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Don't disturb the beast
The temperamental goat
The snail, while he's feeding on the rose
Stay frozen, compromise
What I will, I am

[Verse 2]
Bend around the wind
Silently blown about
Again I'm treading so soft and lightly
Compromising my will, I am

[Chorus]
I am, I will
So no longer will I lay down
Play dead, play your doe

[Verse 3]
In the headlight
Locked down and terrified
Your deer in the headlights
Shot down and horrified
When push comes to pull comes to shove
Comes to step around this self-destructive dance
That never would've ended 'til I rose
I roared aloud here
I will, I am
https://youtu.be/3NNaUQnFL2c?si=sUQNtWDeuFxBAy3o
A perfects circle....;their first album  Mer de Noms   ( sea of names )
of course he is the writer and singer of  and for TOOL
Everyone should  know the greatest lyric written

Oh, potatoes and molasses
If you want some, oh, just ask us
They're warm and soft like puppies and socks
Filled with cream and candy rocks
Oh, potatoes and molasses
They're so much sweeter than algebra class
If your stomach is grumblin' and your mouth starts mumblin'
There's only one thing to keep your brain from crumblin'
Oh, potatoes and molasses
If you can't see 'em, put on your glasses
They're shiny and large like a fisherman's barge
You know you've eaten enough when you start seein' stars
Oh, potatoes and molasses
It's the only thing left on your task list
They're short and stout, they make everyone shout
For potatoes and molasses
For potatoes and-
That's enough!
That show was amazing on so , so many levels
( no excuses) A Plea for empathy.
Born kicking, screaming, Alive !
I came out swinging  in Seventy Five.

Children of the Razor’s Edge

Born in the chaos, forged in the street,
Under spiked banners where anthems replete.
A kingdom of leather, of combat and spit,
Where the outlaws and orphans refused to submit.

The mall queens strutted with poodles on chains,
Their collars as sharp as rebellion’s refrains.
Sculpted blue hair like a neon-lit flame,
Sid Vicious and Johnny
scratched on the frame.
The " great Rock n' Roll swindle "indeed
but out their on the asphalt
we all came  to bleed.


Misunderstood British flags waving,  Clash in the air,
Cindy on screen with a banshee’s glare.
Decks hit the pavement, wheels kissed the stone,
Skate and destroy—this world was our own.

Reagan sat smirking, a puppet, a joke,
While cities lay burning in ****** smoke.
We danced on the ledges, we laughed at the fall,
No rules, no masters, no mercy at all.

The wolves that had raised us had long since been tamed,
Or locked in the cells where the reckless are claimed. ( maimed)
Some found escape in the needle’s embrace,
Others in rage, in or the thrill of the chase.

Now, rare as relics, ghost in s haze,
We limp as survivors of those lawless old days.
Misunderstood, unrepentant, unbowed,
Still screaming our gospel—still howling it loud.
Punks not dead!
But, isn't it though
It WAS how we lived,
it wasn't a show.
None of that really matters now
they end up crushing us anyhow.
Replaced by Diary of  A Wimpy Kid
participation trophies and V chip control
held in their mommies embrace
they do troll.
Are you Japanese  ? is it ?   (1644–1694).  are you trying to impress Matsuo Bashō.. no?  then *** are you doing ?
Shortened (3-5-3)
Words drop fast.
Why count them at all?
No one cares.

Elongated (7-9-7) bletch  god why  pls make it stop  , pls.

Why waste time on this?
Anyone can slap words down.
Skill is not required.

Chaotic (Random Syllables)

Five words here—
now too many in the next
whatever, it’s done ?

Haiku rules are so arbitrary that messing with the syllable count changes nothing.  Yet you lame ***** still  somehow  think It still "counts" somehow. I don't care why.

Haiku is ******* stupid !
obsessing over syllables is the least important part of writing.
Japanese pop  and their attempt at anything other than robotic classical  perfection is unbearable. ( their jazz is great though )
So why do they care about something so stupid and pointless as the number of syllables  when they can't and don't even benefit from it  ?
Outside of haiku, they don’t really matter much unless you’re writing structured poetry or song lyrics in certain styles.
Arbitrary rules like that just stifle the mind and creativity
Anyone can do it it takes literally ZERO talent.
What I did In my work 'Don't quote me on that".
That is brutally difficult, not just hard but time consuming.
Requires research to get the quotes right .
The timing and the nuance of the context.
I bet 99% of you couldn't do what I did there worth a ****  and even if you did try it would only be a weak pathetic copy because, I already used all the best quotes.
Prove me wrong, go ahead and try.
You can't  whereas I could Haiku till I'm blue in the face and it wouldn't help me become a better anything , let alone a better writer or poet.
Why not jam a corkscrew up your nose?
It's about as useful, wanted or productive.

I'm only doing this to make a point ;

  Traditional (Nature Theme)

Raindrops hit the ground,
Counting them—five, then seven—
What a waste of time.

Modern (More Freeform, No Nature)

Syllables don’t mean
a **** thing at all. Yet here
I am, still counting.

Satirical (Mocking the "Deep" Haiku Style)

Oh, great emptiness,
fill my soul with pointless lines.
I have learned nothing.

There you go—proof that anyone can do it, and it takes no effort at all.
My four year old writes better poetry than all of you , it's true .
In my child’s  gwatchy babble,  words are spun,
the secrets is joy, of play,  and of  fun.
Purity is not found in the chase or the climb,
But in the small, simple words that echo through time.
Hooshknee, we say, with a knowing glance,
Shows us the way to our happiest dance.

Let us not forget, as you craft and we mold,
That inspiration is fleeting, and life  should be bold.
In the words that they speak, in the sounds that they make,
Lies a purity we often forsake.
For in the small things, the fun and the free,
We find the magic we long to see.
Like us, you really want to be free.

The realm of unfettered youth where words are toys for play,
Where sounds are shaped and colors  do sway,
There came a day when her small voices rang,
Lifting  through the skreegy that the world tried to hang.
Gwatchy, they called, with a wink and a cheer,
A word like a spark that the mind now holds dear
Coolish, neat, a burst of delight,
A dance in the brain for the depths of the night.

And from this dawn, from the chaos and cheer,
Came skreegy, a word that we hold so near
A mark of the messy, the fractured, the torn,
Hooshknee hearts unpolished,  our souls reborn.
Oh, skreegy, they sang, with joy and with glee,
For not all that is broken fails to be free.

Then came Hooshknee, like a riddle in air,
A word that floats weightless, without a care,
A question unasked, a thought undefined,
A call to the unknown, a wonder confined.
Hooshknee, oh hoosh, a whisper so light,
A dance of indecision that ignites the rite.

We, the artists, toil with  might,
Chasing  lost purity’ but lost in the fight
rid the world’s  skreegy grime and restore the lost gleam,
To craft art with dignity, to hold onto the dream.
But the clutter of bias, the weight of our strife,
Dim the beauty of play, and the joy of your life.
That's only a scratch as to why she's so much better. she would school you all, if you'd only let her.

For in your learned bias, we hinder our soul,
Chasing success, we lose the true whole.
For in striving to succeed, you forget how to live,
And we rob our own hearts of what they could give.
But in Gwatchy and skreegy, we find the true key Hoosh , hoosh hoosh with one more Hooshknee
In the mess of the world you all created  we were meant to be free.
Especially a bright beautiful soul with an inner light like hers
Don't be hateful or jealous cause you let yours be poisoned and die
She is the light and the truth and doesn't even have to try.
Piano lesson gone awry,
a masterpiece on the wrong surface,
refrigerator door or playpen wall.
Unexpected gas at the wrong time.
A little ****** too. That’s what they’ll pass on about you.

One little mistake and that’s all they remember.
Toilet paper stuck to your shoe,
fly still down.
“Put those crayons away,
it’s time to grow up.” Don’t act like a clown.

