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A brainteasing cryptic digression evoking foul Genesis:
how insane just knowing Lord Megson, Neil (Orridge—P),
***** rebel satanist, turned unbecoming vapid woman:
xenolith = yesteryear‘s zenith.
Satanic Gender-Confusion is stranger than fiction:

Prompt 19: write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet
1d · 37
Dealing in Grief
Hello Kitty key-chain
caked in blood, hung on
one rusted nail
the silent shack
silvered wood-grain, locust-buzz . . .
Scattered petals blown by
the dented fan spinning
in the Mississippi sun
withering winter heat
hanging willows over the
bank. Cypresses silhouetted
on the darkening horizon
glacier's silent witness
while sherpas come and go
seeking her remains
beseeching Buddha
. . . details, details
the little girl she had always been
motionless in the sand of the dry riverbed
the Bedouin poke her cold body
with their staffs
camels quizzically chew cud.
Housewives on Long Island
do their shopping . . .
What did she say
When they stole her lunchbox?
Why were Lunchables™ not enough?
Grief is a sandwich
tossed in a snowdrift,
in the summer of 1941:
Tibetan village of Yarlung Tsangpo;
Inevitability of sun.


Truth is... I hated this prompt.
Had to crank one out at the end of a long day.

It was humbling.

PROMPT 18: write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. This may not be a “fun” prompt, but loss is one of the most universal and human experiences, and some of the world’s most moving art is an effort to understand and deal with it.
I fell hard for the head of that Isaac
(note the gravity of my event).
Over Tombstone I soared, on the winds of the Lord
Until Holliday’s bullets were spent.

Floating iceberg, I challenged Titanic
Single raindrop, got lost in the storm;
Genghis Khan’s mongol horse had ideas, of course
Stalin’s mommy kept baby Joe warm . . .

Perspectives from lesser-known players
May improve the morale of the team;
But a view from the edge of the forty-fifth ledge
Will compel true progressives to scream!

Have you noticed the wave on that wizard,
Washingtonian mage of the West?
You may dislike his ways, but it’s only a phase;
Now admit it; his hair is the BEST.

He’s the Cheeto in charge of your nation
Chief constructor of all that is Great.
Though you’re peeved at your loss, Mr. Drumpf is the boss
And there’s no more excuse for your hate.

I’m the roof on Melania’s husband
Call me carrot-top, call me toupée . . .
You can whine all you want, but I’m here to be blunt:
I’m the night after Democrat day.

I’m the hair on your wonderful leader
Driving liberals mad—and beyond.
The Deplorable’s turn: feel the heat, feel the burn;
Oh hilarious orange!  (No . . . blonde.)
PROMPT #17: write a poem that  presents a scene from an unusual point of view.
Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery
from the perspective of the apple.
Or the shootout at the OK Corral
from the viewpoint of a passing vulture.
Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm,
as experienced by a raindrop.
3d · 37
Smoke Signals


euro-patriarch deceive noble indigenous


indigenous live peace and harmony earth mother


euro-patriarch oppress religious kontrol


white amerikkka exploit indigenous nation resource


european christian kapitalism slavery


social justice earthbalance great mother 1st nations afrika


smartphone fight euro-white-kapitalist oppression


social media rebalance earth harmony


brown/black/red good—white bad
(yellow considered white when konvenient)

write a poem that uses the form of a list
to defamiliarize the mundane.

EXEUNT  Hafez the Turk with Borbognoni.
Eratocles to Lesbia as he faces the other occupants:

    'Mad passengers on Life's untimely main
With boarding pass, who signal to the plane,
Such sad and paltry virtue as you're due
Would yet an airport's tower misconstrue;
That pilots and their air-controllers may
In congress, or in *******, delay
(Desirous yet of wings they fain possess)
To mount the air—with each bright stewardess
Their forms and then their maidenhood address . . .  

     Out, Out.  Such trash ennobles none but thee;

    'For craft shall ever land as birds must fly—
Checked luggage fill the hold when drinks are served;
And whether prey or falcon take to sky,
The crew must make our passage well-deserved;
Though lightning rend the night all 'round th'plane
And flame, as to a spleen, thy fevered brain.
Perchance you hope the pilot to dissuade,
Whose path through trackless wastes your flight directs.
Your shamming virtue tarnishes your blade
And though your flight be cut, it fain connects
That shining port of entry that you seek
Where love's most noble strength is rendered weak.'  

