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Oct 2015 · 844
experimental health
ConnectHook Oct 2015
dash off an incoherent free
verse paragraph
     // moan
into a void of meaningless
superficial / pain using / random line
breaks and no caps
THEN
add some graphic words:
blood-drenched
honey-sexed
now add some ☠ weird symbols ω
mention yourself a lot, and then
    invert/transform:
blood-sexed
honey-drenched //
like a dog ☃
(panting)
transform
your confused prose
        into  ☮
a poem: voila!
It's EZ ! (and boring too ☻)
but it gets READ oh yes it does
Oct 2015 · 801
Degrees of B.S.
ConnectHook Oct 2015
Bernie Sanders hatched a scheme
to rant an old progressive theme.
He left the greening mountain heights
to bellow forth for Social Rights
descending to our nation's valleys
milking the faithful at his rallies.
Mr. Sanders sold the farm,
sounded socialist alarm;
Trading professorial tweeds
for bloviating human needs.
He set the lefties all a-twitter
bartering the sweet for bitter.
He glared through academic glasses
at the doubtful working classes
wondering why they failed to note
just why and how they ought to vote.
Sanders patched up race-relations
fixing holes with reparations,
working up his magic wonder:
horsey voice of righteous thunder
till the clouds hung heavy and gray
portent of a darker day...
Warming up leftover Hope
he spared no change for hangman's rope,
sputtering on, he blew a gasket
redistributing our basket
scolding, bellowing, pumping fist
and waving fingers from the wrist
like politburo retro-chic
a tousled old white-headed freak.
Vote for Bernie Clinton everybody !!!
Oct 2015 · 712
Strike the Prose
ConnectHook Oct 2015
I wonder sometimes
why droll observations;
recollections of a personal and
sometimes confessional nature,
(interesting enough in themselves – if well-written),
get called “poems” when broken up by
weird line spacing. Nothing against
descriptive prose –
but I don’t think it is truly
Poetry. You can call it that
if you want; I don’t
mind.
Oct 2015 · 319
Holy Wordcraft
ConnectHook Oct 2015
Our Lord was dazed from the red –
then raised from the dead.

Faith dies in the room – only to rise in the doom.

Taught… captured:  they roll the stone away.
Caught… raptured. (He stole their own away.)

Tempt ye the womb?
Empty the tomb!
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/08/17/holy-wordcraft/
ConnectHook Oct 2015
Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself?
Thy once-bright spires decline to dust.
The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom
a bygone memory. I’ll not trust
these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle;
endless babble of self-absorption
centered in pleasure-maximizing:
narcissistic thought-abortion.
Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language
used by dad ten years ago.
I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage
They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show.
It’s just, like, TALKING—without words
in language ghettos; texting proud . . .
Their lack of precision offends my brain—
They ought to be ashamed (out loud).

Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D,
and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic crack
along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot
Are SO like totally talking smack.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/03/15/hung-on-a-psychosociolinguistic-scaffold/

ZPD ZPD ZPD ZPD ZPD
Oct 2015 · 1.2k
a tempted poet
ConnectHook Oct 2015
prison walls enclose sky
darkness sparks pyre
definite
articles get cut out

where rivers empty
into bitter oceans

where mix
morbid metaphors
of narcissism

to test my dead flesh
in vacated premises
condemned to destruction

blade as absent tenant

insert line about cutting here
then murmur teenage angst
over lost boyfriend
lifes meaninglessness etc

add some more weird
unpunctuated lines

oozing like a mediocre
razor ****

no caps even

then arbitrarily bold something
as if you knew what the hell
you were blathering on about

holy band-aid batman

my poetry *****
(does yours ? )
now hit "like" -
you emo-depressive herd animals !

☺☠☺☠☺☠☺
Oct 2015 · 1.2k
Data Devaluation
ConnectHook Oct 2015
When this digital dark age passes
and smartphone screens go dead
we shall all return to vibrant life.
We shall look up, toward vast horizons
recalling dimly-lit square centimeters of data
finger-scrolling our memories in the afterglow.
We shall again behold the depth of sky
from the mouths of our caves and pit-houses.
We shall know the Creator as well as the Creation.
We shall communicate once again.
Forgive my free verse.
I felt like being naughty.
Sep 2015 · 901
Get Queerer Faster
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Sustainably globally gay – we need more of it / socially-conscious progressive group-think / openness through tolerance of diversity in perversity / justice for more more more of gay gay gay / it’s progress it’s now its queer-friendly because it's sustainably globally gay / when gay gets gayer the queering gets clearer / so let's start the conversation about ****-**** gayness / inclusion through cluelessness in transparent openness / by the way - get GAY / before the homosexual conversation queers the queerness of the ongoing conversation / let's celebrate gayness, **OK ?
Did I mention the need for openness and tolerance of absolutely everything Gay? After all - they represent almost 7 percent of the population...
Sep 2015 · 2.1k
♗ El Papito Visits Babylon
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Why is he Vaticanizing
when he could be catechizing ?
This silly man with a funny hat
this doddering puppet
with his dead Jesus on a stick
this irrelevant vestigial *****
this geriatric Marxist-Lite
outdated Liberationist
terminal Global Warmist;

no wonder the World
heeds his incoherent discourse.
No wonder they
listen to him
but hate the Truth.
Don't get hit by the Popemobile.
♗♗♗♗
Sep 2015 · 504
Prime Kutz
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Frozen rage
slices my cucumbers
slashes my prices
(so abysmally low)
the paralyzed contortion of my
dull & depressing
confession bleeds depression
on the scabs
of terminal teenage nihilism.
Listen to me ooze
oh poison world.
I unleash weak venom
(bad free verse)
I despise the birth that lifed me
and ... and...
(whoops - better take my meds and make sure mommy paid my data-plan this month.)
teenage existentialism + clinical depression = BORING poetry

☻☠☻☠☻
ConnectHook Sep 2015
‘TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,         
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.         
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’

  Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,         
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,         
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter ***         
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,         
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,         
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,         
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
lines from "A Shropshire Lad"  

by A. E. Housman (1859–1936)
Sep 2015 · 801
What I
ConnectHook Sep 2015
find less than arresting: stilted musings gem-set

in ardent verbiage.

recherché semantics, florid phrases facing a withering sun

or policing of metaphor –

until handcuffed: Italic jewel thief caught on surveillance

Sudden bewildering

                                        spaces with odd punctuation;  ?  &

inward dithering semi-confessions in serpentine

verse.  Badder (or worse)  annoying line

           breaks /

cloying internal half – rhymes,

overwrought.     Over-edited;

over-thought until  you want to see

what’s on TV instead.        As if

the poet’s every random musing was so

essential.  Reverential semi-precious mythos

(Siren’s distant waves echo, shipwrecked rocks: Ossifer,  ossifer

it’s only boring poetry…

                        I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it)

again.
Poetry revival !!

DEATH to boring free verse !!!

Rhythm & rhyme in a structured line !!

YEAH baby...

ConnectHook Sep 2015
New York! –
The poets you have bred are few,
And how to rhyme they’ve not a clue –
Oh, fork!
(I know that word should sound like ‘muck’,
But that would make this effort ****);
Well, talk –
Why do the poems in your style
So often form, of crap, a pile?
We balk
At ‘crack’ as drug, or woman’s part,
With dreams of giving life to art,
You dork!
‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ – oh, please!
That ****-free quote is as is cheese
To chalk
Compared with Danny, who’s ‘oh … Kaye’,
And Allen, in a ‘Would he’ way.

To walk
Fifth Avenue, where storm clouds ****
The countryside with ticker-tape …
Pop cork?
‘Bronx hill new moan here’ was the cause;
But Central Park is where to pause
For torque
As that’s the place you would unwind
To wrench from vagrants, that you find
May stalk;
But, anyway, your poets stink –
Their barrel, they do need, I think,
To caulk:
Your school of poets, meter log,
Like what you get in synagogue
Of pork!
© Colonialist April 2014 (WordPress)

https://colonialist.wordpress.com/2014/04/21/the-really-awful-mannerisms-in-new-york-school-poetry/

My fellow poetry blogger Colonialist passed away earlier this year.
I am proud to have one of his poems here for you to read.
Sep 2015 · 484
Colonialist on Modern Verse
ConnectHook Sep 2015
This would
have
many self-styled poets
who believe that
taking
an ordinary sentence and splitting it
into random segments
is poetry
up in arms!
Written by Colonialist at ConnectHook in response to :

‘A lot of people high up in poetry circles look down on rhyme and metre and think it is old-fashioned,’ said Bernard Lamb, president of the QES and an academic at Imperial College London. ‘But what is the definition of poetry? I would say, if it doesn’t have rhyme or metre, then it is not poetry, it is just prose. You can have prose that is full of imagery, but it is still prose.’

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/09/15/queens-english-demands-rhyme-and-metre/
Sep 2015 · 1.3k
Eutychus Awakes
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Seated in a window was a young man named Eutychus,
who was sinking into a deep sleep as Paul talked on and on.
When he was sound asleep, he fell to the ground from the third story
and was picked up dead.
     [Acts 20:9]


Ye Olympian poets, hearken well
while the fall of a tragic youth I tell.
My Lydian lay, unsung by Homer
in pastoral ages far and former
shall warn and chasten your Patrician ears
recalling bygone Hellenistic years.
Pardon the insufficient gravitas –
the intention here is not blasphemous…

Saul, since Damascus and the desert days
had progressed to his apostolic phase;
a minor Asian town, Trojan Troas
lent him their ears. What we came to know as
Western Judeo-Christianity
was birthed in near-comic humanity.
But Saint Paul was completely serious
feverishly focused, quite delirious.

And so the first story he narrated-
second, then a third story related,
foreshadowing from Moses’ law the Christ
and Gentile nations grafted in, or spliced
as shoots from a wild rebel olive tree;
the Eternal One who is Trinity…
and many other holy mysteries
he taught and unlocked with scriptural keys.
By his third story, some eyelids fluttered
the lamps burned low while his truths were uttered.
The allure of Aegean night was deep –
but he offered something greater than sleep.
Among them one languished, barely alert,
a young (very tired) Grecian convert.

Eutychus nodded, his frame lightly propped,
in the night-freshened window. He had stopped
heeding Saint Paul who was preaching Jesus…
and thus he surrendered to Morpheus.

Unfortunate, weary, his tired head nods;
still exegeting from beyond, Paul plods.
Finally, the liminal threshold reached
E. falls – to encounter the power Paul preached.
His toga billowing as he plummets
from peaks of Christological summits,
he descends to gather cryptic renown
and a dubious New Testament crown.

Was E. bored to death by St. Paul’s discourse?
Descending from grace – did he stay the course?
Was his revival a first holy fruit –
or an arrival by alternate route?
One wonders, in retrospect- was he saved?
or is this a picture of mankind, depraved
fallen in slumber, oblivious, dead
until Truth’s unkindness touches our head…
Like Lazarus, this one had to die twice
We ask: how many more deaths would suffice?
Did he talk to the Lord while departed?
Could he fathom what Jesus had started?
Like Luke’s blind man, the sin was not his own,
but that God’s power be openly shown.
For his pains: a two-fold resurrection
rebirth through Paul and divine election.
(Unless the whole thing was allegory –
mere Jewish fable or pagan story…)
Don’t censure my Lydian levity
nor discount apostolic gravity
lamenting the youth bored to death by Paul;
we discern, in Eutychus, our own fall.
Revived, he learned, before the rest of us,
the difference between Christ and Morpheus.

