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Certain people notice numbers,
Finding patterns everywhere.
And their mania encumbers
Those of us who do not care.
Numerologists’ obsessions
Even lead to odd progressions.

Delusionary mathematics
Dominates their fervid brains.
Numerary acrobatics
Circus-trapeze height attains.
Madness drops from their twisted tree:
The fruits of numerology.

Noticing coincidences,
Forcing patterns where there’s none;
Counting up the incidences
Leads them to psychotic fun;
Adding the numbers that they see
Until they total thirty-three.

Their Q-**** superstitions vex;
Their Bible codes are all askew.
To us, such patterns do perplex—
Yet seem apparent, to their view.
We question thus their sanity
(As well their Christianity…)

Their book of numbers got them lost
And wandering the wilderness,
Awaiting some new Pentecost
In which to add, subtract, obsess—
Then, like an I-ching divination
Sum it up as revelation.

Counting sidewalk cracks for meaning,
O.C.D. meets calculator:
Synchronistic fields for gleaning
To a low denominator;
Indulging in Gematria
For God and king and patria.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gsjy_r58U9w
There’s an illness from history’s pages
Which can even afflict the courageous
Beware of the syndrome
When visiting Stockholm
I’m told that it’s mildly contagious

There's a tome in the royal collection
Behind triple-pane glass for protection
If the legend is right
It was penned overnight
By a monk under Satan's direction
Just a couple of lightweight limericks inspired by some low-intensity sightseeing in Stockholm, Sweden, specifically the Nobis Hotel and the Codex Gigas aka the Devil's Bible.
There is no such thing

As a transexual man

Nor a trans woman.
Fallen human beings
want to dictate to God.
Without salvation in Christ
they are DOOMED, and ******.
🤩 🤣 💖 👍 👎
A bullet fired.
Blood spurted.
A man fell.
I cannot tell;
I never saw.
No tears I shed.
Is it a war?

Don’t care.
No condolence
to share.
Reap what you sow,
cater to  below--
sow the wind.

Forgot about it.
Another death, another day.
Not much to say
about this hell called Earth.
How many thousands died today?

Then..

Clicked on the video.
Saw my friend talking
to the dead guy.
He listened; she talked.

I saw flesh and blood.
Two humans.
A normal conversation.
They even agreed.
They were real.

Now we reap the whirlwind.
The conversation is over.
Not much of a poem, but a true story. A friend of mine posted 15 minutes of a conversation she had with Charlie Kirk on tv, from a year or two ago, I think.

In the style of  B.L Costello I think...
  Aug 31 ConnectHook
badwords
Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.
Nicotine is a tightly structured, lyrical poem that explores the tension between fleeting comforts and the greater aspirations we often neglect. Using nicotine as both a literal and metaphorical device, the poem examines the small indulgences we cling to—despite knowing their cost—drawing a parallel to the broader human tendency to accept self-deception for the sake of temporary relief.

Through vivid imagery of smoke, stained fingers, and fading embers, the poem evokes a sense of quiet resignation, underscoring the slow erosion of will beneath a comforting but insidious habit. The rhythmic AB meter reinforces the hypnotic cycle of desire and consequence, mirroring the way these comforts lull us into complacency.

At its core, Nicotine is a confrontation—a mirror held up to our daily rationalizations, asking whether we truly seek change or merely the illusion of control. The introspective tone invites readers to reflect on their own vices, however small, and consider what they may be sacrificing in the name of fleeting ease.
ConnectHook Aug 5
Trump is Moshiach.
He will build the third temple.
Then He'll blow it up.
Yes!
Donald is greater
than both Solomon and Cyrus!
Look it up in Tanakh!
"What is truth?" old Pontius said;
Washing his hands, the Truth he fled.
"Had I been there, the Truth I'd bear,"
Some proudly claim with foolish air.
Yet Truth still holds old Pont to blame,
And you and I must share his shame.
Disciples fled; they hid in fear;
Peter lied, and he was there.
Why would I think that I'd be brave,
Though sometimes pious, still a slave?
The weakest ones find strength if we
Kneel low to Truth on humbled knee.
(12-7-21)
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