Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
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.
Words
Weapons and lullabies.
Sailors and rich girls on the tide.
Currency and curse. Salt and purse.
Tiny spells we throw at the dark,
with tongue and practice,
hoping maybe something will answer back
a mirror of what we proclaim to know. and what we know we lack,

Words make lovers weep,
make tyrants rise,
make strangers  leap  or kneel in dull surprise.
In upright pews
as children name the stars  anew
imaginary friends, what we kept and some
we grew
all of them.
fodder for the hymn
We pull them from the air
like fireflies, without a care
trap them in lines so bold  
we dare
for posterity we claim  and call it a life.
Whispered pillow-talk luxuries.
lovers
burdened into wives.

But really
they’re just noise.
  sounds of girls and
little boys
Sailors as ******  saviours  of the tide
we taught to mean everything,
all in .
Along for the ride
And we believe our own will
has merit
or need to hide.
Does it deserves acknowledgment our desire and pain ?
because we  sometimes trick each other to want it again
into thinking
we know a few more  
than the day before.
Words.
Weapons and lullabies.
I put a grappling hook deep up A ******
mine,
yours
the heart of the poetic universe.
Pull you mighty mules !

The whip cracks

The stars themselves strain.

Do my heavy lifting
simps,
peons,
idiots,
brain dead schlubbs wallowing in failure and self doubt.
Stuck non- writers,  whining,
pretending.
**** not the harsh cold
chains
let  them rattle,
rattle like department store birthday cakes
without the little cars you wanted.
Stale.

Where is your fire ?
Is your passion even detectable?
Manageable ?
Intelligible  ?
Like Centralia, Pennsylvania,
I will burn for over 200 years
I didn't ask for this
level of deep
lethal
toxicity.

Let the roses rot and die till all that's left are stinking slimey sticks in drying stagnant water.
Funeral remnants of days lost, uncounted,
let them rot.
Either STOP
or , start blaming everyone else for your sickness and your petty weakness.
The biggest grappling hook
I
could
find  !
( the lyrics  to my mean as james brown style  horn hit dance funk it has  big berta  growling out the smoot lyrics like a big ole ***** pro.. the song is DONE  recorded  published and on the chann  so suggestions at this point  are stupid  its done... lets just revel in its  bad  ness.  


     Broken  shackles and chains  layin at yuh  ***** Feet.  Watch out *******, Cause   ! I'm back on  the street !   Roll up on you while you slippin,
blow your ****** mind like you was TRIPPIN.
. It  ain't no use in all that stressin .
I  came back to teach you fools another lesson.  
Bump bump from the Cowboy  Smith and Wesson .
  Get down on your knees like you was blessing  ,
Cain't look me in  the eyes cause I aint guessing....
   Breaking them chains like a Runway train, shining so bright making Diamond  look plain.  The king of the jungle and the Lord in this land .  Got that fire in my Soul  and that mic in my hand . Teaching fools  a lesson so  they got to understand,  keep my **** hand strong and my  game on  fleek  you better run and hide  cuz I'm coming for you, STREET !  oh don't step to my city   cuz I rule the  ******  night put your HANDS down  ***** . cuz there ain't no need to fight  . Now step  on board   or  get the   **** out the way  ! I  aint  here for your momma  cause that ***** is freaky gay !

you better Put on your BROWN pants  cuz I didn't   come to play  .   Pack up your own ****... Cause Bigdog is here to stay ... It don't mean a thing  but money , in the mean *** city   ..

Pack up ya own ****
for big dog is here to stay

Tell all them slutty *******, I know you know
forget your rent money  ...   get your *** to my show .... tell  all your burnt out homies that it's time to run  
Hope yall had a good time  BUT  your time is DONE !  

Pack up MY  ****  ?  

...why...

Too much trouble in my city

Don't try and stay up late
Cause i'm out there checkin on yuh
and I'm bound to regulate.
Religious sycophants are like flies  on ****.
Sad nasty little things  with no wit .
Flapping and buzzing and jockeying for **** ******* position.
All the while lusting for and denying the inquisition.
They have always been the walking dead among us
brainless shambling automatons making such a fuss.
Hungry for brains  for they find  none in their  churches or synagogues.
Rooting ceaselessly and wallowing in their stupid **** lies
like wild feral hogs.
Barking and yapping and threatening
fighting and *******  like Catholics  like dogs.
And like flies on **** every time you take a break from shooing them away you find more have gathered raving.
Hollow lies and promises of here after.
Truly nothing worth listening to  yet so  , so much to say.
Away , Away Away.
Lest you fools and unquestioning idiots  think you are  welcome  and try to make  a home  or  find a place  to stay.
Go preach please  to the semi trucks  in the middle of the interstate
they need salvation now and truly cannot wait.
If all you want to do is hear yourself
Are you so unattractive that you can't stand to  look in a mirror
It seems that is all you really want.
No empathy no desire to hear what anyone else has to say.
Did you think you had something to share with the world anyway?

