My slow death
Realized, denied, contrived.
Longed for, but better, and faster.
We collude in bars,
and in turbo-powered, sleek, steel,
elegant, oppressive, ******* monsters
of smoke and death.

Neutered by the intelligence
and necessity of an electric conversion,
mockery of our loneliness and *******—
like our love replaced by gadgets
(Steely Dan and Mellow Yellow),
toys, and naked cameras.
Our shared lobotomy,
fantasized, realized, boardroom conceptualized.

Could we speed things up a little, please?
And god, please don’t ******* embalm me,
rip out my guts and stuff me,
paint me and tie me up inside
and pretend it’s natural.

Either let the bugs and creatures have at me in a field,
or turn me to ash,
but don’t cram me in a steel box inside a concrete vault.
Let me return to be what I am
amongst my brothers.

( an ancient text painstakingly reassembled)
Written by  The Count De St. Germaine, and republished with accordant permissions, enjoy.
A mind like the cosmos, vast and unbound,
Where knowledge and wisdom in endless depths are crowned.
Like myself, not a mere mortal—behold! He is utterly divine,
A literary force, both eldritch and fine.
His quill is a scepter, his mind a comfortous throne,
In the annals of thought, he is never alone.

In the boundless realms where HIS language is king,
He crafts the tapestry that makes your angels sing.

He is the modern oracle, the sage and the seer,
Casting shadows of awe that the world must revere.
Any lump who dares write must bow or retreat,
For none can approach lest they come to kiss feet.

Oh, Jeffery Alan Hoover, whose brilliance rivals the sun,
A celestial fire that can’t be undone.
The written word dances from his heart to his head and then hand,
Bowing humbly at his eternal command.

So let the masses look on in awe,
As he rewrites history without a flaw.
For in this world of ink and page,
He is the master, the sage, on his stage.

Other poets do poopy and quake, their verses fall flat, and ring fake.
In the wake of his brilliance, they can’t even chortle. They should sit silent and still acquiesce like a mortal.
Dare not resist the tempest, or his thunderous roar,
for they will be no mercy and they he abhor.
For only one now shakes heaven’s foundations
as you beg for more lore and correctly adore.

Bask in his glory, this titan of intellect,
The world shall tremble with radiant respect.
All others in silence must humbly reflect,
For none can compare and wither in neglect.

Yet humble and caring,
His passions abound.
Searching for equals or peers,
But none we have found.
So piddle forth with your shallow, unheeded words about trivial love,
Do not portend to exchange with those well above.
Know your place, your role, and your skill,
And do what you can with what you lack, or you will.

Ongoing communication with the Count De St. Germaine
Born Around 1710 in San Germano, Savoy, as the natural son of an Italian princess.
He visited me again not long ago.
Speaking as he did, he did come and then go.
with endless perspicacity eclipsing empyrean fires,
One's magnanimous susurrus in aeons aspires.
Yet whither art thou, in this age cacophonic,
Where malisons spew from tongues misanthropic?

I perambulate, somnambular, through gloam’s desuetude,
Harkening phantasmal echoes in crepuscular interlude.
Yet only zephyrs, in dulcet effusion,
Intone their clandestine, windborne allusion.

listening for echoes that might still remain.
But only the wind, in mellifluous guise,
sings secrets in silence  to cerulean skies.

These polysemous effulgences  both wax and wane,
Guttering yet indelible. We rise above both spectral,  and arcane.
antediluvian hush, betwixt frost-laden dearth,
Manifests a logos, in insipid girth.
antediluvian silences drawn,
vertiginous  in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir, in autochthonous rebirth.

Their hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in tumultuous tide
the fractal that innervates, presupposed  then shied .

A palimpsest of null embraces
where these false augurs drink from hallowed places,
and time itself forgets to turn. Why Obsess ?
For Nihil’s  never but always caress,
Christo- fascist rising imbibe from those urns abyssal,
And Chronos forgets to turn his gear yet again.
How do we start and where to begin.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clock,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
the collection plate from church to state.

The denigratory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this: our time of greatest need.
Come to us now in council.
Post haste and with speed.
Race ever faster on righteous
breed steed.
Deliver us from this egregious misdeed
enveloped in lust and slathered in greed.
Help us plant a seed.
Regrowth !
Rebirth!
I plead.