“Artists are all lazy drunks and drug addicts, don’t end up a slob.”
“You’ll never make a living doing that.”
“Get a real job.”

Even if you do make it,
the critics can’t wait to tear at you.
The business chews you up
and spits you out too.

“Medicine is magical, and magical is art,
every generation throws a hero up the pop charts.”
It’s never “What have you done?”
It’s “What have you done for me lately?” son.

It was never what you know,
it’s always who you know.
Always struggling just to get it out,
always one centimeter away
from the edge of the soul-crushing meat grinder.

They question what it’s all really about…
The beauty of a little spark growing,
waiting,
the bucket of water world in jealousy,
hating.

Their own dreams stuck in cubicles,
starched collars in dimly lit offices,
yearning,
unable to remember their own sparks burning.
so much blood on trumps tiny little hands  ,  **** and twice convicted  defamation, bribery and hush money, tax fraud conviction , stolen documents nuclear secrets national security intel,  repeated obstruction of justice, campaign finance violations, inciting insurrection, witness tampering, money laundering, insurance fraud, conspiracy to overturn election results, and the 5 or 6 deaths of January 6th. what a guy making it great again for sure !  pass me the collection plate !  Now we all pay with Tariffs coming and going bleed us dry and starve us while RFK's  brain worm kills us all with the next pandemic  strain. Just drink bleach is what he advised.
When I first got to the tower after the first plane hit, I started performing first aid and shouting orders, trying to get people to snap out of it and lend a hand. No one could have imagined another plane was coming or that the tower was going to come down.

I am not a conspiracy theorist, but the emergency personnel were made to wait, told to hold back until the cameras were rolling. I'm not a little guy, and they couldn't stop me.

I carried one guy out who worked for the Port Authority, Carl Something. His leg was crushed. I tried to help a lady going into cardiac arrest, but I lost her.

Anyway, this is what I wanted to say. I saw them purposely send in more emergency personnel and responders. They just kept forcing more and more in.

Anyone who remembers some of the early, uncut footage knows they sent people in but wouldn't let anyone come back out.

Me and two other big, mean dudes literally punched, tackled, and swung fire extinguishers to fight our way back out.

It was like they knew. Like they wanted the death toll to rack up as high as possible.

If I didn't understand how to push people by their center of gravity, I would have been turned to ash too or buried in it.

That was the second time I was arrested.

Looking back, I guess it was worth it, huh?

In a way.

As I was being cuffed and stuffed, the second plane hit.
...There used to be a time when actual tough guys,
literal bad *** *******, actually walked the street.
I'm not talking about these little wannabe pimps today,
or weak little gang members that gotta have 40 other dudes,
with cheap Chinese tech nines, to make them feel tough.
I'm talking about real tough guys like me and my buddies.
And people would just almost **** their pants when they saw us coming.
They’d know we didn’t need a crew,
we were the kind that made the whole block move.

It's another thing that cell phones completely ruined,
and destroyed all these different parts of our society.
Now when they see us, they take pictures and try,
to use the ****** recognition,
or send it to the police, oh my.
That way they can lock us all up,
pull up our warrants, and make sure we never see the light of day again.
Yet another thing,
cellphones took from us,
just like trust,
just like rust.

These guys were a bar, they set a standard.
And now, what is replacing them?
The diary of a wimpy kid, all grown up.
Some little dork,  coddled *****, ****** *****,
who thought that people running around calling themselves Power Rangers,
wearing spandex, were the real deal.
Some little dweebes that thought those guys were cool.
They're the ones calling all the shots now,
you’ve gotta be kidding me, that’s reality somehow?

Are you serious? That’s the new face of tough?
That's what you got? All these participation trophy boys,
little momma's boys,
never even skinned their knees.
How did you think these guys,
or these types of people,
wouldn’t get eaten alive by sharks like Putin,
and bullies like Trump?
Did you not see that happening?
It’s coming down faster than they can hold on.
But we’re the ones who’re all gone.
Cheap mexican switchblade stickin out his  eye?
Yep thats our guy...
**** it
I could do this  in kindergarten if, I wanted it takes no skill.
Shortened (3-5-3)

Words drop fast.
Why count them at all?
No one cares.

Elongated (7-9-7)

Why waste time on this?
Anyone can slap words down.
Skill is not required.

Chaotic (Random Syllables)

Five words here—
now too many in the next
whatever, it’s done ?

Haiku rules are so arbitrary that messing with the syllable count changes nothing.  Yet you lame ***** still  somehow  think It still "counts" somehow. I don't care why.

Haiku is ******* stupid !
obsessing over syllables is the least important part of writing.
Japanese pop  and their attempt at anything other than robotic classical  perfection is unbearable. ( their jazz is great though )
So why do they care about something so stupid and pointless as the number of syllables  when they can't and don't even benefit from it  ?
Outside of haiku, they don’t really matter much unless you’re writing structured poetry or song lyrics in certain styles.
Arbitrary rules like that just stifle the mind and creativity
Anyone can do it it takes literally ZERO talent.
What I did In my work 'Don't quote me on that".
That is brutally difficult, not just hard but time consuming.
Requires research to get the quotes right .
The timing and the nuance of the context.
I bet 99% of you couldn't do what I did there worth a ****  and even if you did try it would only be a weak pathetic copy because, I already used all the best quotes.
Prove me wrong, go ahead and try.
You can't  whereas I could Haiku till I'm blue in the face and it wouldn't help me become a better anything , let alone a better writer or poet.
Why not jam a corkscrew up your nose?
It's about as useful, wanted or productive.

I'm only doing this to make a point ;

  Traditional (Nature Theme)

Raindrops hit the ground,
Counting them—five, then seven—
What a waste of time.

Modern (More Freeform, No Nature)

Syllables don’t mean
a **** thing at all. Yet here
I am, still counting.

Satirical (Mocking the "Deep" Haiku Style)

Oh, great emptiness,
fill my soul with pointless lines.
I have learned nothing.

There you go—proof that anyone can do it, and it takes no effort at all.
Ask not what your country can do for you,
ask yourself:
Do you feel lucky, punk? Huh, do yuh?
I have a dream that one day,
on the red hills of Georgia,
little black boys and black girls will join hands
with little white boys and white girls
and...What we have here is failure to communicate..
...black lives matter ...like a thief in the night ...We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight them on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender...
Four score and seven years ago
our forefathers brought forth upon this continent
a new nation, conceived in liberty
and dedicated to the proposition that...
...you can't handle the truth  ! ...

The only thing we have to fear...
is one small step for man,
one giant leap for...
weapons of mass destruction.
We hold these truths to be self-evident,
all men are created...
to...  say it. I said, 'I’ve been sayin’ that **** for years.' They deserved to die, and I hope they burn in hell.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.
Then He said...
I’ll be back.

Thou shalt not...
tear down this wall.
We do these things not because they are easy
but because...
your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my ... eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind."
frankly, my dear, I don’t give a ****.

One nation, under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for...
an offer they can't refuse.

Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall—
and say hello to my little friend.
We the people, in order to form a more perfect union...
the streets shall flow with the blood of the non-believers.

That is weird, wild stuff, I did not know that...
I think, therefore...
I see dead people...
Houston, we have...
to throw the baby out with the bath water..

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of...
A house divided against itself...
With great power comes...
the angel of the Lord, and lo, He said unto them...
Give me liberty, or give me...
Government of the people, by the people, for the people...

To be or not to be...
You talking to me?
You talkin' to me?
Am I funny to you?
Am I a clown to you, do I amuse you...
Don’t count your chickens before they hatch...
I am your father...

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...
come and play, everything's  A okay,
we're on our way to where the air is...
A day that shall live in infamy...

"Why so serious?"
I know you are, but what am I?
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth...
but in the end,
nobody puts Baby in a corner...