   'Away. Methinks the cabin crew I hear:     
      Fair Lesbia—have you my passport ?'
PROMPT #15:  write your own dramatic monologue.
It doesn’t have to be quite as serious as Browning or Shakespeare,
but try to create a sort of specific voice or character
that can act as the “speaker” of your poem,
and that could be acted by someone reciting the poem.
Here as I sit
At this empty café
Thinking of you
I remember
All those moments
Lost in wonder
That we'll never
Find again
Though the world
Is my oyster
It's only a shell
Full of memories
And here by the Seine
Notre-Dame casts
A long lonely shadow

Now, only sorrow
No tomorrow
There's no today for us
Nothing is there
For us to share
But yesterday

These cities may change
But there always remains
My obsession
Through silken waters
My gondola glides
And the bridge, it sighs

I remember
All those moments
Lost in wonder
That we'll never
Find again
There's no more time for us
Nothing is there
For us to share
But yesterdays

Ecce momenta
Illa mirabilia
Quae captabit
In aeternum
Modo dolores
Sunt in dies
Non est reliquum
Vero tantum

Tous ces moments
Perdus dans l'enchantement
Qui ne reviendront jamais
Pas d´aujourd´hui pour nous
Pour nous il n´y a rien
A partager
Sauf le passé

Tous ces moments
Perdus dans l'enchantement
Qui ne reviendront
Roxy Music 1973

Written by Andrew Edwin Mackay Andrew Mackay
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG Rights Management
We soon got wind of of the crime: he wound up with a wound but weathered it fairly well, waiting for the affair to wind down while they wondered whether windy weather had played a role affecting the whole scene. The effect of the hole, (seen in court) was downplayed, read at the hearing as a likely red herring.

The jury, having heard, gave their verdict as a herd; unanimously.
(And, more famously, anonymously.) The infamously failed assassination set precedents for presidents as we asked, as a nation, to have safety take precedence over presidential presence, urging all residents to monitor their residence since shooters deft for lead could leave others left for dead indeed.

The casings were recovered, and the whole case covered by the press (though some journalists, pressed by the particulars of the case, cased out the possibility of covering close-up) until the case closed up.
Barely made it on PROMPT #14:
write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms,
or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings.
Your dull knife. How I love that blade
Behold her blunted self portrayed:
She shines, yet cannot make her point
Unsheathed, she’ll only disappoint.

Her edge, that dares to draw no blood
When cold, can carve no willing wood;
Well-warmed, she’ll lose the fight to butter . . .
Despite her glitter, she’s no cutter.

A useless tool. There is none worse.
Go sharpen her—and then, your verse.
write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why and how you love it.
Apr 12 · 39
Bring It On Home
ConnectHook Apr 12
Exiles from a dysfunctional global pipe-dream
of borderless corporate matriarchies,
multi-kulti nonsense and data-driven diversity
where virtue-signaling despots ruled
and those so confused
they didn't know their own gender
competed for victim-status
as they shrieked,
where rainbow torches on the filthy walls
smoldered with toxic smoke
barely illuminating the fragments
of computer carcasses we had to step over,
we fled the oppression
of passive-aggressive elitists
suffering from Trump Derangement Syndrome
to found a pure republic, based on poetry, goodwill and faith in God.
We emerged from the labyrinthine caverns and malodorous tunnels
into the light right outside the cave:
Clear, strong patriarchal light
purifying the fresh air.

We breathe deeply.

Once I saw some Vikings
sail the sea looking for Diet Coke
only to find angry gulls and mothers
squawking in parking lots
as the dust of the gentle hills disappeared
down the unpaved road
of rolling Scandinavian seas.

I was emotionally engaged once . . .
but she was a neurotic feminist poet, so I broke it off
and moved to Kekistan where
(thanks be to Kek)
I married my TWO Kekistani brides.
Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually?
Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea
and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots.
Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers
and dust disappearing down an unpaved road.
And having come from there, where are you now?
ConnectHook Apr 12
Single monks dwell alone, due to pride
but true monkeys go seeking their bride;
and a monkess (no nun)
loves some rain with her fun
on the street’s sunny simian side.

Cohabiting the sky

suspended droplets and sunlight

cloud vapor silvered with solar illumination:


We shrieked it and jumped around

along that shifting frontier

between childhood and joy

between sunshine and falling raindrops


We knew they were entering into conjugal bonds;

nuptial specifics were irrelevant

the celebration was probably far away

in Borneo or Congo or Amazonia . . . or behind the sky

but it was monkeys getting married

only there and then:

along that impermanent line

where the rain didn’t know the sun was out

and the sun did not know it was raining

that fine line: monkeyshine

shout it out (when you were 8)

negative ions in the air

distant yells of children

hopeful smell of peaceful summer neighborhoods

write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon.
Apr 11 · 213
ConnectHook Apr 11
♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

Define Black Light:

Turn on the Black Right

to disperse the White Left

as they turn on their own

(that not-too-bright left)

until, bereft of light

they are left without fight,

lost in their own night.

Intensify that white rift

to get the right lift.

Unite the Light Right

with the Dark Right

to make the light bright;

or we will all be left

in a dark night.