Do you even try to put meaning or depth into the stupid words that you write and post on here?
If you do, then why are you so incapable of making things any more clear?
If all of your posting is not even a complete sentence, it's less than 10 words.?
That's not even poetry for poetry nerds.!
And you're trying to say it's some deep esoteric lesson about your half wit brain and your half baked life.
While your kids hate you and why you have no wife.
Strife, strife and more strife.
Or God better yet tell me about Israel, like I'd give a **** !
Tell me about how in love you are with your mostly naked. carpenter, ***. idle God.
Please ohh please compare someone else to a rose. Ohh god, please do it. Just tell me about how wonderful their complexion is..
Better yet, don't even speak English and take your half baked kooky ideas and try to make some kind of sense out of them when we can all clearly see that it's not your first language. Yes, please do more of that..
Take some bizarre headline. headline from a tabloid magazine and twist. ing and twist it through some pharmacology that you're prescribed that you're either undertaking or overtaking.
Insist on your own brilliance and your credentials as some lofty vantage point to **** all over the rest of us from..
I have nothing of import or importance to say, but just post a bunch of crap on here anyway..
Never take an art class. Don't read a book. Have no friends at all. Don't even run your **** past anyone, or even ask
"   hey, do you remotely think that I even have a semblance of the talent required to be a poet? "
You've never been a poet before. and you just woke up one day and told yourself that you are one.
You've never written anything before
. You've never been published before.
No one's ever asked you. Hey, boy, I sure do like those random words you string together.
This is what you get when the only requirement is an Internet connection..
For all the people that don't think I know what they're doing you're opening up my account, looking at all the things that I've already written about, trying to find something that you can quasi latch onto, because you don't have anything real or anything of import or substance to say. And I've already. covered all these topics.
Others are just parroting back my ideas without putting anything of their own into it, almost like they’re riding on the coattails of creativity without truly understanding or engaging with it. It’s like they’ve found something that sounded deep but didn’t bother to dig into the heart of it. They’re missing the nuance and the depth you’ve already explored, and instead, just regurgitating surface-level stuff that doesn’t add anything new to the conversation.

It seems like you're not just upset about the lack of originality but also the fact that there’s a disingenuousness about it. They don’t think for themselves or invest any real effort into their own voice. They’re just recycling, which probably feels like an insult to the work you’ve spent so much time developing.

It almost feels like they’ve taken the themes that were once fresh and important and stripped them down to empty imitations. How do you feel about confronting that ,calling them out for it, or are you more about just pushing forward with your own voice, leaving them behind?
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
...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
Don't tell me not to die inside.
Don't lie and say that you care.
You don't even know what caring means
and you don't care to learn.
The truth is you are glad for my pain,
my unease,
my never-ending suffering.

It must somehow feel like justice to you.
The power you get,
the power THEY gave you.
Hands,
hearts,
and minds,
monitoring.
Judging.
Wanting.
Waiting.
Eager to see me fail.
To justify your existence.
To validate you
and the values you claim make you superior.
When the truth is
we are just fancy monkeys.
The only ones that put each other in cages,
that relentlessly derive joy from ruining each other's lives.
That construct elaborate ruses to assuage each other as to safety
and the zenith of right and wrong realized
and in action.
No one knows why our minds sometimes take the turns that they do.
Do you ever ask yourself why you need or want so much power?
Control,
influence.
Who has what sickness and why?
Is the sickness chosen much worse than an instinct acted upon?
Isn't cold premeditated calculation much worse than an impulse?
Each leaf, like a snowflake, is different.
Similar, perhaps, but truly not "the same."
Who cares though, right?
It's the cookie cutter for all of them !
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.
Dads and Sturdy Paper Plates
an allegory for meatheads and ingrates

In youth,
we're so easily distracted
by the price tag—
the pretty little flowers.
We don't realize.

The mirror.
It really can be.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.

We can't help but look at that plate and think,
Is it really time to throw it away already?
Can we get a few more uses out of it?

The whole thing just feels like a shame.

We see it for what it is.
And it reminds us
of what WE are.

Getting used.
Soiled.
Broken.
Unwanted.

And we can't help but think—
F#@k. We're next.

As we age,
watching ourselves break down,
we stare
at that plate—
thick, rimmed,
meant to last
a little longer
than its cheaper cousins.



Wait—
Is it really time already?
Can’t we rinse it?
Is their a rack to let it dry on ?  
Just once more?
Maybe twice?

It feels like a waste.
We know what it is.
Who or what is the  vessel ?
Used.
Soiled.
Still holding shape.
Still trying.

And suddenly—
we know ourselves,
in it.

