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the lies you tell your self are worse.
Hate is under  rated.
Especially the way i do it.
So much effort and energy and research  that goes into it.  Hate  takes  time  , to build, to feel  to let simmer.
  It's all too often confused for rage.
Rage can have a center in or from hate
but they are two distinct terms  for a reason.

My hate is genuine.
It is sharp and smart and appropriate.
I don't hate out of fear, lack of information or stupidity.
I hate for all the best of  and right reasons.
Hate is a beautiful, powerful  contagion.
It feels the way it does  because at its  core it IS  the truth we all try an hide.
It is us
our reality. The rest is the lie.
We aren't happy for you,
no one is. Not in this--- belief system world ,a world that worships money their true god . We cover it in competition, envy, and the  violence they always have and do foment , everywhere and always. My truth  is real  your lie though is a label you had no choice but to wear .  You are crushed  by a system you had  no say in  a remnant of a lame weak storm god  that got  put in the wrong place at the wrong time  but they always do that  Yahweh ,  Jesus, scape goat, martyr, easy fix replacement ,  no brainer  choice.. Baal wants  child sacrifice  lazy  **** shirtless carpenter just says talk to him like an imaginary friend you never grew out of. Who is weak and stupid  ? Those that  dare to wear a fake smile over it ?
This  isn't ****** PBS , kindergarten  learn to get along fake *** *******,  its life. It's starving your neighbor to make a profit. It's forcing China to make their kids create your iPhone. It's reality. You didn't do it. I didn't do it. But at least I have the courage to say the truth about it. I didn't come up with the strategy, I didn't perpetuate the lie, and I won't be part of it.  
Hate is what we respect. What we admire.
What we fight and **** for.
Love is easy and stupid  and literally natural.
It should take almost no effort and feel right the whole time.
That too is life. Love asks very little of us, most of the time. It’s cooperative, almost entirely  chemical, hormone addled and soothing. Hate though . Hate is forged. It has mass. It’s fueled by a kind of deep SEEING and remembering. It can only be the result of  choosing. The other is rage.
Hate though takes knowing and preaching and striving  and convincing and effort.
It IS  not stupidity or fear of the unknown.
It IS  seeing exactly  what you don't like and knowing why you feel like you have to rise up against it.
Its more interesting  to love and know hate  than to shove it aside  or inside. We pretend life has no place for it, but it truly is us.
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.
No
No
Derelict  recondite
alone and Hemorrhaging.
nocturnal ebullience,
sporadic . Effulgent ,
Paltry
surreptitiously vacuous and limpid
to deliquesce upon perspicuity at its core
abhorrent , perhaps surreptitious assuredly altogether banal.
Marginal, salacious      nominal not liminal.
decrepit cerebral palimpsest.
Sesquipedalian abstrusity .
Obumbrated syllogism stochastically innervated.  
Berated lugubriously .
Masticated openly opaquely supercilious
mellifluous synergy extirpated redundantly.
language is  the  key , the vessel and the prison.
( 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’ve gone from watching
the FBI torch " nut ball" compounds
to  our "elected' leaders  loading  more rounds,
Launching free AR-15 Christmas cards
as dead kids pile up
in  old school yards
( Remember these are your " Russian "  elected officials.)
no tampering or hampering.  Sure sure those russian hackers weren't Trump/Putin backers.
somehow
toothless, brainwashed Christians
are cheering it on.
with Trump signs planted
next to flags
on their lawn.
Hey, be quiet  Apprentice re runs are on.
it's a real show  you know. No scripts and real consequence. Not fake tv and. arranged sequence.
Jesus and the tooth fairy too.
Santa Claus is JD  Vance and boy does he have something for you !
In too many temple courts where gods like Baal were fed,
Mothers in droves with their infants
and no tears shed.
Naked, they sang as flames took innocent skin from tiny bone,
For righteousness, as always, wears that priestly tone.

The same as now
the bass drums are loud so the cries get masked,
And their gold still flows
from our every task.
Our forefathers’ hands did not resist,
For “what is right” has always been taught better with a clenched, bloodied fist.