If there be details still to verify
or vague scenarios to modify,
we shall, in heaven, request to hear it
from the lips of Eutychus’ own spirit.
(And then we can corroborate with Paul
The how and the who and the wherewithal.)
Read all about it in Acts, chapter 20
Sep 2015 · 2.2k
Asleep at the Wake
ConnectHook Sep 2015
$ $ $

Because I hate money
as money hates me,
I will out-live my debt
and be buried for free.

My gravest desire:
die poor, with no coffin,
that Death may unharden
what Life could not soften.

Because money hates me
I sometimes hate God,
(though I never served Mammon)
so SHOVEL, you clod,

while I speak from the grave;
a cadaver with class:
come strew a few flowers
and cover my ***.

(Or cover my assets
financially
so my corpse doesn’t lie
like a liability.)

Because money hates me
I’ll leave it to you
to savor my point of
funereal view.
God help me.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/04/26/asleep-at-the-wake-a-dirge/

$$$$$$$$$$$$
Sep 2015 · 1.2k
Agnother Gnostic Acrostic
ConnectHook Sep 2015
OR:*   *“A brief treatise on Antediluvian Gayology ”

Α Ω

Said Demiurge to Samael:
“This universe is getting old.
Let’s break on through and fly beyond
to where the lead shines gold.”

Said Samael to Demiurge:
“I’m with you, dude. Let’s rock and roll
Let’s rip this veil of Maya in two
And glimpse the Oversoul…”

Replied his echo Demiurge:
“Devoid, divine, it’s ALL good, bro;
The sweetest wine is found within
Let liquid truth now flow…”

So Samael let drop the towel
And spread his doctrine’s orifice.
The mystic eye of gnosis shined
in luminous artifice.

Then Sam and Dem, conjoined like beasts
made cosmic love (in Koine Greek),
transforming gold to toxic lead –
and Truth into a freak.
¡ ATTAIN GNOSIS !
☮ α ω ⊕ ☼
Sep 2015 · 858
Suigenericide
ConnectHook Sep 2015
۞۩۞

Offended by your victimhood
while victimized by your offense,
you hurt so bad that I felt good;
my guilt was sweet – your pain intense.

I lacked your lack of self-esteem
yet shared your sense of wounded pride
while sleeping through our waking dream -
the Inner Light left on outside.

Your suicide invades my space –
your death insults my lifeless life.
Your omnipresent cryptic face
beams forth, as dull as any knife.
su·i ge·ne·ris
ˌso͞oˌī ˈjenərəs,ˌso͞oē/

adjective: unique.

۞۩۞
Sep 2015 · 1.7k
۩ End-Times Overload ۩
ConnectHook Sep 2015
۞  ۞  ۞  ۞  ۞  ۞  ۞  ۞  ۞  ۞  ۞    

When the Mahdi returns to smite Dajjal,
When the Antichrist in his temple of lies
is vanquished by lightning from God’s black skies
as the shuddering stars blink, waver and fall,
When JAH Rastafari, Lord Jesus (and Paul)
With Isaac and Ismael – even Jibril
Cash in on redemption and pay up the bill
(no longer in discord, but harmonized all) –
When the Jinn (and the tonik) have thrown in the towel
as libations are served by the Heavenly Host,
while Apollyon’s watchdog combusts with a howl
and the demons and dhimmicrats give up the ghost –
only then shall we learn not to entertain doubt.
But until that apocalypse: vote the clowns out !
The signs of the arrival of Dajjal are emerging:
جن لوگوں نے دجال کے بارے میں پڑھا ہے انکے لئے یہ جاننا آسان ہے کہ دجال کا پورا سسٹم تیار ہو چکا ہے.
انکو لیڈ کریں گے اور زلزے جو آرہے ہیں موسم بدل رہا ہے یہ سب حدیثوں میں آچکا ہے۔ پاکستان میں سیلاب اور زلزلہ ڈینگی یہ سب اسی کا ایک حصہ ہے

۞  ۩  ۞
dare you to listen to THIS:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lww3LftQaw
Sep 2015 · 47.3k
Diversity Training
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Oh beautiful for specious lies
where Christless values reign;
for superficial battle cries
above the muted strain:
Diversity, diversity
God hides His face from thee—
and frown he should, while planethood
distracts humanity.

How sad it is when victim groups
monopolize the floor;
enabling the marginals
to agitate for more.
Diversity, diversity,
Your queer agenda rules—
with Balkanizing tendencies
imposed on witless tools.

Degenerate in decadence
the ailing eagle flies;
in spirals of irrelevance
through clouded toxic skies…
Diversity, diversity
the Left defines your terms;
the weakened body politic
grows sicker as it squirms.

Oh Lord we need a miracle
before the patient fails;
celestial intervention please
to purge us of what ails.
Diversity, diversity
We shall not overcome—
Unless the Lord reveal His word
twixt here and Kingdom Come…
♫♪ Sung to the tune of...PROGRESS !! ♪

Why? Because Islam is right about women.
Women are only one of the two genders created by God !
Sep 2015 · 793
Bitter Poetaste in Mouth
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♥☠♥

Lightweight free-verse exploration,
withered ghosts and wisps of phrase,
breezy unamusing musings
barely raise

a titter, tear or lyric warning –
fail to reach a middling height;
then subside to shallow murmurs
(not quite).

Teenage existentialism
cryptic, dull confessional mush;
suitable for a poker-faced
unroyal flush.

Must you set this stuff in motion
fizzling through our universe:
half-bright comets leaving trails
of boring verse?

Incoherent thoughts meander
through your words like fish through nets
unable to ensnare your reader.
One forgets

whatever it was you started saying
(weirdly spaced, unpunctuated).
Could it be such thoughts are better
left unstated?
From NaPoWriMo 2014:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/ntl-poetry-writing-month-napowrimo-2014/

                   ♥☠♥
Sep 2015 · 1.0k
Jumping on the Bandurawagon
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☃  ∴  ☼

Al Bandura, Ph.D,
Drove to town so he could see
if society embraced
guided life-change (science-based).