It’s OK

to be RIGHT.
Apr 10 · 53
Jap Po-Biz: Listless
ConnectHook Apr 10
Kabuki monstrosities of cute

   White snivel, and children who sniffle as they walk.
    The containers used for oil. Little sparrows

shopping-malls of Shinto reactors
tsunamis of Hello-Kitty schoolgirl ****

   Pretty, white chicks who are still not fully fledged
    and look as if their clothes are too short for them

tiny plates of aesthetically-arranged trivialities
meaningless Engrish phrases on T-Shirts

     Last year’s paper fan. A night with a clear moon    
       One needs a particularly beautiful fan for some special occasion

in herd-like apathy, they download Anime Girlfriend App
the robotic allure of the Orient defined

    To wash one’s hair, make one’s toilet, and put on scented robes
     An earthen cup. A new metal bowl. A rush mat

cramped restaurant-bars with detailed replicas of food
PROMPT #9 : engage in another kind of cross-cultural exercise,
inspired by the work of a Japanese writer who lived more than 1000 years ago. She wrote a journal that came to be known as The Pillow Book. In it she recorded daily observations, court gossip, poems, aphorisms, and musings […] write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of “things.”
Apr 9 · 32
Lyric Destinies
ConnectHook Apr 9
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Condemned with all who scrawl their thoughts online

Obsessing over words, revising verse,

This love of poetasting is a curse . . .

(no, wait—I think I need to tweak that line).

Composing, thus, my useless universe,

Convinced that golden musings are divine,

I polish leaden verse to make it shine

So proving that bad poetry grows worse.

My muse may well disown me for my crimes,

Fly off and leave me searching for some word,

Abandon me to unpoetic times;

And yet my lyric soul is undeterred.

My own best lines may or may not show it;

Still, I’ll bear that shameful name of Poet.
I brought this out between Prompt #8 and #9
ConnectHook Apr 8
Repent therefore and be converted,
that your sins may be blotted out,
so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord,
and that He may send Jesus Christ,
who was preached to you before,
whom heaven must receive
until the times of restoration of all things,
which God has spoken by the mouth of all His holy prophets
since the world began.

                                                        Acts 3:19,20,21

That one thing we deserve, I dare to name:
Death, and then deathless torment in the flame.

But first, let go of bad theology
(all well-meaning misanthropology)

then send yourself a gentle gift, like this:
click: narcissistic selfie mirror-kiss.

The brightest song a body’s ever held?
The one that that broke your waters where they swelled.

You summon joy; that ***** stayed out too long.
Ashamed, she hastens, staggering along . . .

I’d be content to have (besides some wings),
just this: the Restoration of All Things

And then to you, if it were mine to give,
I’d give forgiveness. Seek the Lord—and live.
What do you deserve? Name it. All of it.
What are you ready to let go of? Name that too.
Then name the most gentle gift for yourself.
Name the brightest song your body’s ever held.
Summon joy like you would a child; call it home.
It wanders, yes. But it’s still yours.
What would you give yourself, if you could have anything?
What would you give someone else?
ConnectHook Apr 7
If you could only let it drop
we would not need to bear it:
that holy hoity-toity
illiberal burden you announce
from where you wear it.

Would you then be able to live
with your fellow citizens:
fellow toilers in rhyme
buying gluten-free time
at Whole Foods
US; your citizen-neighbors
online cloud of witnesses
Looking at used Subarus
and paying our dues
with you
at the dealership.

Could you only see
through deplorable eyes
and love with a deplorable heart
you would appreciate the art
of the real deal,
loose the seal
of your own apocalypse;
let love reveal
landscapes your pride
has kept hidden for too long.

If you could let your hatred drop,
Slough off the smug and the sneer
If you could stop
signaling to your own
long enough to know REAL diversity, and live
perhaps you’d give
a thought to your own fallibility
lost in a forest of woulds, failing to see
Your neighbor’s Tree of Life. . .
But you are busy perfecting strife,
screaming Timber!
before the axe has even been laid
at the root of your poetry.

If you knew, as the rest of us
how often you have shouted thus
you could understand why
we tend to ignore your warning cry.

Perhaps it could be feasible
to stop blaming
that orange source of all unreasonable
derangement, cease from naming
your neurotic projections
as they are unscrewed
to reveal another inside:
crazed conspiratorial Russian doll
of your own
discredited obsessive offended perpetual alarm.
PROMPT #6: write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,”
of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.
Apr 5 · 41
One More Art Form
ConnectHook Apr 5
That classic villanelle is hard to master;
alternate lines can drive me up the wall
(but avant-garde absurdity drives faster).

I could just dash off some Haiku disaster,
but that would never hold you in its thrall.
Authentic villanelle is hard to master.

To learn new forms, sometimes all we can muster
is try it out and write; obey our call
to follow, bleating, some poetic pastor

to greener lyric landscapes—or a vaster
universe of verse in which to scrawl.
Authentic villanelle is hard to master.

Breaking the lyric flask of alabaster,
like the Magdalene's perfume, we give our all,
disciples of true poetry, to our Master.

Keeping pace, the muse now urges: faster
I'm sweating now, and headed for a fall . . .
That classic villanelle is hard to master.
I hope to learn from Bishop—yet run past her.
PROMPT #5: write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following:
(1) the villanelle form,
(2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or
(3) phrases that oppose each other in some way.
Apr 5 · 69
The Death of Poverty
ConnectHook Apr 5
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying

                                              Alfred Lord Tennyson

Grieve the fallen warriors of diversity.