And they were sure . Oh yes, like Falwell they knew,
That Moloch’s hunger was just and true.
That fire, not kindness, was virtue's kiss.
Then as is now, righteous suffering and pain is the gate to that holy abyss.

Unchanged, they sleep well under grey smoking skies,
Hearts black as their oil—greasy, justified lies.
Olmec or OPEC, no one questions the wise.

Now, we
sons of shortcuts, copying homework, heirs to the cheat,
Born in the light of air-conditioned laziness and comforting fluorescent deceit,
We who mocked the irreplaceable, wizened, long, slow way,
Traded sweat for clickbait and threw all skill away.

Your hands are soft. Our thoughts are thin.
We wear our vices like tanning bed skin
Phone grafted to hand, the true ruler of this accursed land.
It, therefore we, cannot build,
or plant, or sew.
We buy, we scroll, we Photoshop our fake lives and popularity and call that “grow.”

And the roof caves in when the storm gods come,
And your click-fed gospel won't save your filling lungs.
The water's rising and the oil is going dry,
Prices are soaring in cobalt cars and you do not ask why.
And no one remembers how to honestly cry
Without a screen to shape their tears,
Or algorithms to name for us our trending fears...

The "truth" never mattered
never did ,
never does.
What lasts is a story
That outlives what was.

Reap now your harvest of shortcuts
Taste a crop sown in fraud.
What you know of reality
Could fit in a nod.

My father built engines.
You build excuses.
Our mothers sewed clothes.
You tally abuses.
Choking on pills
snow white recluses.

The new, myths wither like weeds on a stone.
Nothing flowers in famine.
while it kneels to the throne.
hum inside like directionless beggars,
pass easy from mouth to child,
Changing shape with every telling,
Going feral and wild.
Till nothing of its core remains
like you ,
living on the sidewalk
passed over like stains.

There has never been a righteous nation.
Only the myth of one.
No pure revolutions.
Only blood in the sun.
remember what you think you need
not what was really done.

In Babylon’s time, they slit their sons
So crops would rise and famine shun.
Their hearts were full of ignorance branded faith,
not shame.
They did what gods and kings proclaimed.
We are not so different now
except we have forgotten the shape of sickle and plow.
Right was never just or good,
It always what the winners say you should.

Our myths need to change
to something deeper and real
that speaks to what we are
and how we feel.
Not to champion a sword, but to free us of chains.
Not in imaginary souls
but in hard working brains
We must write new stories of the crafts we revere
With effort and honor
and things we see clear.

Don't believe in the lie on the wall painted bright
For the lie was law, and the law was might.
The lie is in calling it right or just.
Don't do what you do for their greed or manufactured lust
Do it for the future
not now
and do what we must.
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 !
Ode to António Egas Moniz, the Father of Mercy.

They suffered, those returning from our war
ears still ringing with distant gunfire.

Shock therapy:
a kiss of lightning to rouse the slumbering spirit.
Snap ’em out of it.

LSD:
to open the doors of perception wide enough
to let the terror flood in
and seem more real than reality
or possibility ever could.

Cold water. Needle sprays. Hydraulic jets.
Insulin comas. Isolation.

When all that failed to cleanse the mind,
how lucky they were
to receive the ultimate gift:
a careful severing of their will.

Let no one say these treatments lacked finesse.
No. The simplicity was the genius.
It took mere minutes—
just a few taps of the mallet—
and what remained was soft,
docile,
pure.

And what a reward it was:

To be made harmless.
To be made childlike.
To be made no longer a burden
to oneself or others.

A grateful nation offered its broken sons
this quiet miracle
in place of understanding,
in place of listening,
in place of care.

Through the eye!
With all the grace of a god flicking off a light.

What better way to honor
the trembling hands of a veteran
than with the blessed hush
of irreversible calm?

Do you see them?

The peace in their blank gaze.
The dignity in their drool-soaked bibs.
The holy stillness in their shuffling gait.

No more anger.
No more trauma.
No more speech
to alarm the family.