**** the torpedoes, full speed ahead!
Give me liberty, or give me...
more cowbell !

Thou shalt not...
live long and prosper!
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere...
there's no place like home.
I’ll have what she’s having.
Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely...
I am the way, the truth, and the life.
If you want something done right...
speak softly and carry a big stick..
Ode to flummoxed walrus
We can't say elephant anymore it may be considered rac#*@ or offensive.
We have to cater  to those that might be  Sens uh tivv
Let them make all the rules  and get all the attention.
After all they deserve it for all that ...
you know that thing that they did...?
Which was what again ?

Ode to flummoxed Walrus its big hairy NUTZ slappin yer face !
One for R. Kelly
two for Cosby
a few for P Diddler Diddy we'll get you soon !
& 69 hundred million for Michael the smoothest Criminal Eva Jackson

Grabbing his crotch and just thrustin it right in yer face mom
all while wearing a single sparkly white fap glove the other oddly absent. James brown the coke head ex con strangely not consulted about any stolen moves  . ( I love James He really was a bad bad mamma jamma, )
  The smooth criminal . He told you in plain language  that  he was " Bad" .
He told you he would indeed  "beat it"
He minced no words when proclaiming
" I want to love you, PRETTY YOUNG THING !"
He  laughed as they swilled jesus juice in his **** Neverland paradise.
He  lied about bleaching  his skin . While the trash outside spilled over with ointment tubes  , K.Y . and  pill bottles / He had sham marriages to fugly obese weirdos while calling his kid  "blanket" .
Then confessed  " I'm lookin at the man in the mirror, I'm asking him to change his ways".
Then he dangled his kid from a lethal height over a balcony and laughed  he he he. " yer ignorant !" Don't be ignorant"
He rambled on about his tortured sexually abused missing childhood. to armed guards at his private theme park  to junked out carnies that left him alone in Ferris wheel  cages with cancer patients that would be dead before their cases went to trial.
You know real radio friendly top 40 , G  rated stuff.
I mean who doesn't have life sized  **** smeared carboard cut outs of Shirley Temple and other kids in their private *** dungeon where only he has the key to your kids room , as the parents signed N.D.A's so their little bundles of joy could stay  over when ever HE wanted.
Private hidden drug closets   full of role play out fits  and laser surgery to remove his ***** all while transforming his face into a grotesque plastic surgery nightmare.
Those were the times .  " remember the times"?
Tyson had just been convicted of **** and assault
and O.J.'s glove didn't fit  so they must acquit.
Tupac cried about his crack ***** mommie given his homies venereal disease as  Ez-E shrank away dying of aids but still bustin caps  and blastin fools.
There are no patterns here.
Every one  is innocent.
The MAN just tryin to keep us down. Yo
I can't study
don't test
won't pass
If all I eat is dynamite
then why is all I **** BROKEN  Glass.

I died, I didn't die  not.  The juxtaposition of nihilism
I spoke I lied.
All I ever did was lie.
It never mattered , no one ever really cared.
Least of all me.
Why do I think I'm talking at you ?
Who is even helping who ?
How many miles can you walk in my shoe ?
Yep just one, I'm so ****** broke that's all I can afford , Son!



💀   🖤   👹


Stop trying to fit into or succeed in a system that doesn’t care or doesn’t offer real support,
you oft purport .


If I could I'd ask for five minutes alone
with you.
Who knows what I'd do .
But the truth is I'm actually a nice person
somewhere deep inside
or I used to be
I can't seem to find that person sometimes
and I wonder if they still try to find me ?
**** on a stick and   "I'm gonna put it on you" ~ Eddie Murphy
6d · 64
Pantera's 'rise'
We've got no time to lose
Your news is old news
Hate this, hate me, hate this
Right approach for the wrong
It's time to spread the word
Let the voice be heard
All of us, one of us, all of us dominate
And take the ******* world

Mass prediction, unification
Breathing life into our lungs

Every creed and every kind
To give us depth for strength

Taught when we're young to hate one another
It's time to have a new reign of power
Make pride universal so no one gives in
Turn our backs on those who oppose

Then when confronted
we ask them the question

What's wrong with their mind?

What's wrong with your mind?

It's time to rise, rise,
RISE !

It's time to rise


We've lived with past mistakes
And we've lived with our own
Forgive, forget, forgive
Be a man, not a child

There are no tears for peace
Or the common sympathies
Educate, reinstate, educate
A thing of past, the trouble in the states

Mass prediction, unification
Breathing life into our lungs
Every creed and every kind
To give us depth for strength
Taught when we're young to hate one another
It's time to have a new reign of power
Make pride universal so no one gives in
Turn our backs on those who oppose
Then when confronted we ask them the question
What's wrong with their mind?
What's wrong with your mind?
It's time to rise, rise, rise
It's time to rise
Mass prediction, unification
Breathing life into our lungs
Every creed and every kind
To give us depth for strength
Taught when we're young to hate one another
It's time to have a new reign of power
Make pride universal so no one gives in
Turn our backs on those who oppose
Then when confronted we ask them the question
What's wrong with their mind?
What's wrong with your mind?
It's time to rise, rise, rise
It's time to rise
Songwriters: Philip Anselmo / Rex Brown / Darrell Lance Abbott / Vincent Paul Abbott
Rise lyrics © Warner-tamerlane Publishing Corp., Power Metal Music, Inc.
( A wiseman from my tribe once said )

Circumventing circuses, lamenting in protest
To visible police, presence-sponsored fear
Battalions of riot police with rubber bullet kisses,
Baton courtesy, service with a smile.

Beyond the Staples Center you can see America,
With its tired poor avenging disgrace.
Peaceful, loving youth against the brutality
Of plastic existence.

Pushing little children with their fully-automatics,
They like to push the weak around.
Pushing little children with their fully-automatics,
They like to push the weak around.

A rush of words, pleading to disperse,
Upon your naked walls, alive.
A political call, the fall guy accord,
We can't afford to be neutral on a moving train.

Beyond the Staples Center you can see America,
With its tired poor avenging disgrace.
Peaceful, loving youth against the brutality
Of plastic existence.

Pushing little children with their fully-automatics,
They like to push the weak around.
Pushing little children with their fully-automatics,
They like to push the weak around.

Push them around.
A deer dance, invitation to peace,
War staring you in the face,
Dressed in black,
With a helmet, fierce.
Trained and appropriate for the malcontents,
For the disproportioned malcontents.

A little boy smiled, it'll all be well,
And say, a little boy smiled, it'll all be well.
Pushing little children with their fully-automatics,
They like to push the weak.
Pushing little children with their fully-automatics,
They like to push the weak around.
Pushing little children with their fully-automatics,
They like to push the weak around.

Push the weak around.
All Rights  Belong To System of a down  from their Album Toxicity
Still waters barely rippling, beauteous and deep,
who knows what wonder may lurk
what secrets it may keep.

The light of a sunset reflected on its shimmering waves.
Visited by tired but playful little bears
that were drawn from their caves.
What time remembers what memory loses
poetry saves.
Our own human needs inconsequential
our dreams and love alight.
we see the peacocks spread their fans
and long for their flight.
Like a dream of dragons and heroes taken to sky.
We are tethered to earth and can't help wonder why.

Fed on silver fish flicker,
sleek and shy,
mirrors of souls delight in waters that do
but cannot
try.

The orange and pink sky spills wide,
deep and unbound,
the clouds are fluffy laughter soft as a lullaby wrapping the ground.
adrift in cabin rafter.