As he floored it toward the town,
he struck an inefficient clown.
Doctor A. Bandura glowered:
“You’re not funny, nor empowered –

get self-aware”.  Then, talking faster,
he offered attainable steps to mastery.
“You don’t seem too self-efficacious,”
Albert added, now loquacious.

Doctor Al set new objectives:
auto-efficient self-directives;
made that dead clown self-aware,
then auto-directed right out of there.
see the clown funeral HERE:  http://tinyurl.com/pn4gdpv

☃  ∴  ☼
ConnectHook Sep 2015
in every visible character man differs less from the higher apes,
than these do from the lower members of the same order of Primates
.

                                                     ­                      Charles Darwin, 1871

The Other claims descent from apes
then acts like a violent monkey.
It pillages, it loots and rapes
performing as Satan’s flunkey.

Its actions bear the mark of Cain;
brandishing cameras, smashing things.
We feel its proto-human pain
yet dread the urban woe it brings.

It tries to justify, with words
its primal carnage, childish rage.
With anthropoid designs deferred
it struts the Darwinian stage.

The higher primate government
rewards them well in ripe bananas
for wrecking their environment
(jungle as well as savannas).

Their mate selection (naturally):
a semi-simian solution:
intercoursing sexually,
to hasten their evolution.

The wombs enlarge—they drop their young
then text their friends while getting high.
They swing from tree-tops, fling their dung,
while down below the humans sigh.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/04/16/the-selection-of-***-and-descent-in-relation-to-man/

%
$
Sep 2015 · 1.0k
Octaves Off-Key
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♪ ☠♫☃

Octosyllabic rhyme was killed.
Her epitaph I chisel here…
so face the book and feed your twit;
while I the rhythmic record clear.

The sad remains of Lyric Wit
are here interred – no more to rise
(lest poets’ brains be forced to think
and plummet from post-modern skies).

You  phonies scrolling Twitter-blink,
and scribblers with advanced degrees
look up, and hearken to these words
while feigning your conceited ease.

The academic gallows-birds
reviewing chap-books, high on fluff
make darker the sepulchral gloom –
as if it wasn’t dark enough.

The verdict’s in and all assume,
as measured meaning leaves the court,
he meant to **** her (Poetry).
Life sentences are written short.

The killer grinning artlessly
in blank-verse handcuffs, void of rhyme,
composes abstract lines, the dull
memoirs of his poetic crime.

The prosecution’s notes are full
the case is made, the jury hears
his guilt made evident, at least.
The victim’s mother melts in tears

He murdered her himself, the beast.
then dumped her: a deflowered rose.
His incoherent imagery
dismembered her like slaughtered prose.

She met her end lamentably;
He did her in and cut her down
thus shortening her metered day.
(That free-verse wielding abstract clown!)

Behold her grave – where grass turns hay
as poets’ bones subside to dust;
her soul with God to reconvene
(or wander with bemused disgust).

Her grave-site paints a pastoral scene,
poetic fodder – life from death…
and calves shall fatten near her tomb.
Oh coward reader: take a breath !
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/

♪ ☠♫☃
Sep 2015 · 1.0k
Data at the Helm
ConnectHook Sep 2015
‘Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale
!

                          H. W. Longfellow

When bureaucrats, with obfuscation
monotone in data-speak
and mumble to their mutinous nation,
bloodless vessels spring a leak.

Scan in vain the rolling breakers;
leadership is out to sea.
Overscripted undertakers
claim to speak for you and me…

The Ship of State, adrift, becalmed
floats on; a most ill-fated craft.
The body politic, unembalmed
begins to ripen fore and aft.

The crew, grown callous to the rot
and numbed by such expediency
with one last desperate cannon shot
forsake all hope of mutiny.

While computers spit statistics,
crewmen spread the expectant word;
(no more trust in mere ballistics…
hope delayed is hope transferred.)

“Make ready to abandon ship !
The captain’s just a talking head.
Lower the lifeboat, let her rip –
before, like him, we end up dead…”

The Ship of State is rent with breaches
data-leakage, data driven –
the lifeboat flounders, coral-riven
seeking distant wave-washed beaches.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/05/01/adieu-april-may-you-return/


►☼◄
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓

Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.

Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.

Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.

Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.

A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.

If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.

Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.

Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.

Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).

Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch

compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.

(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”,  since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)

Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/05/01/adieu-april-may-you-return/

♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓
Sep 2015 · 13.2k
Poultry in Motion
ConnectHook Sep 2015
ϖ↑∅⊕↓☺↨☼♀


The dawn is nigh at hand. The clouds
begin to lift above the grange.
Arise, O Phoebus, bless the crowds—
let poultry roam the range.

I’ll bind a broom of gathered hay
to sweep the hen-house free of hate.
Let roosters hail the crack of day
and chicks with ***** tempt fate.

A fractured self and a challenge hurled:
they left the shell, but found it rough
because our bigoted barnyard world
cannot get queer enough fast enough.

They flutter through the *******’s farm
subverting gender’s useless role.
We feel their pain, and mean no harm—
yet question this progressive goal.

They cluck a brand-new barnyard song:
Gender Identity Obsolete!
(As long as they claim God hatched them wrong,
biology signals their defeat.)

While poultry scratches rhymes for “hen”
and chicks are combing crests for *****
let’s ring the dinner bell and then
we’ll synchronize the global clocks.

Let Mankind’s unmanned race delight
at Jesus’ gender-free return.
Soon Africa shall see the light
and Araby’s sun more brightly burn.

Then dawn shall break o’er Russian plains
to liberate the Tartar races;
loose their limbs from Gender’s chains
to stride with polymorphous paces.

China too, and Southeast Asia
swift shall follow in their train
celebrating ***-aphasia
joining in the West’s refrain.

Hindu multitudes will rise
to vanquish gender, caste aside
and shake the slumber from their eyes
with metro-ambisexual pride.