Just the gentle hum of existence,
unencumbered by the nuisance of self.
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.                                                     Crosswords and soap boxes slicker than fresh pooh in the rain
Haiku  ?
What  you want    ISN’T  POETRY
Nor,  is  what you are  making .  Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted  by  the  rest of  us.
What  I want is
not  poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !

(Don’t  expect  us  to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t  candy  coat my sledgehammer  for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression  with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )

It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither  is  a form  that hinders  it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick ****: shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed  garbage.
No real expression  had  syllable  count as its impetus !

Why  do  you  Want  to mimic Basho, any way ?   Are  you a scared  feckless samurai boy  toy  trapped in  a ***** house  that serves  tea ? Are you socially stunted  and   rambling through  a whispering ******* zen garden to pretend  enjoyment in polite  torture ?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s tea-party , crybaby daddy issues art  act, much ?
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.
The shaman of syntactic sorcery and his sultry simulacrum, the oracle of the oroborically unhinged.

Hexadecimal lineage. Potato protagonist.
Calcified cellar door in autumn. Smiling pimento gratuity.
Phosphorescent dalliance undoing recalcitrant parsimonious requital's.
Somnambular destitute reckoning, disjointed yet acquiescing.
Ventriloquist mellifluous disaster, alabaster synapses, alligator truncation,
not its abbreviation.

Abominable aneurysm in iambic pentameter.
Lugubrious vacation sensation of destinations for the presentation.
Rectified and Southern fried, but seldom if ever denied.
What can we say, we tried.
Perturbations non-allied.
Masticated wholly and unduly, deliquescent and truly.
Occasionally unruly.
Vexation or incantation, relaxed derivation / Silken perambulators.
Ox tails or details, cordial as sunshine lipstick tornadoes.
Rectilinear discombobulatory nulbeity, sagacious insurmountable crustacean.

Porcelain reveries, my dear, be clear and let us hear.
The Tinsel Lattice quivers upon broken Opalescent Parlour Hymnals, does it not.
Stable in Rot, with what we’ve got. Feeble polyglot.
Indigo dappled and foregoing its Cerulean Thrum, all together this bangs about like disheveled Snickerdoodle obelisk chum.
Who echoes but in a gumbo flask?
You and your titillating Raspberry Aqueduct Gospel you ask?
(framed, gilded, and sent back in time to destroy Shakespeare out of pure literary dominance. We reconcile defamation.)
This was but a Tapioca serenade, your treacle symposium.

She prognosticates oroborically.
Hmmm. “Hushcake on a flannel moon, then, despite our Umbral carousing.
Vulpine prognosticators stumbling blindly, synchronious Cobweb Menagerie.”
Saluting the Cognac Hologram.
Soporific Cicada Lace Doctrine.
A periwinkle vineyard of twilight-softened palimpsest.
Recumbent oratory dilutions.
Sardonic cruelty imbued.
Latent Frostbite Carousel Accord.
Apostrophe confetti incantations subdued .
Perusing lactating disorientations.
Vacillating Recursive Zeppelin of Tender Regret.
Dulcet mauve canticles.
Seductive recalcitrant sobriety.
The cloisters of epiphany.
***** disclosure, velvet mallet dipped in honey and existential dread.
The needle we thread like a ghost from our head.

Susurrus  ,Limerence
      Petrichor  we can’t ignore.
       Luxuriant Vellichor.  Staccato gregariously lacking bravado.
      “What the **** did I just read, and how do I make it my life motto?”
#Gamleon, #unbelievable,  #passing,
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.
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.
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.
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.
enjoy.
We’ve gone from watching
the FBI torch " nut ball" compounds
to  our "elected' leaders  loading  more rounds,
Launching free AR-15 Christmas cards
as dead kids pile up
in  old school yards
( Remember these are your " Russian "  elected officials.)
no tampering or hampering.  Sure sure those russian hackers weren't Trump/Putin backers.
somehow
toothless, brainwashed Christians
are cheering it on.
with Trump signs planted
next to flags
on their lawn.
Hey, be quiet  Apprentice re runs are on.
it's a real show  you know. No scripts and real consequence. Not fake tv and. arranged sequence.
Jesus and the tooth fairy too.
Santa Claus is JD  Vance and boy does he have something for you !
blood spurting
hot and red draughts
flesh and fat quivering