A trumpet’s mournful sound now casts its pall . . .

Southern rumors: prophets of perversity

Non-profiting from Liberal wherewithal:

Poverty’s pimps. Their bold hypocrisy

Weinsteins loudly, colliding with our news;

Southern Law: poor as our democracy

Purporting to promote progressive views.

His name rang sweet in all progressive ears

But now the cypresses sigh out their song;

For scams must be exposed—though it wring tears

We hear the dirge; night’s shadows looming long.

Weep, oh armchair zealots of the cause

For Morris Dees, a victim of his laws.
inspired by:

PROMPT #4: write your own sad poem,
but one that achieves sadness through simplicity.
Playing with the sonnet form may help you . . .
be straightforward, using plain, small words.
ConnectHook Apr 5

evolving, thunder-struck

amino eventualities

and bio-potentialities

in the muck

re-group, protoplasmic and joyful

singing in the proverbial soup

of circumstances

and random cosmic chances

a song of differentiation

loose ends / ragged strands / loose lines

of poetry: DNA spiral dances

Precambrian time, period of time extending from about 4.6 billion years ago (the point at which Earth began to form) to the beginning of the Cambrian Period, 541 million years ago. Precambrian time encompasses the Archean and Proterozoic eons, which are formal geologic intervals


the wriggling one-celled poet decides

to become complex

takes its time:

geologic / astral eons

twitching and failing

into the fabled tadpole of adaptation

to a godless universe, diverse

in its variegated futility

this idea has been summarized in the mouthful, ‘ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny’, which means the development of the individual embryo repeats its alleged evolutionary history. The first thing to say about this dictum, is that ‘law’ it is not!


our fish, now fowl,

proclaims its Archaeopteryx manifesto

standing on Precambrian banks

demanding a return on its investment

in sedimentary overlays:

Ernst Haeckel !  shrieks the avian jokester

The Imaginary Monera: the eating habit and reproductive cycle of an alleged Moneron to which he gave the scientific name, Protomyxa aurantiaca 73 pages of his speculations more important than facts and evidence.


into the long long corridors

of time’s bad poetry

sleeping off the tadpole nightmare

sprouting flippers, legs, digits, wings

deciding to fly, smashing antediluvian cedars with trilobite tail

upright biped sporting body-hair

you shall prevail

descending from trees in African dreams

misanthropologically *****

gracile / robust (that’s us)

Hey turn that **** up ! yells Piltdown Man

from his evolutionary window

He believed that the only major difference between man and the ape was that men could speak and apes could not. He therefore postulated a missing link which he called Pithecanthropus alalus (speechless apeman) a woman with long lank hair suckling a child.


falling for the lies

of the Lord of the Flies

Zinjanthropus asks quizzically

How much more of this

are you prepared to take

misbegotten centuries glimmer:

light years of bad poetry

captive eons of incoherent free verse

as we wait

for the Bronze Age Myths

to begin
PROMPT #3: a poem that takes time. It takes its time getting where it’s going,
and the action of the poem itself takes place over months.
[…] a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.

Honestly, this is the type of modernist poetry I dislike.
I wrote it in about 25 minutes, edited and formatted it
with found text & images for about 40 minutes and VOILÀ:
cutting-edge modern dullness. It was still fun though.
ConnectHook Apr 4
Poetry ought to do things right
and document reality—
but modern muses lose the fight
weaponizing identity.

Out-doing themselves, our leaders all
legitimize perversity.
Who gave them this satanic call
to demonize normality ?

In showing off their dubious worth,
the nation’s ignobility
transform to Babel all the earth
augmenting instability.

They can’t go One-World fast enough
suppressing Christianity.
Their matriarchy’s mom is tough,
enforcing femininity.

Milk of reptilian global beast:
postmodern animality
offers her withered poison breast
maintaining infantility.

They pour across. We help them in
supporting illegality;
our taxes fund their brand-new life
rewarding criminality.
YOU  finish it
(some pre-fab starters):
re-wording historicity
furthering imbecility
fanning flammability
normalized vulgarity
shortening eternity
denying immortality

PROMPT #2: write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question,
inviting the reader to continue the process of reading
(and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends
Apr 1 · 120
Persona Non Grata
ConnectHook Apr 1
(this festive traditional Central-Italian dish serves entire populations of citizens)

     ♦  faith in God
if unavailable, any stable moral-ethical framework can be used

     ♦  esteem for traditional cultural values

     ♦  willingness to say what you think

     ♦  hatred of Political Correctness

1)   Wake up in the morning and breathe
rinse your mind and other ingredients well from previous day’s brain-washing

2)   Refuse to believe media propaganda
ask friends/family members to ignore mainstream media & close Facebook accounts

3)   Believe that God created Man and Woman in Genesis

4)   Refer to God as He
main ingredient, beware of fire if Feminists/Genderqueer activists are near stove