Carib isles, with Latin kingdoms
From the tropics to the mountains
Shall announce they too are Wisdom’s,
drinking from de-gendered fountains.

Juveniles, raised to simply be
shall pioneer new modes of life;
explore horizons happily
set free from biologic strife.

Then shall our earth, in glad array
***** dirt upon Tradition’s tomb;
unshackled from that dark dismay
to grieve—but nevermore exhume.

Alas, the global dreams descend.
We’re back in the barnyard, gender-queer…
where hens have ***** and eggshells bend
transcending Nature’s reign of fear.

The henhouse still votes hetero;
their eggless chickens cluck for rights
biologists, ex utero
are born to further futile flights.

(Because I was almost one of them
I’ve earned the right to make fun of them.
Time alone will tell if the trend
remains coherent to the end.
)
Sep 2015 · 452
Vaginalia
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♥V♥

Here, the bifurcated portal
gateway of expanding life
smiles rebirth – transcends the Mortal . . .
splits the double you of wife.

Hail the great democratizer;
let us all salute the Queen –
Mankind’s rosy equalizer:
She Whose Splendor Reigns Unseen.

Treasure trove of procreation,
tunnel of love and fleshly muse,
membrane of illumination,
countryside’s exciting views . . .

***** played to heights celestial,
bio-rhapsody exposed
proving that our best is *******
and our earthly home foreclosed:

Grant us now behold thy beauty,
worship at thy humid throne.
Let mankind discharge his duty
in your sacred pleasure-zone.

Though Somali blades despise you,
though your maidenhood offends,
Egypt’s night will not disguise you
nor separate you from your friends.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/04/26/vaginalia/
ConnectHook Sep 2015
666

The cat once killed again takes up her plume
to write in the air with a sinuous tail;
a valiant attempt at true life to resume.
Penultimate of nine? Or eighth to fail…

The literate lioness’s spectral quill
fresh-dipped in fountains of blood-red ink
(along with sharpened claws) warns: time to **** –
but God would give us all more time to think.

Although certain races and social classes
display not a trace of Curiosity,
Humanity (being higher than their *****)
should counter such donkey-like paucity.

Boredom is beastly – it burdens the mind
one should be able to sustain some good talk…
If you finally perceive they are not of your kind
then pity them. Smile – and let the dullards walk.

A good conversation (by block-heads reviled)
costs only the interest – it’s free of price!
This birthright of every man, woman and child
imparts life to variety, adding spice.

A bite on the tongue, or a shake in the pan
enlivens the food, while enhancing the taste.
Be it preaching or sophistry, blessed is the man
consuming such dishes, no wordage to waste.

Yet most are content to survive on stale bread,
or drive through for fries and a Happy Meal.
Then, quickly digested, the pleasure dead,
it’s on to the stop sign. Their tires squeal.

Attempting to talk with such silly people
whose frame of reference is mainly: What?
Can drive one to brewery, cloister, or steeple
in search of that city whose gates never shut.

When word, wit and wisdom flow out of the mouth
enjoyment sings welcome as springtime arrives.
But ignorance pushes the birds further south
re-freezing the surface of puddled lives.

If you need some assistance, go purchase a cup
or run down to the liquor-store. Brew up some tea.
Be sure that your affective filter’s not up,
grammar monitor running functionally.

Art, sports, philosophy, music or *** –
please make it a good one. The topic is moot.
Don’t bore me with shopping. Don’t mention your Ex.
But swim to the deep end or bend for my boot.

The cat is now road-****, her mission has failed.
One *****-life left. Let your next chat count.
Don’t claim that you didn’t know what it entailed,
were unsure of the topic, idea, or amount.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/05/01/adieu-april-may-you-return/
Sep 2015 · 1.3k
Stuff Poetry Hates:
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♠ ♠ ♠

Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…

Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,

Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,

Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,

Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric,  semi-formal,

matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),

coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.

Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,

Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.

Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring  –  formulaic)
confounds –  yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.

Lists like this are perhaps  the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/04/01/stuff-poetry-hates/

WHY? Because POETRY STINKS.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?
then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to do evil.*

                              Jeremiah 13:23

We’re tired of your feline past
predatory darkness cannot last
your claw and tooth, your fangs, your youth –
they get old fast.

Your sullen, incoherent style
has grown intolerably vile.
After the ****, your prey is still
in pure denial.

Leopard-phantasms feed the flames;
the thing that spawned you whines and blames
although we could call Motherhood
by harsher names.

Jungle law enforcement should
stop crowning you with victimhood
erase your spots, connect the dots –
we wish you would.

Then lambs with lions shall rejoice
while lines with iambs raise their voice;
spotted pards play wiser cards.
(A better choice.)
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/04/10/leopard-spotted-night-vision/
Sep 2015 · 685
Godless Bluegrass
ConnectHook Sep 2015
You want the high lonesome brought down to earth –
the value of gold – devoid of its worth.

Like herbless reggae – or atheist Bach
like love without romance and time with no clock –

it’s smokeless jazz without the snap
buried treasure without any map.

It’s Andean flutes without the coca
Moon with no shine – un Raton sin Boca

You can’t have your culture without the Gospel
like rain without water, it’s simply impossible.

You can’t keep the tree without having roots
or gather a harvest without the fruits.

So get the hell gone with your atheist bluegrass
lest someone imply you’re an unsaved *******…
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/04/13/godless-bluegrass/
Sep 2015 · 1.6k
TULIP: a Floral Pentagram
ConnectHook Sep 2015
One thinks  on Calvin heav’n’s own spirit fell;
Another deems him instrument of hell;
If Calvin feel heav’n’s blessing, or its rod,
This cries there is, and that, there is no God.


Alexander Pope

A transcendental tulip
is blooming in my garden.
Before the petals wither,
before affections harden,
I pray it may diffuse its scent –
so gloriously redolent.

Encouraging the faithful,
it blooms in any weather.
In sunshine or in shadow;
let us, elect, together,
enjoy its sanctifying smell
While warning careless souls of hell.