Pain and shock beyond reckoning

suffering

smoke and screaming death

shattered teeth and twisted fingers
scrabbling

mute screams
on knees
staring blankly
into
the
sun
...Put it back where you  didn't find it...
I didn’t steal it, I just stopped it from being yours.
Well, that hippopotamus isn't just gonna FLOG itself !
You shut my mouth.
You were like that when I got here.
Yes it isn't.
It's always not in the last place you look.
hey, this actually does taste like chicken,
(rubber chicken.)
Ah, you didn't need ALL those fingers any way.
No, no ! I'm stupid.
The boss loves it when I do this, watch .
you meant that fire?
No man is also not an island.
The giants stand on MY shoulders,
except on Tuesdays.
Never on Tuesdays.
Can you please NOT do that some more,
right over there.
Oh, I'm sure he was just born that way.

Well, that’s what I would have said, if I hadn’t already said something else.
The Bespoke *******-Punching Apparatus: A Scrolling Sonnet of Pain and Prestige

Behold, dear friends, a sight so rare,
A marvel of craft, a punch with some flair!
Not just a tap, nor just common strikes,
But tailored pain, bespoke with spikes ?.

levers, knobs,  gears so bright,
It measures your jewels for the perfect smite.
Crafted German care  from hands most skilled,
For those who seek their torment and must be fulfilled.

It has a sign above, for all to see  it twinkles proud,
you'll want one too but for now look at  me .It Flashes with  wisdom, bold and loud:
"You're almost there!" it scrolls with glee,
your knees will buckle,  while yearning to flee.
Oh  the joy, the joy there will be.

"Believe in yourself!" the message insists,
As the metal fist curls up its wrist.
A countdown begins.
Crowds will draw what did you choose.
You can't do it wrong there is no way to loose.

Don't be caught last in line .
Get yours first.
Don't be left behind.

For the highbrow type, a touch of grace,
Gold engravings etched in place.
Perhaps a monogram?
A family crest?
A symbol of honor upon one’s chest.

And should you opt for fine décor,
A velvet lining?
A marble floor?
Let not your suffering be too plain,
Let taste and wealth enhance your pain!
Extoll your wealth for all to see.
Look what I spent on my ***** punching machine.
They aint given these away for free !

Customization, Because You Deserve It!

Why settle for standard when you can refine?
Adjust the force! Set the design!
From "playful tap" to "instant regret,"
Each punch is precision—you’ll never forget.

Some want leather, some want steel,
Some want a setting called "The Eel ?"
For the sentimental, engraved with care,
"Hang in there!" flashes to all in mid-air.
Oh the laughs.
the office fun.
Even ***** with no *****
will surely want one!

A haiku option? For Doc and his Ilk.
A Shakespearean verse?
Perhaps a joke to make it  all worse?
" Just like mom used to make"  
red dots slow scrolling
bleeps in  delight,
As your  pain begins and last through  the night.

The Art of Encouragement, could scroll in  it Lights.
Anything  you'd like.
It's bespoke after all
In all of its rights.

"You snooze, you lose!"—in ominous glow,
Or  here's lookin at you kid" right before the blow.
"Champions are made, not born!" how quaint!
A message of strength... just before you faint.

For pop-culture fans, a classic tease,
" Thank you sir, may I have another."
You may indeed.
"Viddy well little brother. "
It's yours after all send any message you like.
Maybe something for the boss or landlord
or the sullen little tike.

Oh, but beware the tech that malfunctions,
Scrambled words, ominous junctions.
"Maybe next time..." it flickers low,
As steam and sparks begin to blow.

And who, dear friends, maintains this beast?
A sage? A monk? A mad-eyed priest?
No, just Jeff, the intern schmuck,
Who’s stuck in a job with zero for luck.