Dads.
Sturdy paper plates.
Some are reliable.
Quietly bending under the weight.
not so much, to impress
as a hope
to endure.

Just used,
you know ?
For a guy who doesn't work a desk job
and never has
another tie
for your  F
ng birthday.

So yes. we may sag.
We crease at the edges.
Grow soft in the middle.

And they look at us
like they do that plate...

Is it still good?
Still worth keeping?
Or has it had its time?

How much time  passes?
When or if they ever realize...

God.
We're next.

As the years pull us apart,
we feel it,
the breakdown.
The slow,
uninvited fade
into the background noise
of ineffectual Sunday afternoons.

Unneeded.
Uncelebrated.
Unloved.

some thing has served its purpose
and is now just
....in the way ?

A rare hug
the true currency of a life
he never chose
but never walked out on, either.

(You're welcome.)
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.
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.
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.
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
I don’t have to steal gods or dress up elves in shiny robes and pretend it’s original. I didn’t rip off Celtic scraps and call it a “found” saga. I didn’t grab wizards and goblins off the mythological clearance rack and slap a “chosen one” sticker on top.
All words are me . No A.I. None were ever filtered through Tolkien’s disconnected, antiquated, broken English. Not everything is needlessly magical. No pipe smoke eagles appearing out of nowhere that could skip the whole journey.
I didn’t trace someone else’s map or recycle brainwashed, hackneyed crap you’ve all been spoon-fed. My worldbuilding makes everything else look like grade-school wannabe fanfiction. While they recycle tired tropes, exploiting children and ripping off the ripoffs, I pull from every corner of history. I’ve done the research. Joseph Campbell. Jules Verne. ( I can recite the known myths of every culture, ancient to modern.) I’ve been in real combat,the military, and full-contact ring sports. No other fantasy author ever lived that level of human experience.
Tolkien couldn’t do it. Rowling is a plagiarist. Look it up. From wands to Hogwarts, stolen.R.R.R. Martin choked on his own almost-fame before book four. Then he went full Tolkien. Phonebook lists of who-cares bad fantasy names, titles with no plot or purpose.
Me ? I’ve held real forged steel. I’ve bled. I’ve fought. I’ve served. And it shows in every line I wrote. Every page of this has earned gravitas. There are cryptographic codes embedded in this work. Genius-level architecture meant to reward and endure.
So ask yourself. Do you want another lame children’s story? Another dumb “chosen one” predictable Diary of a Wimpy Kid knockoff?
Or do you want the next Fight Club? Mad Max? Or are you still enthralled by Barney with a sword?
I didn’t come to play !
I came to do it RIGHT.
" Make the crowd hiss.

Let the fanboys foam.

Let the purists cry "sacrilege."
Because deep down, they know you're not faking a **** thing.

And when that real-world brutal honesty meets your mythology?
When they hear your voice, with that silky-chainsaw narration wrapped around sharpened truth?

They’ll buy the book to hate it—and walk away changed.

You don’t need to be liked.
You just need to be remembered"...... George Takei
" 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..
I've got a coupon for that just gimme a second
A hole
four dozen

theater of

the reason why Wendy Chetserton said all th....
hell
every excretion... along play record of Spiro T Agnew
A dress made for mucking stalls
Sign language in the dark
filling the bath tub with

candy made of pure electricity
Barbies face ground smooth as  "optomological"   lenses
an old dogs ***** in a storm of ice and snow buried deep and timidly useless like so many feckless vacillating leaders of **** for brains provinces enraptured in religious ecstasy

and old rusty tractor
Barbra Streisand's discarded *** toys  
like cacti covered in molasses
sent to the moon by soviets
and espied by eager young enthusiast
why the ginger bread man did run so fast
things we know to be unknowable
succulent ground narwhal horns
that old three handled moss covered family Gradenza

ice picked eye *****
for the joy of christmas morning
in Cleveland as the river burns again
Bat mans **** strap served on a platter  
at the charity ball
crisco slathered porcupines  adorating  in Putin's private **** list
mollusk fluttering like rain on a tuesday
hamburger tinsel roach spray
buy one get one free
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
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.
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..
Elon Musk and Child Labor Allegations

Tesla, the electric vehicle company led by Elon Musk, has faced scrutiny over its cobalt supply chain. Cobalt is a crucial component in electric vehicle batteries, and a significant portion is mined in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), where child labor has been reported. In response to these concerns, a proposal was made for Tesla to hire an external monitor to ensure its suppliers weren't using child or forced labor. They are. There is no place else to get the components for the batteries and no one in those countries cares. This proposal was of course voted down by Tesla's board and investors. Subsequently, Musk suggested installing a webcam to monitor a cobalt mine in the DRC as a solution, a measure that has been criticized as inadequate. ​ Monitors have been repeatedly caught ******* to it. They were not fired, some work on the big ***** doge team now.