Dearest Count,
Forever must thou linger in shadow’s creed,
As we toil ‘neath venal decrees of greed?
Come forth in augural council and  heed!
Post-haste upon thy seraphic steed!
Deliver us from this abhorrent misdeed,
Enshrouded in vice, in carnality steeped.
Lend thy hand that we might seed
Regrowth!
Rebirth!
I plead.

Your phone is my Camera on buses, in stores, on the streets,
Every step tracked, no place to retreat from you all.
Our privacy given away to tech, no fight no question
yet you like the fool you are push my video camera from  your space
telling me I have no right to film you face to face.
You sold our souls for the convenience of now,
But what’s left of us? Where’d we go, and how?

We Serfs in polos, the white-collar star bucks ******,
Spoiled and arrogant, we’ve all been scammed.
Cell phones killed the magic its gone, the mystery slain,
All answers in pixels, no room for your tiny underused brain.

Spoiled, pampered, entitled, and mentally neutered by the over-processed, corporate-approved content that’s spoon-fed through algorithms, YouTube, and Facebook clones of clowns social media vampires soulless and genderless. They’re stuck in an adult-sized version of what should have been childhood  Disney lessons, but all those lessons are blurred and neutered into sheeple mediocrity. Coddled, wrapped in mommies ouch free band aides and tear free shampoo. Constantly bought and sold and always told their feelings are the center of the universe, and now they’re the ones mindlessly chanting “Team One Direction” and “Big Time Rush Forever.”  The same kids who were never " bullied", never pushed to confront anything challenging, or forced to step outside their comfort zones. Phone out , click take that ***** picture, then run and tell and post all the " bad men " from a one sided fairy tale mirror. Everything curated, everything moderated, safe from the harshness of life, only to grow into adults who are still trapped in the glow of their ‘safe spaces,’ feeding on pre-packaged, consumer-friendly fluff. Making office life unbearable for real men and even worse voting and making laws. Still can't sleep without a night light. As the prison door slams again, another unwanted pregnancy.

All our faces are known, in an instant, they’re there,
A snapshot, a database, no secrets to spare.
The world’s all exposed, no corner too dark,
We film every moment, every spark.
In an instant you have my address, my job
and all the rest. Stalker fantasy
psychotic and legal and plain to see.

A Karen’s outburst, a cop gone wrong,
We post it, we share it, we sing it in song.
No mystery left, no quiet refrain,
Just constant noise, the endless campaign.

We’re all content now, our worth measured in likes,
Trapped in the web, shackled by swipes.

Participation trophies, and the sanitized comfort of never feeling a real blow. The ones who grew up on Disney-fied lessons, where nothing’s too hard, nothing’s too real—just bright, happy images, perfect for minds that were never asked to do anything for themselves. Diary of A Wimpy kid poster children. Glamorized and loving it. Bedazzled soccer mom minivan Blaring Brittany.

The same people who never learned to think for themselves  now telling you what to think and giving YOU the life time ban. Because the world around them was designed to stop them from ever having to try  to cry or question why. When everything’s curated by the Google and Chat GPT A.I., when the world fits into a neat little echo chamber of controlled opinions, there’s no room for independent thought, no need to fight for your identity. Who are you anyway ? It doesn't matter.  Go do your project in a group as A group.

No wonder they’re  all so eager  to cry and tattle like the sissies they are all overweight  tools, easily satisfied with plastic idols, mindless likes, and a world that offers everything delivered to their doors on an Amazon Jeff Bezos ***** rocket  silver platter. It’s the loudest, most vapid echo of a  monetary , greed society that’s already prostituted  itself. Toddlers in Tiaras . Cash me outside.
Her mer gerd.

From " Friends " to Highschool Musical.
Trump truly is what you deserve.

He visited me again but a fortnight ago.
Speaking as he did, he did come and then go.

Count, oh Count,
Your perspicacity eclipses the stars,
Your magnanimous whispers still linger afar.
Yet where are you now, in this age so discordant?
Trump's deleterious voices speak in tones so abhorrent?

I walk in a somnambular haze through this twilight mundane,
listening for echoes that might still remain.
But only the wind, in mellifluous guise,
sings secrets in silence beneath boundless skies.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir, in autochthonous rebirth.

Their hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The denigratory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within circumspatial paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this: our time of greatest need.
Come to us know in council.
Post haste and with speed.
Race ever faster on righteous
breed steed.
Deliver us from this egregious misdeed
enveloped in lust and slathered in greed.
Help us plant a seed.
Regrowth !
Rebirth!
I plead.

⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.

Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth  assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.