5)   Define family as 1 man + 1 woman joined in marriage producing children
let ingredients simmer. Add a pinch of absolute Biblical doctrine if desired

6)   Critique Cultural Marxism in ALL its overt & disguised manifestations

7)   Dissent from the One-World Techno-Narcissist mindset
algorithms and search-filters complement this dish, but feel free to serve it on its own

Persona Non Grata pairs well with a full-bodied Tuscan Chianti, or Montepulciano, but is especially enhanced by any vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored.
Prompt #1: provide the reader with instructions on how to do something.
It can be a sort of recipe…
Mar 31 · 46
Liberating April
ConnectHook Mar 31
She stirs in her cell, unaware she’s free
The keyboards start to click in joyous dread;
For you, O useless reader, hold the key
To rouse this sleeping prisoner from her bed.
Accustomed to her dull imprisoned state
Unused to warmth, she babbles in her cage
She fears, at first, the freedom to create;
Awakening, the muse begins to rage
Across the warming threshold into light,
She strides as verses blossom on the page
To chastise and put winter’s ghosts to flight.
The thawing wind! She shakes her golden hair
And lyric pollination seeds the air . . .
ConnectHook Mar 26
Jussie walks ! Money talked—and talked loud
To the Trump-hating race-hustle crowd;
And they break forth in cheers
As star Smollett appears
For their drama-queen makes them so proud.

For a moment Fake News became tense:
Jussie's narrative made little sense.
There were lies told in spades,
But the incident fades;
Now it's on to more current events.
ConnectHook Feb 18
Donald Trump has made many quite fussy;
as he did for one actor, named Jussie.
In the end, the abuse
was revealed as fake noose,
two Nigerians, red hats, and one *****.

It's so rotten, one almost can smell it
and it's painfully shameful to tell it;
but this fellow named Smollett
reached deep in his wallet.
Some bought it, when he tried to sell it.
Just corner Kevin and ask him about it:
Feb 18 · 66
Fake Noose Haiku
ConnectHook Feb 18
Poor Jussie Smollett.
Had SO much going for him:
Black, ***, hated Trump . . .
Oh what tangled webs we weave,
when first we hire Nigerians to be redneck villains in a hoaxed "hate-crime"
ConnectHook Jan 25
Black Israelite haters, excused,
led to schoolboys reviled and accused
of white racism, hate.
The reaction was great--
but the whiteboys were merely amused.

Progressives were driven berserk
by a teenager's innocent smirk.
The old shaman tried shaming:
and drumming and blaming,
but none of those strategies work!

Mr. Phillips, the activist drummer
gave Regressives their Indian Summer--
till a teenager's smirk
drove the demons berserk
and made dumbed-down regressives much dumber.

If a smile is a cultural crime
then the criminals need to do time.
Every whiteboy must go
in this cracka-*** show
and I'm guilty for reason of rhyme.
more on the way...

don't forget to wail and chant when people smile at you!
Jan 23 · 245
Paleface Haiku
ConnectHook Jan 23
Beware the white smirk.
Worse than **** atom bomb,
that deadly white smirk . . .

When the White Man smirks
Hordes run, screaming, into ****
(When the white man smirks)
I have spoken. I have spoken.
Heap big medicine.
Jan 17 · 137
Mambo Bado Limerick
ConnectHook Jan 17
Al Shabab having terrorist fits
while Nairobi is taking the hits.
An attack calculated
by gunmen, frustrated
for lack of Somalian *****...
Read all about it:
Jan 16 · 81
Poor People
ConnectHook Jan 16
lyrics from Alan Price, 1973

Poor people are poor people,
and they don’t understand
A man’s got to make whatever he wants,
and take it with his own hands.

Poor people stay poor people,
and they never get to see
Someone’s got to win in the human race,
if it isn’t you, then it has to be me.

So smile while you’re makin’ it
Laugh while you’re takin’ it
Even though you’re fakin’ it
Nobody’s gonna know. . .
nobody’s gonna know.

It’s no use mumbling, it’s no use grumbling;
life just isn’t fair
There’s no easy days, there’s no easy ways.
Just get out there and do it!

And sing and they’ll sing your song
Laugh while you’re getting on
Smile and they’ll string along
and nobody’s gonna know...
Nobody’s gonna know
Nobody’s gonna know
And nobody’s gonna know . . .
lyrics and music by Alan Price, from "O Lucky Man"
directed by Lindsay Anderson, 1973
Jan 15 · 157
Triumphant Haiku
ConnectHook Jan 15
I alone, a god
raise high the bleeding trophy:
Haiku's severed head.
Please bring your own haiku to the party:
ConnectHook Jan 12
13)  holy extreme performance-artist who ended badly

14)  aryan/teutonic warrior who somehow got born in judea

15)  misunderstood ***-rights activist

16)  entheogenic bringer of the sacred mushroom rite

17) propaganda figure concocted by the flavians

18) lucifer's spirit-brother

19) maitreya: "the christ consciousness within"

20) hebrew extremist with delusions of grandeur

21) prophet isa bin maryam the great mahdi

22) just another hindu avatar and world-teacher
(see Part I)
"There has been much sharp looking out, to see where and what Antichrist is, or by what Marks he may be known. Some say he has been in the Christian World almost ever since the Gospel Times, nay, that he was even then beginning to appear and show himself. Others say he came in with this, or that Pope; others that he is not yet come, but near at Hand. Others will have it, that he has been here, and there, but driven from one Place to another by several new risen Protestant Sects."