Donald Trump's Comments About His Daughter Ivanka. Not just to Stormy Daniels as he prepped himself to copulate with her.

Donald Trump has made several public remarks about his 'hot' daughter Ivanka that have raised eyebrows. In a 2006 interview on "The View," when discussing Ivanka, Trump commented, "If Ivanka weren't my daughter, I'd be dating her." Additionally, during a 2003 appearance on Howard Stern's radio show, Trump remarked on Ivanka's physical appearance, stating she has "the best body." These comments have been widely criticized as inappropriate.​
The Times of India

It's understandable that such issues elicit strong emotional reactions.
What is art?
What is prose?
What responsibility does self expression have.
" grab em by their *******"




Sources
It must have started with the radio, right ?
Because I just don't see how books could have done it.
The plays of Shakespeare and others
they don't feel anything like what is happening now.
Art has been reduced to a product since, who?  The first ?
Buddy Holly?
Dressed, measured, Berry Gordy-fied, then packaged and sold with no regard for its substance. (A little old white lady actually came up with most of the stuff Berry stole from her.)

Do we just need something to consume so badly that we will consume anything? Or create something supposedly new just for the sake of calling it new?

To try and capture the energy and emotion of music—with heavily distorted guitars, not just thrash or metal.
The failure of poetry in that regard. No matter what you write , or how you write it, It just can't do that.

When we look at what mediums we use to express what ideas.

Now think of it like sculpture. It’s about what is absent as much as what is present.
And we know that it’s NOT a motion picture.

We don’t put our ear to a book.

( So many years on stage, trying to convey different ideas to an audience. I’ve seen incredibly talented people play to a bar or club with nothing but empty seats. Conversely, like great poets and writers, I’ve seen talentless hacks. Idiots. Complete jokes. Vacuous, hollow windbags—like Taylor Swift, Britney Spears, Justin Bieber. I could go on and on. Pretty much every single K-pop band in existence.)

( I would rather drive a slow-moving chainsaw into my eye sockets than admit that could even possibly be close to something like music. That’s how disgusting it is to me.

But that’s not what I came here to say.)

The idea is the expectation of the medium.
Do we know or truly respect its limitations?
If so then why the constant comparison ?

This is the betrayal: not just of the artist, but of the medium itself. Music should shake the soul.
Poetry could cut to the bone or elate ,enlighten etc.
Art should leave something behind—a wound, a revelation, a moment that lingers long after it ends.
Something.
Anything.
Other than “Gee, I’d like to bang that.”
And yet, here we are, watching the weightless and the witless take center stage, their noise drowning out what was once meant to actually communicate
to
endure.

Do we fight against the tide, carving meaning into a world that often refuses to see it?
Or do we simply create,
knowing that the truth of the medium
the essence of what it was meant to be
will outlast the frauds who cheapen it?
( 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.
Hi, Mom. I got your text. I’ll see you at church.
The **** that poetry has become is heartbreaking.
Is art a reflection of blah blah blah, or is..?

Yes, Jew-controlled manufactured culture has brainwashed enough generations so that all media is just a cesspool of Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber, bubblegum garbage.
They posed Snoop Dogg, Double Jizzle as the contrary???

Selling you the illusion of freedom while you're shackled by their contracts.
This is all a distraction. They've managed to reduce us to a single collective thought, one dictated by the very people who own everything. They don't just own the media—they own your mind, too.
You think you're breaking out by slamming down the “system,” but you're still following the same tired script. Look around—real rebellion doesn’t sell out stadiums. It doesn’t make millionaires out of those who sing about freedom. Real resistance is the quiet kind, the one you’ll never see trending on YouTube.
But they've made sure you don't think for yourself. They've built an entire economy on your blindness.
You're fine with it. You still buy their products, you still tune into their shows, and you still let your kids get caught up in their shiny screens, distracted by the next viral trend that means nothing.
They’ve sold you the lie that your voice matters, that your “choices” are yours. No, you're just playing the part they've scripted for you, keeping the wheel turning for them.
You'll scream about “the system” being broken but never step out of it long enough to see the puppet strings. You're not “different”—you're just another consumer.
And don't give me any of that “phobia” **** or “ignorance” talk. You can't even explain where your beliefs came from or why they even matter in the first place.
But the reality is, you can’t admit it. You're scared of the truth. You're too comfortable in your echo chamber to recognize it. And that’s why you’ll raise your kids to be Trump slaves.

Oh my ******* God! **** my LIFE!