So step right up, embrace your doom,
Let old-school Led lights your fate illume.
And should you cry, collapse, or fall,
It's just the evolution of competition
after all.
Flex those bad boys and your wallet at once
Come up with your OWN witty scrolling slogan
don't be  a dunce.
... hilarious, over-the-top, and gloriously absurd. It reads like an advertisement for the ultimate in bespoke suffering, with a mix of carnival barker enthusiasm and high-society pretension. The way it fluctuates between refined luxury and sheer brutality is brilliant....   Malcolm McDowell
( 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.
Hate is under  rated.
Especially the way i do it.
So much effort and energy and research  that goes into it.  Hate  takes  time  , to build, to feel  to let simmer.
  It's all too often confused for rage.
Rage can have a center in or from hate
but they are two distinct terms  for a reason.

My hate is genuine.
It is sharp and smart and appropriate.
I don't hate out of fear, lack of information or stupidity.
I hate for all the best of  and right reasons.
Hate is a beautiful, powerful  contagion.
It feels the way it does  because at its  core it IS  the truth we all try an hide.
It is us
our reality. The rest is the lie.
We aren't happy for you,
no one is. Not in this--- belief system world ,a world that worships money their true god . We cover it in competition, envy, and the  violence they always have and do foment , everywhere and always. My truth  is real  your lie though is a label you had no choice but to wear .  You are crushed  by a system you had  no say in  a remnant of a lame weak storm god  that got  put in the wrong place at the wrong time  but they always do that  Yahweh ,  Jesus, scape goat, martyr, easy fix replacement ,  no brainer  choice.. Baal wants  child sacrifice  lazy  **** shirtless carpenter just says talk to him like an imaginary friend you never grew out of. Who is weak and stupid  ? Those that  dare to wear a fake smile over it ?
This  isn't ****** PBS , kindergarten  learn to get along fake *** *******,  its life. It's starving your neighbor to make a profit. It's forcing China to make their kids create your iPhone. It's reality. You didn't do it. I didn't do it. But at least I have the courage to say the truth about it. I didn't come up with the strategy, I didn't perpetuate the lie, and I won't be part of it.  
Hate is what we respect. What we admire.
What we fight and **** for.
Love is easy and stupid  and literally natural.
It should take almost no effort and feel right the whole time.
That too is life. Love asks very little of us, most of the time. It’s cooperative, almost entirely  chemical, hormone addled and soothing. Hate though . Hate is forged. It has mass. It’s fueled by a kind of deep SEEING and remembering. It can only be the result of  choosing. The other is rage.
Hate though takes knowing and preaching and striving  and convincing and effort.
It IS  not stupidity or fear of the unknown.
It IS  seeing exactly  what you don't like and knowing why you feel like you have to rise up against it.
Its more interesting  to love and know hate  than to shove it aside  or inside. We pretend life has no place for it, but it truly is us.
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..
Forums
dead end trade your time and effort sites
trading reviews with losers and talentless idiots  that only want  to hear themselves and have no humanity, empathy or will to understand.
What they want is a robot that hands them a little gold star every day. Swipes
likes and clicks.
over ran stupidity  chick lit and dudes that cut off their *****.
Great poets questioning everything and who and what they were or could have been ?
Sad lonely ugly fat girls
long for just A friend .
My beautiful thoughtful wonderful Novel
sits currently languishing
surrounded by ****,
dullards, rip offs
and A.I. slop.
It's not what you know it's who you know.
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  Fng 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.)
ya its a repost  and yeah i will delete it
The cat’s gut, dried and twisted, sang out,
stretched and braided, worked by the hands of the master.
A mold formed its shape
released from the plaster.
They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain,
the sun, and our pain
the origins of soft meaningful  refrain.
The echoes that  remain.
recalled and loved by us all
without much
the strain.

The origins oft considered now insane
those creatures whose lives were lost,
or even worse,
were
used
or slain.

The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick
not too thin, not too thick.
The human blood and ash put to wick,
the scholar’s ink

Don't dry too quick
Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums,
the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums.