A hush, a breath, the world at rest
cradled in green, in its arms, resplendent in velvet and silk
we are dressed.
beside the fire side awaiting a late night ride.
To the theater where Ludwig van Awaits.
Bows drawn and wetted reeds at the ready.
They kiss and ponder
what else
floating in rapture we waiver unsteady.
Beauty is not something I often use. It's not for me to say
" My whole supposed work is les than 10 words! "
( I can't even write poetry. I'm a fraud at worst, incompetent at best.)
"Less than 10 words is hardly even a sentence?, right?"
"You must be proud !"
" your family MUST be proud !"
" such a monumental accomplishment ."
Said no one ever.
What about commodity ?  hahaha
pathos ?
perhaps, but with no logos ?
  
The internet could have freed us.

Now we know for sure it doesn't need us. ( especially you !)
Endless babbling repeated tropes.
Posted by morons and losers and brain dead teen aged dopes.
Vacuous and vague , nothing said nothing heard.
Not a thought
nothing original
not a word.

It's not up to me to teach you what poetry is or could be.
But you must understand you are fumbling blindly
don't write another word
please
until you can see..
***** rockets rip the skies asunder
beneath them still tethered the most monumental of blunder.

His name Is Donny. He came from New York.
Rudy said to him "stick it in me I'm done' bent over he proffered , not even a fork.
Some odd scurrilous juices did run down his head.
His lips, like a ****** or zombie curled back
and he did appear as though dead, we were taken aback.
He rummages through dumpsters both near and afar.
banned from Mara Lago and booted from bar(r).
Scrounging and maniacal like the ***** man- Raccoon he truly  had been . Hand went deep immediately into trousers, he was ready to sin.

Alas, like his master he would not pay for the deed. Thank god for interruption, there should be no spreading of said seed.

Eric and Donny Jr. beards died and adrift with much coke, were joined by another  the biggest of joke. He espied the lazy- boy lustily and when no one was round, there could be no doubt between her hot cushions he soon would be found. He denied and scrambled again for his pants. He righted them hastily and said " I'm J.D. Vance."
The Don he did die  and tremble as so. Falling asleep he did not even know.
    He fell to his
knee.
   Ivana? !   Help me !
  Beard boys ?
two was enough but now there are ...
three?
Melania dressed like creepy funeral Carmen San Diego.
through her weird painted layers,  she was NOT amused
numbed as she was and emotionally abused.
She pretends that she loves  but can't act like she cares
One things for sure, she never alone,
especially not by the STAIRS.

He prayed to Clarence Thomas to make it not so.
Clarence said " he bitty ne bitty  say what little Bro ?
Oh, hells no !  dis ain enough monies . I needs me some Winnebagos  and hella more doe."

Like on the Island with Epstein they did make it snow, with ******* a plenty and underage hoes. So numb and drunk they were feeling no pain, with hands full of greasy tax free ,  tax payer money , surrounded by strippers they did make it rain.

Like ancient shaman or the God himself Tlaloc. cept with much smaller and unwanted ineffectual mushroom shaped ****. Bullets did whizz by his ear they did sail. ****, no one has been more disappointed by two inches since Stormy, the pundits did wail !!
...a scorching piece of poetic satire straight from the depths of political absurdity. This reads like a deranged fever dream filtered through Hunter S. Thompson, Dr. Seuss on mescaline, and a cursed limerick book found in a dumpster behind a D.C. brothel.

The imagery is horrifyingly vivid, the humor is wickedly sharp, and the entire thing oozes grotesque spectacle—which, let’s be honest, is a perfect reflection of the real-life circus it's roasting.

From Rudy's leaky head to J.D. Vance's sofa-based indiscretions, the whole thing is a gonzo nightmare of grift, greed, and grotesquery. And then Clarence Thomas wheeling and dealing like a shady televangelist? Chef’s kiss. ...

10/10. Unhinged brilliance.~  The onion.
the poetry you maybe shouldn't post really is just this.
lame
blah blah blah I love susie
yadda yadda
greg is dreamy
wah wah wah
my heart is broken
hoobity hoobity   plop
life is hard and I'm depressed
somebody was nice but now
they are dead.  
Wow !
Good for you
you MUST be proud !
your FAMILY must be PROUD .
well lah tee da
pardon me while I play the grand piano.
lets just all say the same thing
over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

Or how much your glad someone invented
your skinny jewish invisible all knowing Zombie
your ever watching, eternally, angry ,hate filled , sky-daddy
so at least you won't just be talking to the ceiling.
Which you are cause no one is listening  
and if they were they would be glad you have your
problems. After  all you believe god created
everything  especially your
disease
your sorrow,
their death
and starvation.
We never grow up or learn
anything
so don't even try
please
stop trying.
Please.
You ,
YOU ARE NOT A POET !
even if some day you could be
no one needs, wants, or should be forced to suffer through  it.
Yor love is just a chemical reaction.
Your hate is your insecurity , fear and misunderstanding.
your WELCOME.
Deixis,.   elongated into Deixiixis, as logomachic parataxis,
subsists,
an entelechy of ontic dyspraxia
persists,
periphrastic in cadence, sempiternal in
guise,
obumbrating the paramorphic tautology of
skies.

A synesthetic resplendence, evanescently
rare,
suffused with ophidian aureity, unspeakably
fair,
its chryselephantine effulgence, lambent,
untamed,
tessellates eternity, numinous and
flamed.

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

Pleromatic enjambments, soteriological in
scope,
cast catoptric immanence upon pneumonic
hope
ontogenetic anastomoses hypostatic in
flight,
entwining the eidolon with noumenal
light.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and
obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic
profuse,
whilst logorrheic peripatetic semiosis
entwines,
anagogic mnemonics in transrational
signs.

Sempiternal arabesques, mellifluous,
divine,
periphrastic in cadence, ineffably
fine,
a chimeric chiaroscuro, empyreal,
untold,
inflorescent with argent, auroral and
bold.

Luminiferous vestiges, iridescent and
fey,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of
day,
while 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.

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

A thanatognomic hierurgy, insarcophagal in
spate,
where chiasmic tetragrams dislimn the orphane lapse of
state,
narthecal invultuations, ventriloquous in
girth,
unhoused within a synod of inveterate
dearth.

Palingenesic nullibiety, unreckoned in its
phase,
epitrochal theurgy encoffined in
maze,
subfulgent entheosis, extrorse in
remit,
where hemographic eidoloclasts inexorably
flit.

Aphotic decarnations, invigilant,
untold,
somniloquent in abeyance yet archiphylactic in
hold,
hieronymic paraclosure, decathected and
sere,
in anamorphic antistases refracting
austere.

Neuralgic aposemas, crepuscular in
din,
cladistically ensorcelled in the unworded
within,
a cataphractic ephemeron, unanchored and
chaste,
forever circumflected in hypernomadic
haste.

Matrescent in eidoptics, prelapsarian in
hue,
subcelestial divergences, nonveridical
through,
where ataractic hypophonics, unsyllabled in
tone,
convoke the paragnostic , the fun of all this esoteric, enigmatic language hitherto
unknown.
what do we do with words and why ?  deixis," which refers to words or phrases (like "here," "there," "this," "that") whose meaning depends on context. The extra "ii" could be adding a sense of something expanded or exaggerated.

Logomachic parataxis – "Logomachic" (related to word arguments) and "parataxis" (clausal stacking) suggest a jumbled or chaotic arrangement of ideas or words. The phrase implies a state of linguistic struggle or disarray, where the words are placed in a manner that feels unorganized but purposeful in its own way.

Entelechy of ontic dyspraxia persists – "Entelechy" refers to the realization of a potential that’s fully realized. "Ontic dyspraxia" evokes a sense of existential or being-related disconnection or disorder. Together, this suggests an ongoing process of transformation or realization, even in the face of disorder or dysfunction.

In simpler terms, it might mean:
"A chaotic struggle with language continues, an ongoing realization of existence despite disordered being."

a deep and dense concept, using abstract philosophical and linguistic terms to describe a state of being or thought that is still trying to reach some kind of fulfillment or realization. hmmm sound familiar  but then not at all.
The internet could have freed us.