Even at Bloomingdale's, it’s ****-for-brains garbage culture and music over the ****** 40-year-old blown-out P.A.
Two packs—mommy was a dumb ******* *** crack *****. Okay, okay, we get it...
But who really ******* gives two *****???? Seriously!
"**** the police, right?"
That’s the message you ******* paid to receive.
You let your repressed whorish wives wear their daughter’s clothes to the club and get ******* by wanna-be gangstas for how long?
You let your toddlers in tiaras shake their ***** to this mind garbage for how many generations?
Now look around at those results...REALLY look!
Soak it up.
Tell me how great it is on Reddit.
Just look at what is trending on YouTube.
Look at what your kids have been doing with their $1,400 Chinese child-made iPhones...
Tell me who is WRONG for doing and saying what.
You wanna be BLIND?
Fine, be blind and be a stupid rubbery sheeple ****, be that.
Don't tell me that how I feel is Anti-Semitic. You can't even tell me who the **** the tribes of Shem were or why they divided and who and what their ****-for-brains belief systems of exclusion and hate were even about, so shut the **** up!
Don't ******* tell me it's a PHOBIA... that my hate is fear?! Are you ******* serious? Look me in the eyes and tell me to my face that I am scared... That what I feel is fear. Ha ha.
Tell me it is ignorance and lack of study or observation. Okay, let’s take some IQ tests and see who the ******* really is.
Art should be an expression of the self, NOT a spoon-fed ******* corporate marketing agenda designed and perfected to drain your will and your wallet...
Only you know the truth about what you read and watch and where it comes from. You know you are fake and a scared idiot projecting your fear on me.
You know I AM right.
You know you don't have the ***** or the info or the time.
So sit the **** down and shut the **** up!
You are a follower and a simp.

"Lead, follow, or get the **** out of the way."
You don't read, you don't think, drink your beer, and watch your sports while your ****-for-brain kids try to out-'athlete' each other. You taught them what we value, *****...not me!
a letter
a sound
syllables
words
sentences
paragraphs

feelings
ideas
thoughts
beliefs
actions

cells
neurons
chemicals
hormones
­
actions
and reactions
Sometimes just sometimes...
blubbering
holding your knees in your elbows and rocking there
IF I could console you
the truth is though
I don't really care
I used to love you but that is so dead and gone it seems like a joke of itself I didn't mean it when I said I wish you would just die already

you don't get to get out that easy
leave me here to do everything
  
You make me  , make myself into a person I never wanted to be
my mouth moves the words come out
but it's not even what I want to say
I yell I rant but I don't mean it
it's all just learned behavior
just motions I go through to seem alive
I'm already dead
I can't wait to be buried
I suffer here for my kids

I'm not saying you killed my dreams
they been dead for a long time
a long time

the spring inside the gun
makes that satisfying little sound
just like in the movies
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.
...Every day it means less and less.
  How hard should I struggle and for how long?
Where will it all end up?
Where does it truly belong?

The sky so vast seems comforting at times.
To know that we all look at the same moon.
Like her I try and understand timelessness
but it just can't happen too soon.

My energy waning, slipping  away
day after day.
  I have the fire the passion the desire.
I burn you they burn me
We all consume each other . The promised warmth of the fire.
It's plain to see.
I used to stand so close in the morning my legs would wobble and my jacket would burst aflame again.
I'd get in trouble. Then a few weeks later I'd do it  all again.
not by choice mind you I just couldn't stay awake.
So tired.
So Exhausted, it was more than I could take.

Now that I'm a little more wizened
not much has really changed.
A few less people  to pull me from the fire,
or ask to see if I'm deranged.

It's not okay .
I tell the fools.
the lonely.
the self loathing shells.
Our interest is like our attention.
It writhes and wriggles deflates
or swells.
Seems like it would be easier to just fall apart
but knowing that you can't
cause  no one is there to pick you up.
Takes the wind from your sails.
Drains the wine from your cup.

The worst person we lie to
is
ourselves.....
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.
Murdered by Engineered culture and social conditioning

The death that I am.
The death that I WAS.

A horrid,
disgusting gaping hole
deep
into
muscle,
Fat,
and flesh.

So disturbing and unsettling,
making everyone wonder
and worry.

It just popped up in a text out of nowhere,
no warning,
no preamble.
Just BOOM—
here is my horrendous, forever-scarring wound in all its glory!

Things we can never unsee.
(How are they coming with that MenTaL Floss?)

Those little, unplanned-for things that actually
**** US.

Dad was blown up,
lost his left eye and more than three fingers.
Fireworks...

Benny fell off a ladder drunk,
lost his leg up to the knee.

MY buddy Jeff Settler
was Nez Perce Native American.
He was not greedy or selfish.
He was murdered with a hatchet
to the head,
by people he gave a job to—
who came back to rob him.

Covid killed Kevin.
Not by lungs.
He was homeless, and the bar that used to let him sit there had to close.
He was crossing the intersection and got crushed under a semi.