William Law (1761)
ConnectHook Jan 9
1) groovy dancing hippie shepherd of love

2)  intrepid communist/anarchist revolutionary

3) wandering shaman/healer

4) african anointed of black liberation

5) messianic community-organizer

6) spokesmouth for free-market capitalism

7) stalwart working-class carpenter

8) cynic hellenistic philosopher

9) ascended master who studied with himalayan yogis

10) witty rabbi who sold out to rome

11) ****** rastaman babbling about ethiopia

12) refined orthodox prince on background of gold
For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect.   (Matthew 24:24)

If you can think of any other false Christs, let me know.
Jan 5 · 220
Disposable Haiku
ConnectHook Jan 5
Haiku lifts our souls
to views beyond the village:
distant Fuji. (****)

Aisu-krimu sandu-witch
Robotic Gul-friend

Kamikaze beer
wriggling tentacle skewered
****: Japanese bar

They did deserve it.
Both Fat Man and Little boy.
I'm part ***. Eat me.

Seriously what
is wrong with the Japanese?
They need Jesus Christ !
Love/Hate relationship with Haiku.
Apologies to Basho-San
Jan 3 · 753
From the Depths
ConnectHook Jan 3
Illegal aliens,
Holy and blameless
Invade from planet dysfunction
Land at our border
From their galaxy of failed Latin states:
Feudal kleptocracies
Where the girls get knocked up at 15
And illiterate drunks get macheted
on saturday night
Then go to Mass in the morning
as litter blows
through graveyards.

They will enrich us
with their diversity.
Que significa "honduras" en inglés?
Dec 2018 · 834
Xmas Haiku
ConnectHook Dec 2018
Data-driven snow
Globalist control and gifts
Shut up and Buy, sheep.

Shepherds keeping watch
Disco Sky-Aliens appear
Christ's freaking light-show
One World yo mama
Dec 2018 · 800
genderfluid poem #35667
ConnectHook Dec 2018
i always waz told
u  r  a boy/girl
they nevr let me be
n e thing beyond
their binary world

then one day
looked in the mirror &
saw my TRUE self
FREE of all labels
FREE from society's judgement
my SELF as i am:

mixed-up lost soul
w/gender dysphoria
Count your chromosomes, quick!
God is accepting returns until the Second Coming of His only-begotten son.
Nov 2018 · 197
ConnectHook Nov 2018
Love does NOT win.

God's law wins.

God is love.
Eternal love triangle of Trinity
Nov 2018 · 412
Eighteen Hundred And Thirty
ConnectHook Nov 2018
Sarah Josepha Hale  (1788–1879)

We bring no earthly wreath for Time;
To man th’immortal Time was given—
Years should be marked by deeds sublime,
That elevate his soul to heaven.
Thou proudly passing year—thy name
Is registered in mind’s bright flame,
And louder than the roar of waves,
Thundering from ocean’s prison caves,
Comes the glad shout that hallows thee
The Year of Freedom’s Jubilee!
‘Tis strange how mind has been chained down,
And reason scourged like branded sin!
How man has shrunk before man’s frown,
And darkened heaven’s own fire within!
But Freedom breathed—the flame burst forth—
Wo to the spoilers of the earth,
Who would withstand its lightning ******,
And heavier forge the galling yoke;—
As well the breaking reed might dare
The cataract’s rush—the whirlwind’s war!
Ay, thrones must crumble—even as clay,
Searched by the scorching sun and wind!
And crushed be Superstition’s sway
That would with writing scorpions bind
The terror-stricken conscience down
Beneath anointed monarch’s frown;
Till Truth is in her temple sought,
The soul’s unbribed, unfettered thought,
That, science-guided, soars unawed,
And reading Nature rests on God!
This must be-is-the passing year
Has rent the veil, and despots stand
In the keen glance of Truth severe,
With craven brow and palsied hand:—
Ye, who would make man’s spirit free,
And change the Old World’s destiny,
Bring forth from Learning’s halls the light,
And watch, that Virtue’s shield be bright;
Then to the ‘God of order’ raise
The vow of faith, the song of praise,
And on-and sweep Oppression’s chains,
Like ice beneath the vernal rains!
My Country, ay, thy sons are proud,
True heirs of Freedom’s glorious dower;
For never here has knee been bowed
In homage to a mortal power:
No, never here has tyrant reigned,
And never here has thought been chained!
Then who would follow Europe’s sickly light,
When here the soul may put forth all her might,
And show the nations, as they gaze in awe,
That Wisdom dwells with Liberty and Law!
O, when will Time his holiest triumph bring—
‘Freedom o’er all the earth, and Christ alone reigns King!’
Thanksgiving's Poetic Muse and Matron:
Oct 2018 · 145
Unhallowed Be The Name
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Open, dark sepulchers! Autumnal woe
whips the dead leaves, which scattering, whirl below.
Bright orange memories of summer’s cheer
Flame out in phantom grimaces of fear.
Bare eldritch limbs reach out against the dusk
and spectral winds disturb each withered husk.
Thoughts wax sinister, existentially . . .
for such we shall become, eventually.
All hallowed saints acknowledge even this,
Departed from a world they do not miss.