In Him we stroke the petal
That proves our own depravity
The flower that declares our heart
apart from Christ, a cavity
where only evil may be found
by One who dares our depths to sound.

The second petal beckons
and sings of pure election;
where souls are freely chosen
by God’s divine selection.
(As yet not offered to the masses –
Unto whom His wrath now passes).

Thirdly shines the Limit
of Christ in His atonement:
benefits are thus withheld
in God’s eternal moment.
So let the worldling rant and bluster;
Raging will not dim the luster…

Fourth: shall the fallen Adam
hold out against omniscience?
Will puny human being
Prevail in disobedience?
The Lord on high will hound you down –
His grace to place a golden crown.

Point five unfurls its essence;
as saints arise, and striving
shake off the dust and onward march –
though never quite arriving;
while God empowers to go the distance
Persevering with insistence.

Behold in full the blossom!
In Grace it shines, reflecting;
delighting in God’s wisdom,
the lead to gold perfecting;
Magnanimous floral alchemy
bestowing at last true liberty.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/01/07/tulip-a-floral-pentagram/


Sep 2015 · 656
Lines to J.J.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Jesse Jackson, mug full of mush
hustling, shuffling race cards—
hush.

your mouth mutters on,
with vague perversity
staking claims upon diversity;

Stirring pots and agitating
mumbling, blaming, *******-baiting.

We know this is your bread and butter—
but must you thusly slur and mutter?

Rather than home-cooking sessions,
take some elocution lessons.

Spit those crackers out yo' mouth—
the gravy train is headed South . . .

Get a REAL job. Join the People.
Stop carding wool and fleecing sheeple.

You're hard for the herd to understand—
if I were you I'd change my brand.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/03/21/hush-yo-puppies-grit-yo-greens/

☺☻
Sep 2015 · 2.1k
ABBA 76' - 77'
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫

My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.

Bjorn, and the flickas sailed  from East to West.

Santa Lucia never shone so blessed

as she did in my private Euro-mix.

Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.

Cassette wheels whirred –  branding, then impressing

grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing

love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).

The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:

Frida, Agnetha  –  your longships linger

Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.

portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,

enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.

I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2013/08/09/abba-76-77/

♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫
Sep 2015 · 4.0k
¡ Viva el CHE !
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☠☭☠☭☠☭☠

I ask you righteous Justice-lovers:
can it be that art uncovers
fiction passed as fact?
(is Cubism abstract?)

Behold the Caribbean glory –
pass the **** – uh, torch. My story
cries for sober ears
to modulate our fears.

Ask the ones who fled that island
why they left their tropic homeland;
if they think it’s cool
to glorify Red rule…

The noble face of Revolution,
CHE provides the cheap solution;
earnest young Ernesto
lived out the manifesto.

Martial hippie, beatnik butcher
bravely gazing toward the future
beams the brow of CHE
their shining knight of day.

Brand-new bloodshed – same old song
for guerrilleros of the ****
who rage against machines
confounding ends with means.

Such semi-informed fools display
a heady ignorance of CHE –
as if he played the bass.
(I hold them in disgrace.)

Though CHE was tough on Rock n’Rollers,
he abetted thought controllers;
jailing small and great
in Fidel’s prison-state.

Yet they’re convinced that CHE was righteous:
militant against injustice –
worshiping his name,
impervious to blame.

“Yo, CHE wuz for the PEOPLE, man.
(They’re not too sure about his plan…)
He died to make men free –
immortal – isn’t he?”

Vaguely Leftist youth display him,
not quite clear on how to play him –
Bearded god of Vision:
immune to all derision.

Ahem. A different Bearded One,
God’s other revolutionary son
borrowed from CHE – or stole
The liberator’s role…

Yet, let us not be blown off-course.
My words must gather rising force
to set the record straight
and hotter heads deflate.

The hairy Argentinian medic
left a lucrative esthetic:
****** meme of war –
his T-shirts rock the store!

Outworn by posing poetasters,
dreamers, thugs and hero-wasters
ignorant of history
and high on Marxist mystery.

He glowers with a lit cigar:
the noble hippie ******/czar
for kids who went to Kollege
emerging void of knowledge.

Now hailed by rappers, clueless starlets
Hollywood saints (and leftist harlots);
everyone’s a fan
of Cuba’s Magic Man.

What was his plan to save the nation?
Proletarian dictation!
Eliminating classes
while kissing Party *****.

Classic Leftist liquidation:
bathe the land in blood. Salvation
comes much later on.
For now let’s get it on !

(Let’s get his T-shirt on that is.
The taste is flatter than the fizz
of Revolution Cola;
go ask the Ayatollah).

One serious thing I beg of you.
Do NOT discern the truth. Just view
his face with pure devotion
to set it all in motion.

CHE was a merciless father-mucker
(translate THAT to Spanish, sucker).
Put away your ****.
My poem’s too long
(thus ends the song).
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/various/viva-el-che/

☠☭☠☭☠☭☠
Sep 2015 · 1.3k
Deleuzional
ConnectHook Sep 2015
ººº

Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit,
according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world,
and not according to Christ.


Colossians 2:4-8 (NKJV)

His Nietzschean trip moved from Comic toward Tragic:
Deleuze’s delusions flew out the fenêtre
Airborne and ****** on philosphy’s magic
(the nihilist suicide’s raison d’être…)
Propelled from the window, transcending the Ontic,
his organless body in textual flight,
a schiz-flow beyond on a voyage turned frantic.
His thought – a nomadic adornment for speed,
multiplicitly viewing a thousand plateaux
was a force for unhinging the doorways of light
and a plea for postmodern decoding indeed.
His frame soon encountered pure striated space
in the form of the pavement caressing his face.

He joins other smokers of Gallic tabac,
other esotericians of cognitive frenzy
(those mullahs of madness, those sultans of Whack…)
Sorely missed by his victims, disciples and friends
he is mourned, misinterpreted, copied, dismissed
– but for semioticians he heads up the list.