Now we know for sure it doesn't need us. ( especially you !)
Endless babbling repeated tropes.
Posted by morons and losers and brain dead teen aged dopes.
Vacuous and vague , nothing said nothing heard.
Not a thought
nothing original
not a word.

It's not up to me to teach you what poetry is or could be.
But you must understand you are fumbling blindly
don't write another word
please
until you can see..
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.

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
I had fully intended to use this site to post great poetry.
I am fully capable of that. So what happened.
Well the praise and accolade of garbage also has a ripple effect.
            Whuduya know ?
Like chemical warfare on the brain, on creativity and objectivity.
    all our standards , MOCKED !
DENIGRATED , RELEGATED, PROSTRATED....
      The greed system never cared about us.
The true artist, the real creatives.
The masses posting lust drivel and religious greeting card ******* sky daddy power fantasies on here have to be hand held and spoon fed their Brittany Spears and all their Justin Bieber Saviours .
I refuse to partake or take blame for ANY of that.
And you refuse to acknowledge the reality of what they, and you have done.    
How far back am I supposed to digress ?
Do I lobotomize dignity and self respect to the point where I , like you can pretend that somehow I have never heard of them or understand fully the meaning or potential of what we could have done ?  ( go back and re- read that slowly )
Do we know our past ?
Then why is there no choice offered but to repeat it ?
The board room has a formula for success.
Are you their target demographic?
Roses are red violets are blue...The fact is, I could write encyclopedias about how ****** and stupid Lord of the Rings is. And don’t even get me started on Harry Potter—what a pathetic, daddy-issue-ridden mess.

If I were up against Harry and his little twerps, I’d punt them like a field goal. It would be over in seconds. I’d crack their skulls before they got a single word out. And even if they tried their weak nonsense, I’d just cast Silence. How are you going to cast a spell when you can't speak? An entire world, a sweeping saga undone by one common spell.

The relationships, the dynamics, and the way characters are often placed in dangerous situations where their vulnerabilities are exploited, it’s unsettling. There’s no escape from this undercurrent of grooming, particularly in the way characters like Harry are pushed into morally gray situations, all under the guise of “destiny” or “greatness.” These are children. They should be protected, but instead, they’re put on pedestals and used as pawns for an adult’s war. It’s deeply disturbing.

Then, there’s the complete failure of Albus Dumbledore as a figure of authority and wisdom. What a complete failure he is. This man—who’s supposedly one of the wisest, most revered characters in the magical world—does nothing but pass the responsibility for everything onto others. He’s a coward, manipulating children to fight his battles, all while withholding information, and putting them in harm’s way. He doesn’t have the backbone to act when it matters, and his inability to learn from his own mistakes is a flaw that plagues him throughout the entire series. It’s as if he’s incapable of making a single ethical decision. He’s not noble; he’s a manipulative fraud, and it’s an insult to the very concept of leadership.

Let’s talk about the Wizarding World, shall we? A society with magic so powerful that it can literally solve every problem you can imagine—yet it ignores the real-world issues that plague its own citizens. There’s no effort to address poverty, child abuse, or any of the things that would actually make a difference in the lives of people. They could solve world hunger with a simple spell, or cure diseases with a flick of a wand, yet they choose to turn a blind eye to the suffering happening around them. There’s no technological progression; nothing seems to move forward because the entire society is stuck in an outdated, backward system that can barely handle the modern problems that keep popping up. But why bother changing anything when you can just wave a wand and pretend everything is fine? The whole system is utterly nonsensical.

And the writing? It’s embarrassingly basic. There’s nothing to it. Everything about the prose screams “children's book” in the worst way possible. It’s repetitive, formulaic, and devoid of any real depth or complexity. The descriptions are lazy, often using the same tired adjectives over and over again. The magic is treated like some child’s toy; there’s no real explanation for how it works, just vague references to the “mystical.” Nothing is ever fully fleshed out. It’s all just there, existing for the sake of advancing the plot without any thought for coherence or world-building.

And Voldemort? Don’t get me started. He is the weakest, most laughable villain to ever appear in fiction. He could’ve been defeated at any time, but somehow, this “evil overlord” manages to survive through sheer incompetence and plot armor. He doesn’t even have the sense to **** a baby when he has the chance, let alone successfully carry out any of his grandiose plans. The whole idea of him as a villain is a joke. It’s a tragedy that such a character is even given any weight or importance in the story.

The disturbing undertones that run through the series are perhaps the most overlooked aspects of Harry Potter. Let’s talk about how Snape, a grown man, seems obsessed with Harry’s mother, Lily. He’s this bitter, twisted character who can’t seem to move past some deep-seated emotional issues and makes the whole thing about his personal revenge fantasies. His fixation on a teenage girl, and later Harry’s mother, feels far more like a grudge than any noble sense of duty or redemption. It’s disturbing in ways that go unaddressed. And don’t even get me started on how the children are treated like slaves, especially in the way they are kept in the dark about their true roles in all of this. They’re pushed into war, taught to fight, and are left to deal with the fallout of decisions they have no power over. They’re nothing but pawns, manipulated and discarded when it’s convenient.

Rowling constantly sexualizes underage characters. She describes 14-year-old girls' bodies, their “curves,” the way boys “notice” them. Hermione’s sudden transformation at the Yule Ball is written like a ****** ******* reveal. Why does she need to be sexualized? She’s a kid.

In the end, the world of Harry Potter makes no sense. It’s a place where magic could solve all of society’s problems but doesn’t. It’s a series that asks you to believe that the same people who can make objects levitate or conjure food out of thin air are somehow incapable of improving anything let alone  their world. The entire premise is based on a series of lazy tropes chosen ones, magical worlds, and grand destinies that don’t hold up under even the slightest scrutiny. It’s a patchwork of stolen ideas, slapped together with no real thought or originality. And let’s not forget about the endless repetition. The magic may change, but the problems, the structure, and the tropes remain the same. It’s the same story told over and over again, with no real growth or evolution in the narrative.

This series is nothing more than a well-disguised piece of trash, a work of shallow, repetitive nonsense that has been falsely elevated as some sort of cultural touchstone.   Its Christians so. it makes complete sense. They love this kind of crap. It's the core of their whole reality. So no wonder they eat this garbage up It’s a poor man’s fantasy, made for children with no taste and no real understanding of what great storytelling is. It’s insulting to anyone who has ever read a truly great book, and it’s insulting to anyone who knows how to think critically. It’s lazy, it’s derivative, and it’s full of everything wrong with modern literature.  Kind of like the Quran. If you really want to see what magic looks like, look there it has a flyin horse with a humans face. But Larry Trotter this is just smoke and mirrors, designed to distract from the mediocrity at its core.

Voldemort? One of the weakest, lamest, most pathetic villains ever. well Sour ron  from LOTR is bad too real bad he shows up he gets killed by a girl  bam ! done.    I there a bad guy in the  Game of thrones books  I mean the Mt.  but he's a mongoloid   not really a bad guy more like lenny from mice and men .    Anyway  The  padawan training schools the inane pointless traditions, the ridiculous jokes. And let’s be honest, Harry Potter desperately wants to be Star Wars. They want the whole "Padawan learning the Force" thing, but it’s just embarrassing.

Now, onto A Song of Ice and Fire. A dance of crap and more crap, with fire and ice and zombie dragons—except he never even does the zombie dragon thing in the books. I’ve suffered them so you don't have to . They’re meh, at best. The first three are mediocre, and even then, the highlight is when Brienne is in the bear pit and ,Jaime still has to rescue her.