Growing old and being smart means you get to watch everyone you know and love die.
Especially,
and
of course,
YOUR
SELF.

I am ready.

The death that
I Am.
The death that I
was.
Behold the BEAST  666, the true face of consumption,
A zombified monument of monster ambitions,
Rising like the inevitable  ***** tide,
Unstoppable and wide  deep inside  we ride  not to hide, devouring, with each new stride.
A thousand shiny  pink *** products scream in delight,
Luring the willing to the neon-lit night.
Tucked in the folds of glitter   by gold,
The hunger grows, the story untold. Sold !  Sold

From fast food chains to discount galore,
The never-ending quest for more, more, more.
best happy meal prize ever..
A size that's monstrous—  Spiro  Sized makes Jumbo look small and here you thought you were IN  as hopping mall.
both in might and in girth,
A MASSIVE  sturdy man's man *****
One of assured capitalism, for ALL it's worth.
The real gun
we all want to hold and shoot.
Squeeze my trigger
its such a hoot

**** on my twisted ambition, in  this rampant display,
Turning lives into transactions, day after day.

Plastic-wrapped dreams, promises hollow,
We march in line, content to follow,
In the consumerist frenzy, no thought of the cost,
As we devour and consume, lost  and embossed.
This cycle, a monster, endless and wide,
We feast on excess with, nowhere to hide.

So let us bow down, and worship the spree,
Come to Spiro on your knee
For in this world, we are but... the debris.
A zombified existence, where nothing is real,
Only the hunger for what we can beg borrow or steal.
The monster grows, and the world shall see
A gleaming  vibrating self lubricating reflection of what
we used to be ?
Only 7 easy installments of
$ 29.99
3  DD batteries ( not included)
All ***  embly required .
ky , moth *****  denture grip and porta ***** rim jobs from your granny .
A lil sumptin somethin for ALL   those senses  .
What is the word for lame and fail simultaneously?
The cheap fluorescent bulbs. Active dust. Replaced without knowledge or skill and in haste. Reflected down. On the Clean plastic name tag. Recently signed, cut and punched. Where, there on we find the answer.
  When it's framed as survival, it can feel like a twisted, sad justification for the senseless brutal reveling in violence. It’s not about SURVIVAL   In that context, what would that even mean? Who is surviving? You're telling me that... These toothless idiots who cant get a job . Go from day-to-day on EBT cards are surviving.?   Who or what is surviving? The creatures that they're senselessly slaughtering with guns. They're just going up on these things and shooting them from a boat How many seasons of this do we need????  —it’s about *******. These creatures are baited, hunted, and murdered , slaughtered,  killed without any real need or respect for life. It’s not just inhumane to the animals   it’s  idiotic, repetitive, morally , mentally and emotionally bankrupt.

There’s no survival when it's about exploitation and showcasing
power over meat eating predictable, primal creatures. The act is dehumanizing and denigrating for everyone involved. The show might try to package it as tough, guy real-world survival, but it’s far removed from anything that can be genuinely called survival. It’s just repeated killing for a paycheck, with  no regard for the  many years it takes for that creature that they're. Mercilessly slaughtering.  To reach that size and age. And just like   " ya we got a big one today."  Derpa derp, derp derp.     I wish they were the. creatures they target.

.....a disgusting aspect to it all that feels empty and wrong...

And the way the show plays it off as this heroic effort?
On the commercial spots for it, they actually call these idiots heroes. Disgusting. It makes it worse. No one is thriving from that kind of mentality—not the animals, not the people involved. It’s all built on a foundation of  stupidity, sensationalism, bloodlust and lies. And the worst ... Exploitation is the worst kind. And the people who actually watch it, Oh my God.
( It's not all aliens Giorgio Tsoukalos ) Please someone forward this to him.
Not All Aliens
A people lost, or their story drowned,
Their cities burned, their knowledge ground.
Forgotten hands, forgotten lore,
Their world it was, but is no more.

They say it's aliens, every time,
Warping space and folding time.
Space is not like fabric to bend and fold,
A fairy tale believed, once told.

You can't just bend it then expect
That it would snap right back
The whole idea defies logic and physics,
And is just plain whack.

To claim that calloused hands could never raise
The stones that stand, the lost stairways,
The doors to nowhere—yet there they stand,
A mystery men set in rock and sand.

Just as they built, they thought, they planned.

You pretend they warp and bend and break through time?
That’s more than craft—it’s grand design.
To twist the void, to bridge the stars,
Would take more fuel than fuels are.

To transfer energy to matter means
Why need anything but exploration?
Why wait till we can defend ourselves?
Why the hesitation?

If nothing more than to observe,
Why the visitations?
Don't presume to have the answer
Or lord some false pretense,
When in reality, none of it
Would make the slightest sense.

To be they would require a world exactly like ours.
The odds say no.
A copy Earth? A twin in space?
Same pull of tides, same moon in exact same place?