Another brave Frenchman, some guy named Debord
a bespectacled Marxist (who missed all the marks)
made the mediums’ message a radical bore
dialectically fading the lights into darks.
Indirectly disrupting pop-culture with Punk
and other anarchic phenomena-junk,
he too chose to leave with a nihilist bang –
while we whimper and suffer down here with the gang.
The old situationist’s last situation:
an agit-prop funeral short on elation…

So to French de-constructor-philosopher-ravers
and all who rejoice while society wavers
I offer these lines, like a quick coup-de-grace
and be warned – they’re now viewing the Good Lord en face.
A schiz-flow elegy for Gilles Deleuze (1925–1995)
& Guy Debord (1931 – 1994)

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/deleuzional/

ººº
Sep 2015 · 27.9k
Planet of the Smartphones
ConnectHook Sep 2015


A signifying monkey grunted
(keyboard-clever, morals stunted)

from his perch in a digital tree.
And next, did text (quite rapidly):

“Courtship rituals won’t suffice.
Face-to-face can’t break the ice.

Instagram me! Tweet me up . . .
friend me, like me, buttercup.

Sentences are so outmoded—
take too long to get decoded;

primate sexting hits me faster,
steers me towards your hot disaster.

Female monkeys: send an image.
(Ain’t got time for useless verbiage…)

if your snout just might unseat me
tweet me, greet me—don’t delete me.”

Then, unpeeling fresh banana,
searched his screen for Vox Humana. . .
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/various/

Sep 2015 · 3.0k
Immeasurable Outcomes
ConnectHook Sep 2015
%%

It’s about leveraging potential income
to enhance output-maximizing sustainability …
It’s about de-funding unsustainable income outcomes.
It’s about results-based data-enhanced paradigm shifts.
It’s about demobilizing upward mobility:
dis-empowering gentrification
by underfunding the over-entitled.

It’s about de-funding unsustainability
until the immeasurable metric is globally assimilated.

It’s about the designated data-driver.
It’s about memes as theme schemes.

It’s about complicating competence
through collaboration in collusion –
intentionally replicating re-branding –
effectively identifying best practices of the best-dressed actresses
until the girl in the t-shirt says “meh”.
check her out in all her glory:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/data-driven-poems/immeasurable-outcomes/

%%
Sep 2015 · 856
Gaining the Data Edge
ConnectHook Sep 2015
The LEADER** – Leading the Best to the Top

It’s not enough to be unique  – we offer the greatest solution to the largest sector of innovative like-minded innovators. Our award-winning approach together with our exclusive synergy is premier among extensive leading providers. Brand innovation and collaboration will yield real-time growth in the fastest opening markets. We move product, we’re easy to use, dynamic, and data-driven over the edge into the yawning abyss of Gehenna, the Lake of Fire, where we will be tormented for eternity.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/data-driven-poems/

(measurable data-driven objectives rule)

♠♠♠♠♠♠♠
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☺♥☺♥☺♥☺♥

The worst will be found toward the end of the book
When you’re scanning the lines of a weighty anthology.
Centuries have shaken what works can be shook,
and what’s old is refined – and I make no apology.

Angst-ridden ramblings, so fashionably bleak
Start appearing somewhere past the middle, I fear
With those modernist psyches, whose raggedly weak
and depressing confessions sling mud in the ear.

Like the scribblers of Suicide, brimming with bile
or the autodestructive self-pitying ******,
whose quaint observations enshrining the vile
are a crime against life – and an art for the loser.

You ideologues, with your axes to grind,
propagandizing causes in militant styles
ought to  stay in the hills, where the struggle is defined,
and spare us the old dialectical wiles.

The Feminist scribe, with her *** for a mouth,
Ever pressing her case, for fallopian reasons
Grows saggingly sterile. Her muses fly south
with the passing of harvests and goddessless seasons.

Absurdists, surrealists, and nihilist mystics
whose hymns to destruction make glory of chaos
should leave the black humor to God and ballistics.
Your poems, like Judas, are bound to betray us.

The Freudian flirt (whose neuroses abound),
And the Jungian shamans (their animas, too),
ought to rest on their couches. Why should they be found
By the wellsprings of Spirit, whose guidance is true.

The art-lover’s lines gild a frame around Knowledge.
Their poems are like an art history course.
As they flit past the idols they studied in college
their name-dropping odes are a grand tour-de–force.

Sixties drug-revelers, love beads a-jingle
And brothers dashiki-clad, howling at Nixon
no longer strike chords in my soul. Not a single sitar lick
nor visions of hippie-chick *****.

You rhymers and rappers of rhythms in sample
Whose words like a kick-drum send shock through old Whitey
Now cease from your chanting. The genre is ample.
Your gangstering paeans are too fly-by-nighty.

Revived Roman legions, who relish things Latin;
Your martial convictions inspire the hero.
But while you are looking for cities to flatten,
remember – old Julius was nobler than Nero.

The theme of World Peace –  this crops up near the ending:
a desperate hope for New-Agers and liberals,
who cherish a dream of reality-bending
Through networking, magic, and energized crystals…

But what can be shaken shall perish, forgotten.
Anthologies show us that truth is enduring.
All praises and laurels shall prove misbegotten.
The Word become flesh is the most reassuring.

So I leave the anthology, closing its cover.
Three-quarters at least seemed like nonsense to me.
Yet still, I admit, I’m a poetry lover.
Let time do its work and in future – we’ll see…
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/various/

☺♥☺♥☺♥☺♥
Sep 2015 · 3.7k
Hands Up, Ferguson
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☺☻╬☻

Finish the crackers --- grab a smoke . . .
of Ferguson my muse will sing.
A call to arms --- God’s fires to stoke;
let Truth and Freedom ring!

Take to the streets; avenge this wrong
and hasten the end of racist rule.
Justice, though it may tarry long
will find its target in the duel.

