea every day and drank every drop
I saw lightnin on the horizon but that Big Bad Bear with the gun he stole from the Doc was nowhere to be found
I'd be leaving soon
I took out the gallon pitcher from the refrigerator
not even cold yet
unzipped my too-tight jeans
hung my spout over the edge and turned the beverage into 1/2 sweet tea & 1/2 cloudy dark yellow *****
placed it back in the fridge and waited

sat with him that night, playing guitar, singing incomprehensible songs, watching him drink that **** tea and possessed by just enough evil to laugh
in a ridiculously high pitch and enunciated to where I knew he couldn't understand what I was saying...
I sang
"****** in yer tea you know I ****** in your tea
aren't you so ******* at me?"
he never found out, else I probably would not be here to tell the tale

I had my excuses
broken and discarded
I was lost
toyed with the idea of being a Satanist
still lost
standing outside in the middle of an electrical storm
yes, I'm afraid
I'm told family members have been killed by a well-placed bolt and if it's good enough for them
by God
it's good enough for me
rain baptizes me, too stupid to come in out of it
the thunder makes me **** and shudder
lightning a brilliant fireworks show surpassing the best available powder and fire variety
I have become part and parcel of this thunderstorm
wait only for the appointed bolt to impale me with it's rapier voltage
here he come swingin' I almost missed him what with his night-black get-up-camouflaged by the black night that tried to hide me from his sight
alas, foiled by too much lightning

voltage from the heavens
I could personally think of much worse
Sam Temple Dec 2015
t’was darkly in the winter morn
before the sun’s rays were born
before the sheep were set for shorn
before the maids had milled the corn
I heard a noise from upon the step
reminding me of a traffic wreck
or when ole uncle slipped off the deck
woke in hospital with a broken neck
I jumped on up from my bed
with legs and arms just like lead
a face with anger, colored red
but a sense within akin to dread
t’was just ole Santa on Christmas night
reindeer dancing with delight
the feeling escaped me, the one of fright
and instead I thought, “I must check my sight”
I’m near 40 and of no Christian ilk
there is no tree, nor cookies and milk
yet here I am in pajamas of silk
standing eye to eye with a mythical elf
large red nose and twinkling eyes
just like in the stories I thought full of lies
looked him up and down as if for size
and leaned down placing my hands on my thighs
needing for a moment to catch my breath
thinking I may be quite near death
or that this was some flashback from LSD or ****
when he spoke I could only hold my breath
“you’ve been quite good or so it seems
so here I am to haunt your dreams
and give you gifts with ribbons and strings
but mostly to remind you of other things
like somethings you will never understand
there are concepts that live quite out of hand
and dimensions that exist without air or land
and a cosmic joke with no real plan
you’ve gotten to wrapped up in esoteric visions
forgetting to experience this life you are livin
so this be the best gift I am given
here are the keys, you’ll no longer be driven”
and with that bit of fluff he was gone in a flash
leaving me to quietly stroke my moustache
and tighten the rope on my wintery sash
when it hit me like lightening with a blinding loud crash
I was now free to do what I please
Santa had gifted me the ability to see
I breathed in the ocean and exhaled the trees
and fell to the ground on my hands and my knees
good ole Santa Claus had done showed me the way
a way to live and know just what to say
the ability to leave behind the dismay
and recreate myself anew each day
I went back to bed feeling renewed
no longer needing validation or food
gone was the desire to be sarcastic or rude
truth be told, I was still going to need the food
but the point holds strong and the meaning’s the same
a change took place that altered my brain
taking me from a place unhinged or insane
and leaving me safe with no need to place blame
yes this is the year Santa changed my life
gave me a gift that near matched my wife
offering a change from a place of depression and strife
to one of hope and love, of joy, and of life
oh Santa dear, how could this be true
I was one who never believed in you
like a pagan, a wiccan, Satanist, or Jew
or the little old woman whom lived in the shoe
but from henceforth and on every new day
I will think of the night that you came my way
appearing through the fog and the snow that did spray
changing forever the meaning of Christmas day –
Halloween:Truth or Tricks??
Halloween evolved from "All Hollows" Eve. It originated from the pagan holiday honoring the dead. On All Hallows Eve, the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead was thin. It allowed the souls of the dead to come back to earth and walk among the living

Halloween is a religious holiday belonging to the Roman Catholic Church. ... The holiday is “All Hallows Day” (or “All Saints Day) and falls in Nov.