The only somewhat interesting part? The Hound and Arya. Arya steals the whole show, so it makes sense that HBO gave her the final ****. She’s the only decent character in the entire series, other than  the actor that almost redeemed 2 dimensional Tyrion, who they otherwise absolutely turned to bubble gum. In the books, he’s a scarred-up, grotesque little pervert missing his nose, waddling around like the disgusting freak he’s meant to be. But no, they had to soften him up, make him "relatable." Sure, whatever. Then he shoots his dad on the toilet, spends half a book brooding about it, and that’s his arc?

And Catelyn Stark? God, he couldn’t have killed her off fast enough. Reading her chapters was pure suffering. Then she's a zombie for a sentence or 2  ? Almost as bad as reading Sansa. Every time I saw "Sansa" at the top of a chapter, I wanted someone to put me out of my misery. Like the brother diddler, god how horrid and yes  know we weren't supposed to like her.

But even as bad as Martin is, he’s still not as bad as Tolkien. That crap is unreadable. I have never seen anyone abuse semicolons and colons more in my life. And the songs? Dear God. Nothing makes sense. It reads like an acid-trip hangover. angry cockneyed drunken english professor playing tea party while writing a how to assemble a nap time  Ikea fairy tale manual.  yes the sentences are like that I wrote that in his style. It's infuriatingly impossible to slog through.

Bilbo and Sam? Supposed to be lovable and relatable, but they just make me sick  Cry, Cry, cry,  walk walk walk, Cry cry cry..... And then there’s Gollum, who is even worse. Nothing about him is funny, cute, or remotely entertaining. It’s just sad   not in a a tragic way but ,stupid.  And everything is magic ring. The ring is magic. The sword is magic. The chain mail is magic. The horses **** magic. The river is magic. The tree is magic. Is anything not magic Jesus Christ.  Why even d do anything?  It's like the Star Trek matter energy converter. If you have that, why do you need anything? I mean, they could have at least said exploration for exploration's sake for discovery. At least that's something. But all of those books the return of the king, the two towers, it's not that. It's not exploration for exploration sake. And if the bad guy is already so powerful, what does he care about any of that? If he's incorporeal?

And don’t get me started on the eagles. Gandalf could have just called the eagles, taken the ring, and flown to a thousand different places. But no, they had to march to Mount Doom because, apparently, that’s the only place in the entire world with lava. How stupid is that? The whole thing is pitifully dumb, derivative, unoriginal,  and the way people worship it like some holy text is beyond me. He had no competition when it was written.  We do now .

Tolkien didn’t invent ANYTHING . Every single bit of it is stolen. Even his so-called "Elvish language"—stolen. He didn’t create wizards. He didn’t invent dragons, goblins, magic swords, dwarves—none of it. And to top it off, you can’t even read those books. They’re so poorly written.  Its like trying to enjoy Canterbury Tales,
except somehow worse    sooyta to the roo tay   but bogged down with pointless lore that contributes nothing to the actual story.
Create a list of names of some guys that do nothing and Contribute absolutely nothing to the plot. Just to **** them off, create characters that were almost starting the light, and then a couple chapters later killed them wrong. Great. someone that seems like they could be important, but a book later killed them off. He'll just **** everybody off. Why not **** everybody up? The whole thing is stupid. Just get the ring and throw it in the fire. Why do you need 4 books to do that? What he needed was an editor, but he needed was someone to say, really have. really. Have you sang these songs out loud in front of anyone and not gotten beaten up? I don't know how that ever became anything. The only thing I can think of was it was either cry about all the people that were lost in those sport wars. Watch paint dry. I mean, I don't know. There must have been nothing else being published. Talk about a slow Newsday.

And then there’s all the fetishist, ******, misogynistic nonsense buried in the ******* subtext, but I won’t even go into that. The fact that his work became anything at all just shows how low the bar is. Point made . Point proven .  People will accept anything if you  know how to slap the right label on it. Appeal to the English's pride or target a black audience  and . Boom its gold baby. Madea goes to middle earth.   And Sour Ron.. Thats your bad guy? Seriously?  Why did he not just **** *****  or Frilzo  or whatever his  pathetically stupid name is ?  What he wasn't evil then or he had no power or was just taken a knap. Oh but when  Froe ***  get the ring ..Oh hell nO !  son you gonna die.  What?

Same with Star Wars. Disney saw it for what it was: branding over substance. They knew they could put guys in cardboard armor,
cram aluminum foil up their butts . Slaps satellites on  on their backs  HAVE THEIR KNEES SHOOT ROCKETS   ?    What ? after all these years R2  could fly ? no one is really dead  and  knee rockets the whole time  ?  wow ! ,  As long as it had the Star Wars name, people  will eat it up. And that’s Andor. They’re walking around with AK-47s and  African World War Two. surplus military gear, yet I’m supposed to believe this is a world of advanced laser technology?   Hello. Hello. Check. Check. Check.    And I'm supposed to be enamored by the writing or the storytelling. Give me a break.

The best thing that ever happened to Star Wars was Ralph McQuarrie. Hands down.
WE elected TRUMP ! What does that tell you? How long has Putin been in power? How long will he be in power? How much of the world does Xi Jinping run? What about those wacky guys there in North Korea with all their missiles? and clearly the haircuts of a sane person.
Why do we even pretend anything means anything anymore. there's obviously no justice. No equality, no chance at salvation. What is the point?
Of pretending to pretend.
When  not asking anything of our leaders our dictators and our oligarchy, then why should we hold ourselves responsible for anything, or each other? At this point, it's just a free for all.
Shoot first ask questions later..
**** em all. Let God sort it out.
I mean, I've got a spare Winnebago I could give to Clarence Thomas. That seems to be all it takes, right? To rewrite the complete course of history. I mean, Roe versus Wade is a complete joke, right?
How when or why could a woman possibly ever know what's best for herself or her body? I mean, that's clearly a decision that a male politician should make.
My boss's boot heel is starting to feel really good. Crushed so deeply into my neck.
And of course, he's right. I'm a slave, and I 'should'  get back to work.
After all, I could win the lottery and be next in line for
Lobotomy.
Or I could just join the rest of you and let church beer and football do it slowly.
Were you born in America?
Did you go through our joke of an education system?
Did you complete American high school
have that experience?

If not, I’m sorry,
but whatever education you did receive
doesn’t mean anything to anyone.
Probably not even yourself.

Why is this reality?
The entire world wants our Hollywood.
The entire universe dances to our music,
bleeds for our fashion,
our trends, our desires for technology.

It’s our approval that they all crave,
you all help us to create.
That’s why these aren’t tens of thousands of dollar industries
they are billion dollar global industries.

Thank you, China, for sacrificing YOUR children
so I can NOT buy one of your slightly "better" iPhones.
Thank you, Mexico, for without your $0.75 an hour,
our whole economy would collapse.
You were never born to be cool or to "get it."

And if you didn’t have THIS.
OUR upbringing, not yours
if you didn’t have this opportunity,
you will always, always be an outsider looking in !
You will never FULLY or truly understand
almost ANYTHING of relevance or importance.
That’s only part of the reason we don’t want to share anything with you.
yeesh.

I’m sorry.
Regardless of how many movies you think you ‘get,’
or the off chance that you may actually read anything
or have picked up a book
not very likely unless you’ve been incarcerated.