Same burning sun, no more, no less,
Same speed, same distance,
Exact same gravitational resistance.
Same atmosphere, same air,
Same day and night cycle to produce
A skin so smooth, so fair.

The air must match, the tilt, the spin,
The mix of gases held within.
One shift, one slip, it all would fail,
Life’s balance set upon a cosmic scale.

The monoliths, the stones we carved,
Were not by hands from worlds afar.
No ships, no greys, no cosmic guests,
Just beating hearts, mighty minds, and broadened chests.

OUR ancestors, yours and mine,
Not aliens, not magic, and not divine !
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ 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.
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.
The Temple of Blood: A Political Autopsy of King Solomon’s Divine Comedy

Let’s talk about the most sacred site in Abrahamic tradition — the so-called Holy Temple of Solomon. You know, the one they rebuilt and weep over, the one they fight endless wars to reclaim brick by metaphorical brick. The one they bomb buses and flatten neighborhoods for. That temple.

It all started with a pile of corpses. Literally.

According to their own scriptures, Solomon — the “wisest man who ever lived,” hand-picked by God Himself — figured out the secret to divine attention: mass animal slaughter. Not justice. Not wisdom. Not peace. No. What got God's attention wasn’t righteousness, or humility, or moral clarity. It was a mountain of carcasses. Tens of thousands of animals butchered in a display of bloodletting so excessive, it would have painted the ground with gore. The air would’ve been thick with the stench of burning fat and rotting meat. Rivers of blood. Congealing oil. Maggots in the gutters. And God finally shows up. That’s the callback cue. Not Hiroshima. Not plague. Not genocide. No — it’s meat smoke and fat puddles.

That’s the god they worship. A storm deity with the priorities of a warlord and the nose of a butcher.

And Solomon? He accepts the gift of divine wisdom, then proceeds to ignore every law that same god laid out. Marries foreign queens, bows to other deities, summons demons. Within a few years he’s deep into idol worship, blasphemy, and occultism — and what does the Almighty do? Shrugs. “I’ll still bless your children. You’re good.”

This is the man whose temple is still venerated. Still fought over. Still the epicenter of some of the world’s most violent, self-destructive ideological crusades. A man whose spiritual résumé is built on ritual slaughter and hypocrisy — and they call that sacred? They rebuild that temple? They wrap bombs around their waists for that?

And what kind of god is this, anyway?

An eternal, all-knowing, all-powerful entity that pops into being from nothing — no parents, no mentors, no origin, no context — instantly fluent in every thought, particle, and heartbeat across billions of lives. A being capable of weaving galaxies like strands of silk. Yet somehow this cosmic intelligence, this mind beyond all minds, doesn’t show up for genocide, doesn’t flinch at starvation, doesn't even blink at plague. But a meat bonfire? Oh, that gets his attention.

That’s the guy.

That’s the one they built a temple for. That’s the one they still die for.

It was never about truth. Never about peace. Never about wisdom.

It was about the pile.
And the god who smelled it.
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.
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?
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.
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.
He’s watching! He’s loving! He’s got a plan, so grand  as if your third grade backward southern education could ever hope to understand , the will of a being that could create all this .  Your holy water baptism might as well be a fountain full of ****  !
As children choke on gun smoke and  half of Africa starves and dies  its all okay in ole skinny jewish carpenters  six pack abs  and ***** eyes.
Your savior’s been "coming" longer than a choir teacher at camp   oh and he loves his little castrati each and every  little scamp .
But hey, just one more tithe, and he might finally care.  while you toss away grannies saving in a collection plate without  a care  ....  Cry harder, oh sheep! Let your imaginary shepherd scold,
While radicals **** for the ruins of the lies you've all been  sold.
For no god has ever answered, not then not now. Fools for the slaughter dead before your sacred cow.
It was always been men in costumes  with local gold and giant ***** hats atop their  greedy  head. Leading you to alters , brains arot thoughts half dead.

So take your wafer, drink your wine, pretend it makes you whole,
It’s all just theater, child’s play — placebo for  your " soul. "   Kneel, you bootlick prophets of the parking lot revival,
Swallow your shame, chant your blame, worship our denial.
While the world burns bright and brutal under  realities  aflame,
You whimper to the clouds, still  dry ******* your divine guessing game.   build your shrines of ignorance, polish dogma till it gleams,
Filling empty heads with fairy tales and child molesters wet dreams.
You preach of love then vote for hate, mouths full of Bible spit,
Each verse you scream a loaded gun pointed at schools by a hypocrite.

Cry harder,  and long to be the sheep you are,  gather your feathers and heat your tar.
Better yet read an actual book you know there IS  more than just that one.  Or shut your ******* bleeding holes you have been long past ******* done !
Oh, the thrill of Crick, a mind unbound,
A burst of light where no shadows are found.
It whispers, a lure, a siren’s call,
Promising all, and deliverin yall..