Jehovah's Witnesses: They don't celebrate any holidays or even birthdays. Some Christians: Some believe the holiday is associated with Satanism or Paganism, so are against celebrating it. Orthodox Jews: They don't celebrate Halloween due to its origins as a Christian holiday. Other Jews may or may not celebrate it

While the Bible doesn't mention Halloween specifically, it does, of course, have lots to say about the forces of evil. ... Scripture is full of stories where good and evil are pitted against each other, as well as Bible verses that offer wisdom about facing darkness, deception, and fear in your own life.

Samhain (pronounced 'sow'inn') is a very important date in the Pagan calendar for it marks the Feast of the Dead. It is also celebrated by non-Pagans who call this festival Halloween. ... Samhain has been celebrated in Britain for centuries and has its origin in Pagan Celtic traditions.

A few observations:
HALLOWEEN is the most important day of the year for Devil worshippers, according to the founder of the Church of Satan, and everyone else has been urged to avoid celebrating this “dark” day

Anton LaVey founded the Church of Satan in the US in 1966.

He was the country’s most prominent Satanist up until his death in 1997 and authored several books, including The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals, The Satanic Witch, The Devil's Notebook, and Satan Speaks.
In the Satanic Bible, Mr LaVey wrote: "After one's own birthday, the two major Satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht (May 1st) and Halloween.”

Walpurgisnacht, or Saint Walpurgis Night, is a German annual event which is known in German Folklore as Witches Night.

Even today, the Church of Satan recognises Halloween as an extremely important day for evil.

The occultists’ website states: “Satanists embrace what this holiday has become...
Whats your views about it???
Safana Oct 2020
Conspiracy is built,
before you and your
forefathers, neither a
Muslims nor christians
and other valid religion,
all are brethren, science
of all Devine Books state it

hey! Satanist Radical
bring all your confusion,
there is the belief one day,
an ever irreversible day
will come shortly,

Just, be ready
Jay earnest May 2020
he sits down in the lobby and the tv is playing some show, there are also stacks of magazines on the table
  after about a minute and thumbing through the stations with the remote and eating complimentary breathmints the bearded man with a green neck approaches, and he has jewelry hanging from his nose
"Are you Sebastian?"
he says calmly and nicely
"well yes I am!"
"well okay then, nice to meet you, why don't you have a seat over there"
as he points to a pristine barber shop chair with bright red lapels and that smell of lavender.
Next to the seat is a petite girl with a bettie page hair do and traditional rose tattoos on her hips
and floral designs lining her shoulder, you barely notice.
"Okay, we agreed on the yellow
  snake with bubbles to signify your dog's passing correct?"
he says to me
"yes, yes we did"
"Well okay then! Let's get started!"

He starts, and it's the gentlest ***** you've ever felt, and the Joy Division pumping through the speakers sets you at ease.
A mother with her kids and a face tattoo of a dagger strolls in; on her lunch break, she schedules an appointment to have her back scalpeled with the design of a Christmas tree so as to be ironic because she's really a satanist; but it's pagan anyway so no-one cares.

    After about 2 hours, my artist finishes and wraps me with sandwich plastic and rubs hemmoroid cream all over the yellow snake. It's beautiful.
"You sat like a champ! Here's a lolly for you"
it's a green lolly and I **** it; it really tastes good, and I go home and admire my tattoo in the mirror for hours
and talk about it to all my friends who have the same yellow snake. It really makes me feel like I belong
I have a bunch of tattoos (mostly self done), but this is what it reminds me of nowadays haha
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
.i never sought to see a vision of god, only his shadow, as i never seeked to hear his voice, but only the whisper, of his thought: and it thus expressed, morally convened: for i am by pentagram bound to say: it, all is, right before me - the world and all that deservers a master, and the one who is willing to reciprocate, whether doubt-ridden or doubtless, whether infuriated by prayer, or a militant denier.

better to exfoliate in one's vices,
than cherish one's virtues,
better to acknowledge one's ills
that champion one's graces -
to acknowledge one's burdens
is also to carry less gold
of the accomplished talents.