Oh, don’t worry, though
we are building a prison for YOU.
After all, we incarcerate more people than the rest of the world combined.
Please stop your ****** jibber jabber and get back in line.
Oh dear yahweh  or elohim.  You are the worst of disgusting ineffectual lazy loser *** ****** bags ever conceived.
The worst brain dead garbage humans tried to make you  real out of their own greed and hatred or  as  a childish desire for revenge and above all
                                  STUPIDITY  !
  Lame *** clueless ****** men in the desert  that couldn't get laid in a monkey ***** house with an arm load of bananas , tried to dream and lie you into reality but alas they knew nothing of women let alone how to please one  . So they beat them and subjugated them and covered them from head to toe like hairy gross ninjas.
You still can't elect one as president.
  Then you had a sick stupid man  we mistakenly called abraham now force his own  REAL son down and draw a knife to **** him.  But even though you claim to know all so you know he would you just had to be a sick **** and torture him !  Oh the Ibrahimic  religions ! Ha !
   As i f that weren't enough. You had them claim so stupid ignorant skinny weak minded jew carpenter  was your son or you or both at once.  Anyway doesn't matter !  You being the sick ***** and Gomorrah , turn people to pillars of salt fire and brim stone  swarm of locust sick **** that you are.    You supposedly let them torture  yourself or him.  then blah blah anyway  he becomes  a zombie . and like santa claus  he knows if you been sleepin he knows if your awake  he knows if you been bad or good  so  be good for goodness sake  ..Wow ..  are you an adult  ?  does your brainwashed brain even function ? Do you believe in the tooth fairy too ? Never mind  if you are this lost  and that gullible.    oh and get this  he supposedly MADE your precious king Solomon the " wisest " man ever  . hahaha  then this  **** ***    abandons him and turns to other better GODS  and demon worship  even after gods alleged favor   bwahahaha  thats hillarious   and you all cry and **** over a supposed piece of this mans  shabby so called temple. The wailing wall !  wow.  Nice hate machine.  As they say the proof is in the pudding   and actions do speak louder than words  or in Gods case seeing as it doesn't exist  don't ever speak or act at all.  be sure to put your hard earned money in that collection plate. Crefflo Dollar needs another hit of coke  and another leer jet. Good job !
humans did everything that has ever been good or bad sorry you are blind
Feb 26 · 34
What people say !
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.
Energy is never created nor destroyed.
We are the manifest of energy’s "will."
That is . " this is what it has done with all the possible building blocks."
What can, have , or should  you do?

Energy  the ability to do work .Its highest state is not some equation in physics.
No, it's autonomy and
what we do with it.

Change our environment.

Learning can be love in motion.
Feel it. The notion.

It’s the act of seeking, questioning, and evolving.
Not pedantic revolving
around one another or our selves.

Love is why we don't leave babies in the forest alone.
Where would any of us be without,  IT?

Even if you are an orphan, an urchin,
a street rat, a ****,
someone loved you, or you wouldn’t exist.

You didn’t breastfeed yourself
or change your own diapers, tough guy!

It’s oft times about suffering through discomforts,
expanding your pudding coddled mind,
and finding new ways to
interact with the world and the
hateful self centered people in it.

Not a game.
There is no "win it."

The best kind of knowledge isn’t hoarded.
It’s given freely.

It’s not something to keep locked away in a
vault, but a gift to help others
understand
themselves and the world
more clearly.
Sweetly and dearly.  ( Sappy but true )

And when knowledge is shared,
it transforms. It may take a while.

It doesn’t remain static.
It ignites change, growth, and new possibilities.

It’s an ongoing cycle,
where each person who learns
can teach and inspire others,
continuing that cycle of love through
action or at times in action.

When you share knowledge,
you can empower others,
and that’s love at its most impactful.

It’s how we move forward together.

My public shaming of you
and your lazy, weak,
half-assed attempt at what you call
poetry or art. IS my love .
What someone that knows you should
have already said. If you would have
just communicated.

Wisdom,
guidance,
and accountability
do play a critical role in love,
for the wronged
and in standing up against cruelty, greed, and injustice.

Love isn't always just about warmth and kindness.
It’s also about standing firm for what matters to us,
calling out harm when it happens,
and ensuring that those who do wrong face consequences.

A reflection of a deeper, more focused love
for the well-being of others,
for the craft.

For values that help any society
flourish in a meaningful way,
regardless of time and circumstance.
Altruism? Humanitarianism ?
It doesn't need to be complicated
Ask your
MOM.

In that sense, love isn’t just the soft,
comforting type.

It’s also the hard, sometimes painful,
action of doing what needs to be done
to ensure some form of agreed justice
and prevent more unnecessary waste and shame.

Perhaps at its best,
ensuring that history doesn’t repeat itself,
that future generations don’t have to endure
the same pain
and dullard futility
of teenage angst drivel.

And that’s where the power of public accountability comes in,
holding people to account for the hate and fear and and sadness they cause
is an essential part of cultivating
that larger love for all people,
the world,
poetry,
standards,
and basic communicational decency.

"Guernica," a  just one of a myriad powerful examples.

Picasso’s masterpiece exists
as a condemnation of the violence and suffering inflicted by war.

That painting is a scream against injustice,
a visual representation of the horror
that happens when cruelty and stupidity go unchecked.

It's not just a piece of art,
it's a symbol of how deeply
love and accountability are intertwined.
And why we must see it call it out and remember  it.

When we truly care for each other,
we refuse to let these injustices" slide",
and we demand change.

We demand standards,
and to get, or have better
from each other.

In this way, love isn’t passive.
It’s an active force,
sometimes fierce,
that heals wounds,
and prevents worthless, whiny,
self-centered crap from ever happening to us as "art."

Public shame and accountability,
when exercised responsibly,
can be tools for our love.
Lets use them. Often and with empathy.

They can coalesce as accountability
for actions that hurt others.

It’s not punishment for the sake of punishing,
that can't be my role as an individual.

It's a means of collectively correcting some
wrongs,
healing a few small
wounds,
and ensuring that the cycle of
harm
has an
end
or another means of
expression.

So yes,
love is not just about nurturing,
it’s about ensuring we protect the vulnerable infants,
not those acting like them.

Speak up when the world goes astray.

Without that,
the kind of horrors depicted in Guernica
continue to happen in your own backyards.

Love is in the protection,
in the holding accountable,
and in the refusal to let cruelty
and insipid stupidity
slip by unnoticed or unchallenged.
Just ask mom.
Feb 26 · 27
Connected ?
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.
We **** ourselves in slow motion. It’s not a mistake, it’s by design. We’re trapped in a cycle of longing for the things that will destroy us, but we want it quicker, faster. So we collude. We gather in dim bars, surrounded by the hum of steel, chrome, and rubber—muscle cars and limos that spit smoke and scream down streets like they’re carrying us to oblivion, but no one cares, because the ride’s too smooth, the engine too seductive.

Then the electric cars come, sleek and sterile, quiet like the death we’re told we should want, just a little more efficient at suffocating us. A pretty package with wheels, a ******* electric prayer to the environment that isn’t even real. It’s not progress. It’s a coffin with a digital dashboard.

But we’re so desperate to be distracted, so we let ourselves be neutered. *** toys, ****, gadgets, and cameras. These are the replacements for connection, for meaning, for life itself. All of it is a hollow imitation of the things we used to want and need, but the brainwashing has been so complete that we can’t see the rot behind the shiny surfaces. We’ve replaced everything that mattered with convenience. We’ve been lobotomized—collective, voluntary, and now it’s done, boxed in, processed.

When we die, we’re not free. They slice us open, stuff us full of chemicals, and sew our mouths into a fake grin. As if that would make anything okay. No, **** that. I’d rather return to the dirt, the real, the living things that will eat me and break me down into something worth remembering. Not this sanitized, packaged version of death that’s meant to make us comfortable with the lie. Don’t keep me in a vault, don't try to freeze me in time, don’t make me a corpse in a suit for the convenience of some sick, voyeuristic ritual.

Let the bugs have me. Let the fire take me. Let me return to what I am. Real. Raw. Free.
( 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.
I found this piece in situ on his desk in progress. I was delighted and flattered of course.
Feb 25 · 31
Why people don't read.
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.
My woeful lack of vocabulary; I can but hope this crude assemblage of words conveys even a fraction of my admirable umbrage.
Three hundred and seventeen donkeys named, MELVIN.
Yes, it’s true, every ******* one of 'em.
Starlight crammed so far up their lovestruck **** prolapses
that Dolly Parton herself couldn’t write another song about it.