Unable to assimilate true night,
The nation now embraces plastic fright,
Satanic sweetness surfeiting its young
while judgement in the wings, awaits, unsung.
They purchase Chinese plastic slasher-masks
To celebrate those diabolic tasks
They wish were only nightmares of the mind;
And so they show they’re spiritually blind;
Culturally and politically as well,
For thinking there’s no Heaven, nor a ****.
As if Life’s stunning triumph thrills them less
Than spectral superstitions they profess.
They glorify the grave, though life is good—
Their children freely tour the neighborhood . . .

Oppression that prevails beyond our lands
Bears testament to this. Who understands
How real the threat of gruesome harm can be
Where terror’s costly fear is given free?
Imagine those who fled forevermore
Real graves and bones, blood; homelands wracked by war—
Survivors, having seen such things fulfilled
May wish they could forget how some were killed;
Their Halloween replaced with realer fates:
by bombs, in wars, in dark tyrannic states.
From whence true refugees take flight from death
to live where freedom draws an easier breath.
Uprooted, then transplanted, seeking life,
Believing they have now escaped the strife
Must they be thus subjected yet again
To fear’s oppressive rule, so now as then?
Traumatic scenes are glimpsed, it’s all in fun . . .
Meanwhile, those who have lived it come undone.
Ironic morbid joke: where freedom reigns
To purchase fake cadaverous remains;
Permit the grave to thus enslave our brains.

There was a brighter side to all this rot:
In neighborhoods your adult mind forgot;
So long ago, so lost in childhood’s mist.
Of what did earlier Halloweens consist?
It wasn’t all about the grave, the gore.
You didn’t buy your costume at the store.
Your mommy helped you tailor some disguise;
A character to charm, and to surprise
The neighbors known to live along your street.
Nostalgic masquerade: the bittersweet . . .
Now, our nation’s hypoglycemic kids
Gorge on what diabetes’ law forbids.
Macabre, this epidemic in our streets:
Sugar-addicted specters draped in sheets
Or dressed in Wal-Mart costumes of the ******
who ask for candy (grabbing on demand).

Were I the Lord, I’d find it all less cute
And curse it, as the fig-tree, to its root—
Slam shut the cover on the fearful tome,
Restore true life, reviving every home
Till Treats and Tricks alike speak more of faith
And God’s own Spirit banish every wraith.

The horrors you exhume in idle hours
To haunt your artificial autumn bowers
Are real for some, who question, once a year
What’s wrong with you, romanticizing fear,
When Death and **** are real—however near.
Halloween 2018
Oct 2018 · 149
Hallowed Limericks, Even
ConnectHook Oct 2018
The cold night of All Hallows draws near
though the reason is somewhat less clear;
The reigning esthetic
is Gothic-Poetic
and sugar eclipses all fear . . .

The idea that spirits abound,
that The Dead ever hover around,
is a lie straight from ****
and a fable to sell
souls and sugar, per ounce and per pound.

Halloween: put a mask on the mess.
As a nation, we ought to confess
that our sin’s overflowing;
our evil is showing—
we’re due for a trick, I would guess.

Using candy, they settle the score:
secret weapon in Lucifer‘s war
for this treat dietetic
we’re pre-diabetic,
dressed up as the ghosts that we are.
All Hallows Even 2018
The night before All Saints Day
AKA Reformation Day in some Protestant Nations
Oct 2018 · 572
Lines to Trigger NPCs
ConnectHook Oct 2018
capitalize it
punctuate it

       then . . .         //  s p  a   c    e     it
                                      s a y  it /

                                        to their gray faces

this is REVOLUTION baby

fall down prostrate in adoration
plead for mercy before the throne
of your orange Cheeto lord
worship 45
you owe your soul to him

(your owner/father-figure)
your president
mix-master D.J.
is wiser than you
that's why he is
president of your nation-state

so sorry about the will of 55%
of the amurican people

now dance

to your D.J.
like good NPCs

god bless amurica 45
I am sorry that God's will is done
please don't swear or be upset
Oct 2018 · 129
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Human shields
Mothers go first
Honduran fields
The plan rehearsed
Fake refugees
Who storm the gates
More borders, please
Trump hesitates . . .
Oct 2018 · 209
T.D.S. Masquerade
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Haunted by hate of your president,
you froth as you rage like a demon;
setting a dangerous precedent
urged on by the likes of Don Lemon.