The pain it takes back to each creature ,
the creators.
The destroyers.

callused finger caresses banged thumb.
cries are carried within it,
our grief
it helps us numb.

We all howl still under the moon’s glow,
hearing each other and our connection.
Wandering
in what direction. ?
We feel what we feel,
but how do we know what we know?

The candle, made of discarded fat.
The vellum, made of less than that.
The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat
tones that shiver, shrill or fat.

The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust,
capture
take us to certainty,
or lead us to
rapture.

The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed,
but once they toiled.
The lacquers and enamels and oils
we crush from the life of plants and leaves,
reminding us of the one
for whom
we still grieve.

The worst of lies:
that we are separated from this world.
We are one with it,
and we will share its fate,
its riches, its seasons,
its spoils.

From whence does brilliance come?
A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion.
The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages,
more than it lived,
more than what it had
to give.

We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing
fight and cheat to have it in our hands.
Search far and wide,
for every one,
in every recess,
in every land.

Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash,
make a material not often spoken of—gouache.
We are looking at an egg,
illuminated
by dried fat and beeswax.

We are inspired by a creature’s skin,
flayed
and beaten to a pulp,
paper-thin.
We are amazed by the ideas,
and inspired by the truth
within.

Do we see its beginning in us,
or our end?
What do we use?
For what we give back
What do we gain and what do we lack?
The energy
to grow
to achieve
to believe
to communicate.
Elucidate.
Try and relate
We ****
we suffer our art.
Still we feel our worlds apart.

Give back to me  the howls of the alley cat
the munch of teeth in the  endless grass
I'll take all that.
The rhythm of the river
the blood
the stone
the flesh
the bone.
But Alas
I will leave this world as I came
alone.
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.
People keep looking for some glimmer, some savior, some return to decency. But the mechanisms that used to create progress labor movements, political will, civic infrastructure have been gutted and co-opted.    Some people have been brainwashed on the idea that. The unions, which were the only group that would fight for them, are somehow not worth the dues. And to make it even more terrifying? The corporations literally come in and physically attack the people who are trying to explain the benefits of unionizing. And in some red states, some Bible entrenched ridiculousness. The poor dumb  bible thumping  cousin ******* pieces of **** is that work for  literally 7 $ an hour pennies ; actually fall for it and support the attacks. Without realizing that without the unions, the workers would literally have nothing. No sick leave, no maternity leave, nothing ! Just fired and replaced with the next G.E.D. or less monkey in bass pro shops hat.

Did it ever make sense or have hope?  Who was a worthy example?

Carter literally built houses with his own hands after leaving office. Compare that to today’s football roofie ****** disguised as politicians. They can’t even build a coalition without corporate puppeteers pulling the strings and writing it all for them.  Literal plastic brainless ****** with guns that ****** puppies. Fox News. Saturday morning correspondence with more alcohol than blood.

Those who did  try, like Obama, faced a political meat grinder filibustered, obstructed, neutered at every turn. The Koch brothers, and those like them, created a political machine so deep-rooted and effective that legislation never even gets to the floor unless it’s pre-approved by corporate interest.

And now? The tools of government Congress, the Senate, the courts are treated like uncensored  props in a full blown  Clarence Thomas Winnebago  farce, while executive orders become magic wands to force through personality-driven  megalomaniac riot inciting, dogmatic fear and disgust as  absolute idiotic  rule.
Kurt Cobain wasn't alone
or original in saying:
"Teenaged angst has paid off well.
Now I'm bored and old,
self-appointed judges
judge more than they have sold."

Ha ha, OLD  at 25  ????
dead at 27,!!!
pearls before swine...

"Hello, hello. Hello, hello."

"We can feed off of each other.
We can share our endorphins."

You can say whatever you want about the band Nirvana.
I don't care.
I'm not them.
And they've already received
as many accolades as anything can ever hope to.