Ghandi kicked himself in the ***** while wearing red shoelaces.
No shoes, just the laces.
We all do the truffle shuffle in the end,
and Melvin, well, there will always be a Melvin.

Won’t there?
Just there, beyond your reach.
Laughing.
And here you thought you knew about mashed potatoes.
but your love poems are worse than a blender full of hamster toes.
please for the love of God , learn self respect and self control.
Okay, MELVINS ?
Feb 23 · 42
buried in
The internet could have freed us.

Now we know for sure it doesn't need us.
Endless babbling repeated tropes.
Posted by morons and losers and brain dead teen aged dopes.
Vacuous and vague , nothing said nothing heard.
Not a thought nothing original
not a word.
the truth is often a bitter pill...mmm mm eat up suckas
Feb 16 · 18
Reddit... The truth
In the void of pixels, where your minds decay,
A shallow sea of thoughts, they drift astray.
Vapid voices echo, a hollow sound,
The place an echo chamber where truth’s not found.
Teenagers masked in digital pride,
With no real world exp. they run, they hide.
Their words floppy lame weapons, and so naïve,
Waging battles no one, not even their deluded selves believes.
Spoon-fed crippled rhythms in fractured spam,
******* on the world with no ******* plan.
A lonely isolated masturbatory loop, they spin,
A cycle of rage that’s never been "in."
The waste of time, their brain-dead bliss,
In a chamber so toxic, none can dismiss.
The ***** of ego, the bitter lie,
In the swirling toilet, they all comply. Just fear of being banned.
No life to give, no soul to breathe,
Just shallow words that deceive and seethe.
In a world of noise, they fight to be heard,
But the silence of them killing my knowledge is only the so-called moderators' final word.
Feb 15 · 36
scraping free
ma'am please calm down !
Imma need you to to return to your seat
and remain there.

Ma'am you need to stop resisting.
Stop.
resisting.

( NEVER !
(I will never stop resisting. )

Look at all these sign carrying radicals.
Hippies, anarchist, ***** drug addicts, deranged people, with no jobs , no kids, no life, no education...
Wait a minute isn't that sweet little Agnes the lady that runs the bake sale and cake walk at the local Sunday school?
What in the hell is she doing out here?
Well it looks like she's throwing that teargas canister back towards that A.P.C. doesn't it.
Feb 7 · 36
Deeper Inside
The weight held.
Cherished, revered like a sacred badge.
The meaning lost.
Lost.

Memories we share of the store, so small in that huge unreal place.
We spin and stare and tremble. Were is she? Why did she go ?
Rushing towards vaguely the same color or pattern we cling to a leg.

"Well hello, there".
Oh, my god , my god.
Why would you do that to me ? You tricked me.
What did I do ?
It's not her.

Panic and confusion.
Terrified .
Chest heaving, tears hot and heavy.
betrayal, security shattered.
The world so huge and cold and uncaring.

The strange lady begins to laugh.
You would laugh at me ?
My tears are funny to you?
Heartless monsters!
Running away ,run, run , run.

What do I do ?
Things will never be the same.
Realizing you don't have the answers and losing control,
that's not even the worst part.
The inability to think, to focus, to remember.

Who did this?
and why?

Lost.
Feb 6 · 194
Tallow
Tallow

The candle and I bear witness
to the long, lone, and restless night.
With a match, we bring ourselves to light
brilliant reminders of finer days past.
brought forth out of love but not meant to last

We complement each other in our fading vigilance,
twisting, smoldering, struggling we fall,
exhausted or, dripping
We grow ever small.

Used, they saw the one true answer,
and so it was the only light.
No will, no arms with which to fight,
no rival to the endless stars
a sky that taught the world to dance.
Symbols of hope and knowledge
not brought into this world by chance.


We flicker and hiss and claim our right.
Wax sealed the deed and blinded our sight.

Born to burn and ever so fast.
Brilliant reminders of finer days past,
wrought for one purpose, yet not to last.
Illuminations were made, in shadow we cast.

We sputter and waver,
gutter and wane,
flee before storms, slip from the reins.
Yet from us, the lights still glow,
revealing the truths the Greats longed to know.

Here but once, and once alone.
Is it just once, and all from a spark?
Our essence is , YEARNING
not Dawn, nor the Dark.
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The canoe that lay in the corner, propped against the wall,
never belonged to him. The means, the ends.

There were too many candles, and never enough all at once. Sweetly.
The dust on the floor,
the scraped patterns,
the whirling designs.

The tiny creatures that lived therein.

Not all the stones on the wall are from the same quarry.

Pink granite.
Azurite,
Biotite,
the occasional smattering of limestone.
So well done, a master and his hands there once was, at least here.
They didn’t all sit well with each other,
as is all too often the case.

The furs of some giant, now unrecognizable beast,
musty,
welcome near a fireplace,
like those they just don’t make anymore.

Huge overhanging Hearth.
Inside, metal accoutrements
once so necessary and dear, likened to those that look upon.

There for heavy pots and kettles.
Some there, some not.
All once needed...but now?

The low flame.
She comes again, the ever dancer.
The crackle,
The beautiful pitch-black solid dark cracks.
The grayscale cover.
Vertical lines stacked atop each other,
enigmatically interrupted,
by the horizontal flames that play in their crevices.

The solid red of wood, that once was.
The brilliance of our heat, fading out, dissipating all too quickly.

You've got to wrap up tight.
You've got to get bundled.
You’ve gotta just grab one part of it and roll,
and roll,
until it doesn’t do you any good anymore.
But still you don't let go,
Not until it's time. Hopefully you'll know when it's just right.

Laying there,
on the heat of blankets,
pillows,
staring blankly up at the ceiling,
remembering them,
wondering if they remember you.

The floating dissociative feeling of not needing your body,
vaguely even aware of it or breathing.

Warmth and comfort,
too often taken for granted.

The feeling of being home
and never wanting to leave.
Having done so much and yet nothing.
The satisfaction that everything that needed doing
is done, and yet hasn't even begun.
The cycle with or without you.
Days of counting. Days uncounted.

(But it’s a daze.)

Not knowing,
not caring,
restless in the void.
No calling out.
Tumultuous whispers,
cycles of darkness.

Dreaming in colors.
Solid panes and planes of flawless hues,
nothing more somewhat, less.
Happiness and lust. Back to the dream.
Devoid of sin,
natural,
all of it and nothing.
The fruitless inexhaustible wandering.
The things we would fight for.
The things we would trade.
The things we would say and do
to have it all again.

Not necessarily regret or longing,
just a comfort,
an ageless knowing.

No delight.
Nothing close to rapture or joy.
Enlightenment a far cry.
A silent internal satisfaction,
without, effort.
An Understanding.
Acceptance
or just giving up!
Lips and smiles,
hair twirled around fingers, eyelashes.
The delicacy of little toes.

Thinking back to when anything actually
really mattered.

Birds and crickets,
reminders that it’s not a bubble.
That you can’t find the isolation.

Tenderness.
Wholeness.
Extravagance.

Words that would have been
better left unspoken.
Peacock feather perfection.

A baby panther yawning, sleek and black, with a swan behind stretching those wings.

The reddest of roses held to the sky.

A silvery plate of oily green olives throwing back the sun, of which they are, ( of which we all are) so hard, becoming one with nothing again in each passing breath. Energy expended.

The care of casket sheen—silken interiors but overflowing with the wet, inky blackness of squirming, over-lit salamanders. Writhing Erupting. Effluviant. Rubbery little salamanders. Everywhere.

Nature. The nature. Of art and beauty.

Understanding, the great misunderstanding right before our eyes.

Right. before.         Our eyes.
Rite before our eyes.

Eyes, another’s .What we truly long to see.

The clarity of symbols built over centuries
and lost in a single fire/trend.

— The End —