besides, i am thinking of the bigger picture,
am i part of something greater?
greater as in: the universal plan...
hell no!
               i'm part of a horde,
a horde that's been waiting for the next
tool album - 13 years and it's still
another 2 months till its release...
i'll make sure to buy it on vinyl,
         after all... all vinyl purchases
come with a code that lets you download
a digital copy...
            but i've been thristy for some
modern prog rock (metal, etc.) -
and it's not like i ever got into
muse - no twilight saga inspiration
to see here, sorry stephanie -
i just don't dig their ****,
   the screeching vocals...
     no, my uncle, a gen Xer,
and, as m.g.t.o.w. as you can be...
he once once said that simon gallup was
one of the best bass guitarists in music,
i'm not even going to mention
the red hot chilli man... pointless...
    but... for my generation,
the "dreaded millenials"... no other akin
to justin chancellor...
              bass is so important,
so so important: you need that space
in between the drums and the rhythm guitar...
******* solo all you want:
you don't have decent engineering
on the bass, so that it's prominent -
you have jackshit...

        on another point of interest...
i once heard a h'american voodoo satanist blah blah
treat the concept (not a theory) of solipsism
as a mental illness...
         well... tell that to a schizophrenic...
if the drugs don't work to hush out
the claustro-**** affair of not being
the only person (voice) inside his own head?
a bit... cluttered, wouldn't you say?
   but imagine, beside the drugs...
engaging a schizophrenic into meditating
solipsism...
           one tier above atheism from my
perspective, it's a binary schematic...

an atheist represents: 0,
  a schizophrenic represents: 1...
     why is that?
       the atheist is trying to plug a hole...
a schizophrenic is trying to salvage
his: self...
                 ideal representation...
i think: much more productive in ensuring
**** sticks together, finding your self (the reflective
form), to later express yourself (the reflexive
form) of it-self...
                 i always found atheism
to be so arrogant, boring,
     barely sniffing at the feet of a bow...
it almost makes me admire the way muslims
pray... i once cried at the beauty
of an adhan...
                  so... the right kind of islam is...
in a way: titillating me...

   ah... ****... it will never work...
          i like this quote:

some people live to eat,
     while others: eat, to live...
           i guess i'm of the latter persuasion...
a decent stew, nothing fancy,
even today i had the saliva for a parisian
pancake... so i made myself a parisian
pancake... with melted cheese and ham
and a tomato and chilli radish...

kiwi cider... i just love how some spirits
and the weaker stuff all have a story...
    **** me, they even enjoy dabbling
in phonetics (ohld-moot-sy-der) -
old mout (mawt) cider... get it right kiwis...
pineapple & **** rasberry...
   and it even has a name...
would you believe it?!
                         a trending topic...
nice... alongside when ms. amber jumps
into that ginger ale jacuzzi?
      a fine, fine evening is waiting for me
at the end of a day and into the night...

but, the kiwis did get one thing right...
unlike all the nanny propaganda
placed on most bottles in england...

    please drink responsibly
     2.0 units...
      but... there is no message from
the "chief": medical examiner...
   responsible adults should not exceed
a daily consumption of alcohol
  men 3 - 4 units daily
   women 2 -3 units daily...
          me? for the past few years?
roughly 40 units daily...
   but wow... look at all this poo'etry...
the kiwi cider company considers
only two acts as discrediting you from
drinking responsibly...
   there's a whittle picture of a pregnant
woman enclosed by red circle
    and a / in it... a big no no...
and?
              a whittle picture of a car:
    and as already stated...
       i get bothered when people ask:
how much? how much?
                      it's even my brain,
or my liver...
                 if i can get a decent amount
of sleep each and every night,
my liver can **** itself;
    there's nothing worse than bouts
of chronic insomnia that lead you toward
staying awake for nearly 48 hours
   and still unable to feel tired,
     that's when the hallucinations start
creeping in,
  but at least in a more stable environment...
more in vitro than in vivo...
   no safer environment to hallucinate when
sleeping: hence calling it dreaming...
  it's like these hallucination are like gut
bacteria of the brain...
         they need to express themselves
     to the brain after a certain threshold
of staying awake is breached...
                                            not fun...
p.s. **** rhyming poetry,
              sure, it's cute, it was great when
Dante did it... but i don't see all the great
masters from Ovid through to Hesiod and past
Horace doing it...
   cute poetry doesn't satisfy the thirst
for something, on the lines of: epic.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
i believe there is a photon storage component within the brain; being exposed to photons, the brain has something sponge-like about it, that allows it to store these particle, and revive them in sleep, as we allow ourself to "think" that we've "seen" moving images (dreams) in our entombed state of sleep; going to a catholic school, i remember this x-ray experiment, of looking at b & w picture... and then closing our eyes, and seeing the face of jesus with our eyes closed... i'm just fascinated how the brain has this unexplored "*****" that manages to capture photons, to reveal to us dreams... i mean, **** the interpretation of dreams: that's toddler talk, i want to know the dreams per se phenomenon!