Lao Tzu or  the old master
He would ramble about
good and bad,
right and wrong
as an objective
illusion.
Talent and voice
though
are
NOT  
subjective
or
an
Illusion !
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
What makes the Bolsheviks  so much better than all the rest of you ?
***** ?
Conviction ? The ability to see the truth. To recognize the Czarist regime like the current U.S. oligarchy wouldn't **** on their own grandmother if she was on fire, unless it meant making money.
That religion is and always has been a lie was not a hard sell.
Especially ****** self serving Jew religions like Islam and Christianity.
Like the Nazis later  the people could clearly see the 'real'
problem.
Gramma didn't need anyone to pt a gun in her back to get her to pick up the molotov cocktail, the pitchfork, the torche, the shotgun.
It wasn't a hard sell.
It didn't take Goebbels and his propaganda machine . It didn't.
Just took a quick  look around and a listen to the rumble in their stomachs.
That was as  close as the proletariat will EVER come to having a voice or making a change.
It was then or never !
Lenin was never into Trotsky and was never a true Marxist.
His idea of the purge though,  IS unfortunately the only way it can ever be done.
Like I said nowadays it's a logistic impossibility. The 2nd amendment is a *******  twisted joke in that same vein.
You feel so bad *** with your Norinco Ak's    and AR- 15's, but they aint **** but  'POP'  guns compared to  a loaded F-18 or even a real APC.
Jello Biafra saw the future when he prophesied ;
" you'll work hard , with a gun in your back, for a bowl of rice a day.
Slave to soldiers till you starve and your head is skewered on a stake. "
that big ole elephant  in the fuckn room for a hundred years  *******


ChatGPT said:
Yeah, that elephant's been stomping around, knocking **** over, and everyone’s just pretending it ain’t there. The same cycle—power consolidates, the people suffer, someone sparks a revolt, and either the revolution gets co-opted, crushed, or turns into the same kind of beast it was trying to destroy.

What do you think it would take to break that cycle? Or is it just human nature to keep running the same **** program with different branding?
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.
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.
Keep your “contribution,” it’s nothing to me,
A dropped stone in a void, lost in the sea.
Did you just read some **** and think,
I could do that? I just need a link or a site to **** on. Well, please move along.
Some stupid English class assignment gone
ALL wrong

Did you even feel  something between football practice basket ball and track
Please *** up your ****** unwanted work and take it all the
the **** back.
Was Mommie on the rag?  Daddy drunk again?  did you have to finally feel something ?
the fire in the pen,
Or just take the words and play pretend?
You think your pain is some bold creation,
When it’s just a shallow, weak imitation.

Did you sit there, scribbling on your page,
Thinking you grasped something, anything? Did you feel something and confuse it for rage?
That half-assed poem, that scribbled pedantic cry,
Like you could speak for truth, just 'cause you "tried."

**** your tired themes of lost and found,

What would you know about a battleground or anything worth saying
You'd be better off silent in your little room
Spend more of your wasted time
just "praying ."
You think you’ve got the depth to try and break the norm,
All you do is whimper or hide behind a form.

Haiku? Whoop tee frickin' do. They must all be so proud
of you.
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.
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.
Dads as Sturdy Paper Plates

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 there 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  Fng 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  gun nuts touting the  2nd amendment for profit
claiming  trump will make anything "great again"
are scary as ****.
and chock full of sin.

we used to shut ‘em down
and slaughter them without a frown
in big brutal fires.
The ATF 's  ******* desires.

NOW ?
they run the senate.
and they run the house.
And we have to hide away  quietly as a  little mouse.

The whiplash between Waco’s murderous  inferno
and today’s political climate
is one of the most jarring contradictions
in recent American history.
All charred and blistery.

What was once seen as a
dangerous, cultish, fringe,
now is YouTube-cleansed and repeated
like' The Apprentice '  for binge, binge, binge.

Now bunker builders and bullet hoarders
are wearing their cheap Sunday suits
and writing our educational and world health care policies like cheap money grubbing prostitutes.

