ConnectHook Dec 2017

Children drugged with truthless tales . . .
Unwise men embrace their treasure;
Algorithms urge the sales
In malls devoid of merry measure.

Plastic sparkles in the air;
Automotive ads turn festive . . .
Forced good nature everywhere
Makes the shopping crowds grow restive.

Corporate greed spins altruistic
Hyping goods, suppressing Christ.
Our Yuletide is their big statistic
Oversold and underpriced.

Secular beribboned fluff:
Peace, Goodwill . . .  but don't say God !
And heaven knows you've had enough;
Just download the app—acquire the mod.

Coca-Colaed, Disneyfied
You're wrapping paper for their fire;
Eggnogged, Santa-ed, thrown aside
While Babel's flames roar ever higher.

The godlessness shines right on through
Where Christmas lyrics die, unheard.
The Yule-log and the sparks that flew
Expire in embers long unstirred.

The old usurper carting toys
And Chinese knock-offs in his sled
Sets off a lot of empty noise:
Insanity in green and red.

The lurker leers and hauls his bag
(jolly antichrist distraction)
While flying Bishop Nicholas' flag:
A winter psi-ops covert action.

Only message left: go drink!
And may your cup o'erflow with cheer
Before you risk to start to think
Yourself and God right out of here.

Hallmark haloes, bygone kitsch
enwreaths the memory of the years,
Kindling maudlin sadness which
wells up in melancholy tears

For Christian culture (rest in peace)
Long-corrupted by dollar signs;
For fa la la and fattened geese
And holly midst the ivy vines;

For Dickens' gospel of the season
Anglican angelic ghosts
Pushing us beyond unreason
Toward the future's spectral hosts;

For folklore now reduced to ash
Commercial blow-outs, dirty snow;
For Saturnalian urge to smash
the store-front windows where they show;

For useless manger figurines
Passed down from some more faithful time;
For hallowed and nostalgic scenes
No longer worth a Roman dime.

I still love Christmas but its ongoing commercial secularization by corporate globalists makes me retch (into my mulled wine).

Nonetheless, like Scrooge, I intend to keep Christmas well.
By the way, that's Merry CHRISTmas.
(No Christ, NO CHRISTMAS)

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/christ-massed/
ConnectHook Dec 2017

Christina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow has fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter,
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Throng’d the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,—
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

Also called "A Christmas Carol"

For all its lovely directness, “In the Bleak Midwinter” reflects Rossetti’s troubled religious faith. An Anglo-Catholic influenced by Calvinism and Adventism, she found God the Father terrifying and remote but identified with the humanity and suffering of Jesus. In describing the nativity, she mentions the attendant celestial spirits but stresses the earthier elements of the scene—the tangible milk and love that Mary gives her child and the comforting companionship of the animals in the stable. This attraction to natural manifestations of divinity may remind us of Emily Dickinson, who was Rossetti’s nearly exact contemporary and of whose work Rossetti was an early champion. (Both poets were born in the bleak, midwintery December of 1830—Rossetti on the 5th, Dickinson on the 10th—though Dickinson died in 1886, eight years before Rossetti.)


from: https://bookhaven.stanford.edu/2015/12/best-christmas-carol-ever-christina-rosettis-in-the-bleak-midwinter/
ConnectHook Dec 2017

❣ = ❣ = ❣

HE am not it
HERS + HIS = HERES
WE am SHE but pronoun are sexist
THEY is ZHEY
SHE + HE = ZHE
SHE + IT = shit
HE + roomfull of SHEs = they (not sexist)

Down with all gender-based languages !

Gender-based grammar is inherently sexist and oppressive.
Grammar itself is a hateful, rigid, and often overtly racist construct.
It is little more than an imposed control system which attempts to assign roles and reinforce identities that facilitate social regimentation.  Such patriarchal and occidental euro-supremacist control must be resisted, even at the socio-linguistic level of grammar itself. Traditional family structure reinforces and justifies this linguistic oppression, and is to be forced to adapt or rendered obsolete. "Fathers" and "Mothers" must yield to  "others".

Useless vestiges of the fascistic Roman tongue such as Italian, Spanish French, Portuguese, and Romanian, along with all associated Romance-derived dialects must adapt and evolve toward current progressive understandings of gender-fluid reality -- or be abandoned.

As a global and genderfluid re-evaluation of rigid and outmoded languages develops, humanity will make significant strides toward collective empowerment, both lexical and sexual. Desire will be freed from patriarchal norms and find itself free to cathect onto the object of its enlightened choice.  False and patriarchal notions of singular/plural will no longer be inflicted on unrestrained multiplicities of being. We won't need no more significators to point out a practices that mean a nothings man out the reified racists of language herself as pronouned "other".  Boo boo hate she up the mandingo adder abbot shahooligalistaaphany.
Urgh urgh I are free! Bort grammar break ump ump humpty daffodil.
It am not significate ourselves into oblivion.
ConnectHook Nov 2017

Career politicians, who cluck
as they strut with an impotent pluck
make me sick with the season
befouling all reason:
they're less of a cock than a cuck.

That gobbler and turkey-neck Mitch
makes me furious—so mad that I twitch.
He obstructs every battle
while jiggling his wattle;
unpardoned, unworthy (but rich).

The patrician political class
is a party that speaks through its ass.
They are lacking in guts
with no ifs, ands, or buts
but I swear: they produce enough gas.



HAPPY THANXGIVING, Fellow Poets

And best wishes to all the Revisionists.
Dig in:  http://tinyurl.com/y9868oqm
ConnectHook Nov 2017

LO! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently —

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —

Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —

Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of scultured ivy and stone flowers —

Up many and many a marvellous shrine

Whose wreathed friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye —

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass —

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea —

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave — there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrown aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide —

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow —

The hours are breathing faint and low —

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence.

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

The Dim West . . .
(more like Dhimmis, ha ha ha )

written by Edgar Allan Poe
ConnectHook Nov 2017

Nippon carp pool scene
media feeding frenzy
fake news: foul sushi

Great orange savior
magnanimous provider
feeds outside the box.

Eastern harmony
while fake news carps at Donald . . .
Media: go to hell.

Let Eastern dawn illuminate harmonious meeting of brilliant minds. Dear Leader, Orange Savior of Mankind, makes great deals yet also is kind to gentle fish.  From his all-providing hand the sacred Koi enjoy a portion of benificence. Great leader and fellow-citizen Trump strides boldly into enemies' flashbulbs, like vanguard of populist nationalism confronting weak running dogs and reactionary landlords of globalist tyranny. Fish who refuse his generosity must hide in cold deep, risking hunger and loneliness, condemned by the People's glorious movement toward revolutionary rebirth.
Traitors and false journalists: you are FISH-FOOD.
ALL HAIL DEAR LEADER AND FORWARD-THINKING PEOPLE'S HERO DONALD J. TRUMP

https://youtu.be/ZrXNDbZF-jw
ConnectHook Nov 2017

No, your "god" is not at all great.
It's clear to all that you're driven by hate.

Explain how infidels provoked your wrath
by enjoying an autumn bicycle path ?

Such wonderful additions to our melting pot.
Oh I know, Christians are just as bad -- no, they're worse.
They do the same things every week or so, don't they.

Now get back to enjoying the big game, kuffars.
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