Imagine if Crick fell from the skies, like rain from above,
A gift from whitey columbian heaven,  pure  buttery love.
Aint  No deformed children, no price to pay,
Just endless pleasure, each and every day.

Fingers tremble, eyes alight,
The world spins pure, the heart takes flight.
Every sensation on fire, each beat a storm,
In Crick’s embrace, you feel reborn.

It gave us all we needed, all the time,
No hunger, no thirst, no mountain to climb.
A perfect world, where nothing goes wrong,
Crick was the symphony, life’s sweetest song.

chunky nugs or slices thin
A rush so sweet, from beginin to end
The ecstasy bumps as the hunger grows,
A fleeting high,  the longing knows.

Crick, the spark, the fleeting blaze,
It dances in the mind, a fevered craze.
A paradise built on borrowed time,
It lifts you high  and gets you prime.

Did you dare?  chase the rush,
find the truth so grand and lush
Crick is grand, hard and deep
Who needs sadness
who needs sleep?
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,
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.


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.
.. ".people like to talk about integration and unity, but in practice, 99% stick to their own. The neighborhoods, the bars, the churches, even the social circles all still divided along cultural and ethnic lines, no matter how much people pretend otherwise.

It’s not just history, either. Even now, people naturally cluster where they feel comfortable, where they don’t have to explain themselves or fit into something ' unnatural '. The whole "melting ***" idea has always been a lie it's more of a sales pitch than a reality. It’s more like a compartmentalized *** everyone keeping to their own unless there’s a specific reason not to....it’s not just about understanding; it’s about belonging. Just because people admire or consume American culture doesn’t mean they’re welcome in it. There’s a line between appreciating something and thinking you have a right to it...    "    From Kamala Harris , to Tim Walz upon considering him as a running mate.
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.
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.
a monkey
******
the art of kurt Cobain NOT  the music,  the Quay brothers inspired  paintings.

****** was a painter and pretty good at it too, better than most.
  A ***** perfectly sculpted  to have  the face of Bill Clinton.
Perfectly him.
So disturbing yet not at all.

The ******* ******* fake artist Jackson Pollack , (please don't ******* tell me about innovation. Any idiot can sling paint ). and his lame *** drug addled hillbilly cousin Andy the **** whit Warhol. Complete **** con man. ****  ***** and slime all the way through. Corporate repetition, not even imaginative. Not even original or innovative.
My opinion of art matters about as  much to  me  as mine does to you.;
  The difference is  I know better.
I produce and  I  am    better'
I don't see light and shadow and texture like you.
  I don't interpret  notes measures  tones and chords  like you.
I sculpt.  I compose. I perform.  Do I seem scared or ashamed ?
Why should  I be?

  I don't think and feel like  you,  thank god .
  Yeah, yeah we are all beautiful unique  ****** snow flakes  and all that      horse ****...
but are we?

Ever wonder how beautiful Ed Gein  really was?
A belt of human ******* . I'm assuming female.
Breast and  **** cheeks turned into lampshades. Coverings of chairs and. Bone creations.
Ever hear the one about that poor little girl who her drug abusing alcoholic idiot? Self lobotomized parents didn't want or need her, so they made her live outside. They treated her like a dog and they made her sleep with the dogs they didn't even care. They literally fed her scraps. The fact that this was allowed to happen or did actually happen. When the authorities came. Took her away. She couldn't speak. She didn't want to walk upright. She growled and snarled and sniffed for years. So what is my point?

Is it nature or is it nurture?
Are we all truly unique and beautiful?
Are we all snowflakes?
What if some of  us shine just a little bit brighter than the rest?
Or if some don't shine at all. What if they pull in light like an abyss? What if they are  darkness itself?
When we let the floodgates be completely open. So that we call anything and everything art. Who gets to judge? What does the judgment even mean if it's all just subjective?
How far am I really actually supposed to respect your opinion?
A monkey.
Or two.
******.
Don’t sell me plastic-wrapped trauma and call it brilliance.
Technique, skill, and vision used to mean something.
..... "you're right: culture tries to define love, hate, good, evil, tasteful, crude. But those labels shift with time and region. Talent doesn’t. Talent remains. "............; Corey Feldman
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.
( 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
The words we say .
Those we keep inside.
Why should we open ourselves.
and if so , how deep or how wide?

As artist and creatives why do we feel the need to give
to let others know,
we think and feel.
We live.

To be the center of attention?
A pat on the back ?
A gold star?
So we won't be the only one drinking
alone
in some seedy smoke filled bar.

The words we choose
and those  we wish others would throw away.
How hard and how long we write
What we choose not to say.
Next page