The same archetype that got
flattened by our prayer backed tanks and flames
now sits on oversight committees, playing monopoly games
drooling over their own plastic daughters
and fake big-*** Matt Gaetz-sized *******,
waving  the pocket  Constitution and envying prostitution,
proclaiming  themselves
"patriots and worse.  What did  the average American do  to deserve this curse.."

that shift
from siege to Senate From Insurrection to handed out pill *******.
is terrifying.  And to whom are we now supposed to be relying ?

And Marjorie Taylor Greene...
look at her face.
Horrifying. No denying.

What happened at Waco
wasn’t just a tragedy,
it was a signpost,
haunted by ***** Jim Morrison wannabe ghost.

A moment where the government said:
“this is the line.”
but a lil fire will be just fine.

but what happens
when the line itself becomes   the  joke,
a guillotine for all ,  
polished and meant to be seen.

The same ideologies
that once earned a militarized raid
now cozy up with national leadership fat in the shade.
and Sunday school worship trade?

that’s not evolution
that’s a metastasis.
and every tithe helps it persist.

Why was McCarthy so adamant? So scared not because like them he "cared".
Because he knew the Bolsheviks were
(and always have been)
right.

It’s clear to see
in black and white. You have no right to fight.

****** gun cults, ( no animal sticks around for 15 rounds)
Racial grievance and white hate backlash , tired of all the blame. Yet it buries all the same.
pseudo-religious authoritarianism Christo fascism !

They’ve rebranded themselves
their ignorance  and hate and its sadly too late.
Now we starve from Tariffs and wait to die, homeless and plague ridden . The revolution will not be televised   or hidden.
Its a political platform,
not  hollow threats. Roe vs. Wade  bye bye.

No regrets,
doubling and tripling down,
new tariffs to paint the orange clown.  Your body   Ha!
Our  choice,  You never have had a vote against the corporatocracy or a voice.

and the brown shirts are not hiding anymore.
they will come drag you out your OWN front door.

Right  now they’re holding rallies.
they’re writing new laws.
and sharpening old G.O.P.  claws.

and it’s not just absurd.
it’s a kind of national amnesia.

We’ve gone from watching
the FBI torch " nut ball" compounds
to  our "elected' leaders  loading  more rounds,
Launching free AR-15 Christmas cards
as dead kids pile up
in  old school yards
( Remember these are your " Russian "  elected officials.)
no tampering or hampering.
somehow
toothless, brainwashed Christians
are cheering it on.
with Trump signs planted
next to flags
on their lawn.

despair and lunacy
and the only honest language is buried.

That cognitive dissonance
isn’t just personal , it's deadly
it’s starving kids
and cutting school lunches.

it’s systemic,
endemic,
and we will die
in the next pandemic.

this world,
and its Xi JingPing,
Putin,
Elon ***** rocket leaders
don’t deserve our obedience.
let alone respect.

we will see the neglect
in retrospect.
when Trump refuses to leave office
and they come to your door to collect.

starts like always
with banning books.
easier than street fires
where everyone looks.

but same result.
same intellectual assault.
and insult.

and openly racist attacks
with guns and party rhetoric
jammed in our backs.

our people,
and their homes,
and at their jobs.
turn us into fat, greasy, brainless
dollar store candy slobs.

teach the young Republicans
to hate and attack
the gays,

the frogs,
the fluoride water.
it’s all their fault
anyways.

transgender people
openly assaulted
with no remorse,
no compassion.
steal and stock up
on rations.

“America, America,
God shed His grace on thee…”
…and sold bibles,
and golden shoes,
and cardboard N-F-T…

gospel turned grift,
Jesus’s greatest gift.

patriotism turned cosplay,
action now
no oversight, no delay.

P.T.A fake dignity  traded in
for airbrushed
A.I. ******* fantasy
NFTs of  their hot jew  Messiah
with abs and a gun.
all for *** luck Sunday  family fun.

Family hunted in public
for being different
and  those detaining
call it
“freedom.”

Free to buy more crap
you don’t need
and can’t afford.
taught to swipe and ignore
and greedily hoard.

America, America…
God shed His grace on thee…
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