Your sinister soul is now evident
and the hatred you spew is obscene.
You have swilled, with the thirst of a malcontent
vicious words from the well of Maxine.

You're possessed now by hate of your president,
while the minions are taken to task;
you dismiss every mob as a non-event—
but we see you behind the dark mask.
Trump Derangement Syndrome (T.D.S.)
is reaching unpresidented levels in the U.S.A.

Will it be a trick or a treat for All Hallows Even?
Oct 2018 · 140
Circle K Limerick
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Finally justice is done, and it passes
enraging the Socialist masses.
They’ve appointed a judge
and we won’t hold a grudge—
we’ll just pray that they round up your *****.
Circle K was once a real brand.
The kind cowboys use on beef.
Like "round-roast round-up"
Oct 2018 · 2.3k
Take a Tip
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Q-Tips raised! Their storm approaches.
Swab those ear-gates free and clear.
Thunder frightens the rats and roaches.
Looming clouds are drawing near;
Audible anticipation
Waxes with our rising nation.

Hope-**** is the thing with feathers
flying low, right before the gale.
Strident left-wing get-togethers
Do their best to countervail.
Tribunals herald something worse . . .
Enjoy some popcorn with my verse.

Martial law—a new diversion,
Flapping wings on the Left and Right
Disturbs the coop (or coup?). Subversion
now displays its plumes outright.
Deep-state angels prove satanic
sparking upper-level panic.

Rumors can be quite arresting.
Cresting waves on the Psy-Ops sea
Break and roll, now manifesting
Dumbed-down mobs, conspiracy . . .
Some citizens awake to truth;
The rest rave on, benighted youth.
Oct 2018 · 1.9k
Poetic Justice
ConnectHook Oct 2018
The past participle of deal is dealt;
Thus, when the cards fall is when it is felt.

A deck of cards knows its own unsealer
as well as the skill and art of the dealer.

Trump cards, (although not normally plural)
are to share. The enjoyment is jural.

We hope they are more than dealed incitements:
those fifty-five thousand sealed indictments . . .
Inspired by some stuff I heard at The Prophecy Club.
Maybe more hype but it was still interesting.
Sep 2018 · 109
Lyrical Vomit
ConnectHook Sep 2018
Well OK

I can spew anything out there
without punctuation
or structure
or even a minimally
coherent message

and you people will
take it seriously

for 5 seconds

do you admit yet that you have been
note this:
i took notes
Sep 2018 · 1.9k
Autumn Festival: Lotus Seed
ConnectHook Sep 2018
That Chinese box
Your wares untasted
From whence arose
The lunar doom
Of my obsession.

Some oriental harmony
I never heard

Auspicious omen of prosperity
That passed me by
Like cloud shadow across moon
On a restless night
Long ago.

Your pale and autocratic beauty:
Moon over wall-gate in frontier
Long gone
Like life on a distant planet;
I am out of your orbit . . .

Still you circle
Serving others more worthy
Of your light.

I still love you, Mooncakes
Though I shall never taste you.
The Moon Over Wall Gate in Frontier:
Sep 2018 · 142
Orange: It's The New Orange
ConnectHook Sep 2018
Hail the crown of Donald T.
Hail the mighty orange flame
Hail the age’s consummation
(Voters have themselves to blame)

TRUMP shall smash the global Hydra
TRUMP shall avenge our national shame
TRUMP shall restore our families’ honor
CONQUER (in his deplorable name) !

Captain TRUMP, the cord that binds
TRUMP the axe-head and the judge
Leader DONALD, light that blinds
Our final King: let none begrudge
Donald our axe-head is now tightly bound with us in a shared sacred duty,
projecting his keen edge from the national bundle.
Let us, together, grow tired of winning until all worthless cancerous cells
are excised, neutralized and disposed of.
All that is not full of the Will to Greatness must perish
before the coming orange storm.
Clad in the shining raiment of victory
let us serve with American fervor our new leader.
Women, mothers and nurturers of the mystic rebirth
are welcome in Trump’s new nation.
Sweep away the cobwebs of the old weakness, hail the conquering hero,
he who fearlessly bears the fasces into the global courtroom
as judge, jury, and executioner.
Let the cities and nations of unbelief tremble and plead for mercy.
Poems shall be composed as bridges are built, spanning years.
Stanzas shall spontaneously fall into place
and march with military precision.
Every capital line shall converge upon our captain:
Aug 2018 · 227
Bashing Basho
ConnectHook Aug 2018
If you like Haiku verse form:
bad haiku dot com

I laughed so hard at some of them,
but Starkitten is a bit too much
so scroll past his/her/its stuff
Aug 2018 · 180
John McLimerick
ConnectHook Aug 2018
A twisted old warhawk has died
(as we wish they all would, on that side).
We can try as we may
something noble to say,
But they'll doubt it and know that we lied.
Good riddance to the bitter old RINO with Trump Derangement Syndrome
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