i hate how the educational
                                        system works,
first you're taught
biology, english, history,
you name it, but subconsciously
you're being taught "social skills" -
  how to: make friends...
and then once you leave
school:
       you're not taught anything
worth a friendship's wet ******
or a well-oiled *** of concern -
how the **** are people being
taught matrimony?
well... from a steady employment...
matrimony is a non-friendship
affair...
           imagine:
a husband turns to his spouse
and says:
   i've been having an affair,
i preferred drinking in a pub
with an old, than watching
  romantic comedies with you:
"shnuggling" on a lazy sunday
afternoon...
   yes, we both walked to
the pub, which was
   5 miles vs. 3 miles away from
our homes...
       imagine!
      by the way,
once women astart ageing,
the romantic comedies become
disney cartoons...
   and cat calendars!
            good luck with that!
like marriage, so like "friendship"
beginning with high-school
indoctrination...
     for some reason (esp. in h'america)
people have this high-school
theme, nostalgia, whatever you
want to call it...
        friendship?
unlike matrimony... has nothing
symbiotic about it...
           paradoxically stated -
  obviously there's a slave (host)
   master (parasite) relationship,
but in terms of friendship it's more
subtle, given the asexual theme
of conversation...
but first you're taught how to make
friends and not really bother
learning boring facts of history...
            and then you enter
the realm of inhibited befriending and
scare-mongering...
      ask a schizophrenic:
  solipsism is a coping mechanism -
               it's akin to a membrane,
within depicition?
                             a sain't halo...
imagine meditating while succumbing
to such an ailment...
                but you don't build
friendships outside of high-school,
the concept dies once you reach
university and the workforce,
at university you replace making
friends with making networks -
within the workforce, you establish
the rules of competitive sports...
after a while the hermit just says:
you know what?
         eat that glutton of raising a family,
have it!
     bask in it! get that ******* suntan
of glorifying "continuity"!
but do you know how many *******
sons *kant
managed to conceive
by mere thought... aha!
          so there really is a telepathy!
and there really is a telekinesis!
aha! but there's the law:
        only between the living & the dead,
never among the living & the living,
and never ever questioned by minding
the agitated dead.
      you know the kantian family?
    you know of the family of the apostle
matthew, i.e. the ethiopian matthews?
         telepathy? well d'uh: books!
  telekinesis? what about the evolution
of ideas? does not the mind move
the foundation, say, the bedrock of the church
that st. peter was: into a martin luther?
no, the two concepts don't exist
  in close proximity,
         almost like quantum physics
and the electrons:
                         when looked at particles(?)
when not looked at waves(?)
oh i believe that telekinesis does exist,
as does telepathy, but there's a catch-22
involved...
               neither of these concepts can exist
within a eodem tempore modus:
  the medium of simultaneousness -
the dictatorial rule of history,
and the arch-guardian of natural laws
(mort), i.e. death prevent it from establishing
an anti- construct to the stated modus...
i suppose the heritage of genes works
as the easier example of telepathy and
telekinesis... of what is passed on:
  from the cradle to the grave from the grave
to the cradle to interment budding
     of past, toward the renewed:
                            spring of mind -
   as governing both a post-scriptum
                                            and an awakening
the the refreshed mind took to revolve
once more, what was passed onto it
by its predecessor.

p.s.: an alt. title
solipsism: a sain't halo for a schizophrenic,
if and whenever reaching
a conscious-acknowledgement,
to test one's own cognitive strengths
     without a chemical impetus to
treat ailments...
          solipsism: is the only mode of
                   meditation for a schizophrenic;
and to think i've watched videos
were some american idiot was talking
about how solipsism is a mental disease -
IDIOT!          who?
   some satanist or whatever they call them
in california.

— The End —