Young Michael Brown, like all true saints
found himself craving Swisher Sweets.
He robbed a store, whose camera paints
impartial portrait. In the streets

the thief refused to be detained
and so threw off police restraint.
Though sin escaped, the Law remained
and made a martyr of this saint.

The agitators did their thing:
inflaming thugs to smash and loot,
while racists baited hooks, to string
the press. Officials followed suit.

Angels, although not always kind,
do not display this attitude –
aware of how the police mind
responds to such ingratitude.

We ought to thank the police force
for showing mercy under stress.
The culprit chose a foolish course
and made a God-awful mess.

Prince Michael met ignoble fate
(that ghetto-Christ, that righteous youth)
His sacrifice in vain --- though great,
could not impede the march of Truth.

Ferguson, our eyes turn towards you . . .
are you now able to admit
while reality rewards you
that looting and lying ain’t ****?
¡ Hypocrite readers -  I salute you !
almost a thousand have read this immortal screed and not ONE of you
dares to LIKE it. Poetic wusses all. Social Justice is on the way.
☻ ?  ☻
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☺☻☺☻

When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.

These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.

You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…

I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.

You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/

☺☻☺☻☺☻
Sep 2015 · 12.7k
Cuneiform: Textual Intercourse
ConnectHook Sep 2015
←  ↕  →

U text me dis
I text U dat
She dissed my dis
I sent last Sat.

U LOL’ed
on down the list
I sexted sixth—
my 7th missed.

U banned my width
I booked your face
U twittered on—
She saved my space.

U scrolled me down
He tweeted smiles
We USB’ed,
recharging miles . . .

U giga-bit
encrypted files;
I saved as mine
and cached denials.

In digital
we re-erased,
then Skyped our souls
and interfaced.
Babylon is falling...
Sep 2015 · 3.5k
Hindoo Folk Song
ConnectHook Sep 2015
तत् त्वम् असि

for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo


(the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute
)

Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots

Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight

Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful  heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day

Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.

Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s  bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.

Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”


THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)

Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.

“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
attain instant enlightenment:
Sep 2015 · 905
Juan Diego: Tepeyac 1531
ConnectHook Sep 2015

?**

A doubtful colonial  vision
gathered souls for the Roman religion
this crass syncretism
gave birth to a schism
when Truth had a head-on collision
Irony of ironies: the so-called Virgencita of Coatl-Ilupe/Tonantzin presides over a nation of pregnant teenagers and tattooed criminal clowns in candy-flake hot-rods. She is well pleased, it would appear, with her beloved protectorate of narco-assassins and political corruption. She has, after all, clothed herself in the colors of the flag, this Aztec opportunist, this hack piece of Moorish religious art, this amateur Marian doodle on a piece of colonial burlap.

version w/bells & whistles:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/04/06/tepeyac-juan-diegos-burlap-sack/

    ?    ?    ?    ?    ?
Sep 2015 · 10.1k
Christian Types in Limerick
ConnectHook Sep 2015
†           †           †    

A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
What's wrong? Too hard to LIKE me ?
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  

         †           †           †
Sep 2015 · 444
Heaven
ConnectHook Sep 2015
†           †           †    

When the ****** lost souls are voided
into the abyss of hell
I hope to have avoided
that last death-knell.

The blood of Christ assures me
that such can be admitted.
I pray it sanctifies me –
desires permitted.

They preach of joy unending
of sheer expanding praise,
but the unseen evidence lingers:
my carnal ways:

I flash on astral hotties
(the flames that life denied)
among celestial bodies
beyond the great divide.

I muse on raptured virgins;
Christ’s parables made flesh
and my unspoken longings
unveiled and fresh.

I long to know profoundly
the promised stellar faces –
or sleep so deep,  so soundly
no dreams leave traces.

My hopes for that dimension
alloyed with base designs
grow vague. Incomprehension
misreads the signs.
Version w/signage:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/04/27/heaven/

   †           †           †
ConnectHook Sep 2015
♠  ♣  ♥  ♦

Here’s to avant-cryptic stanzas
Nihil-angst extravaganzas,
Ghazal, Pantoum, endless Haiku…
such may cause the Muse to strike you.
Dada, Tanka, cinquains, Centos
existential verse  mementos –
yes, they’re mildly amusing forms
but finally fail to transcend norms
of poetry-induced despair
(a common modern-day affair)
brought on by formless abstract lines
of current verse. The warning signs:
eye-rolling, growling, throwing books
yelling at websites, ***** looks
at writers with advanced degrees,
a raging sense of vague unease
with life and letters. **** what’s new…
one wonders what we’re coming to.

When meaning is replaced by style
and editors extol the vile
you know that doom is on its way.
The poets don’t know what to say
but fool around, devoid of rhythm
(that’s why no one wants to hear them
let alone READ them). What a lark;
like rain-soaked matches in the dark.
Poetic dullness thus delays
to kindle light or spark a blaze.
Sad vocation: analyzing
wordy scribbles. Agonizing
over esoteric twaddle
(makes one want to hit the bottle –
or the poet). Was it ever
this way? Will the next endeavor
lift us toward the lyric splendor
or return us back to sender…
Written for NaPoWriMo 2014:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/ntl-poetry-writing-month-napowrimo-2014/

☺☻☺☻☺☻☺☻☺☻
Sep 2015 · 1.6k
Gnoxious Gnostic Gnonsense
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Α♥Ω

GNOSIS, my friends, is alive and well,
corrupting the hearts of the masses.
They fashion a fable to fit their need until their crisis passes.
An idol from here and a text from there – just a little dabble do…
for a do-it-yourself epiphany as the counterfeit passes through.
They lose themselves in names and mantras,
thinking they’re mining gold –
while the god of this world enhances the shine of spiritual lies retold.
So get out your old Santana records, pass the **** to the left.
Listen to Jimi and Marley and worse; it will leave your soul bereft.
It’s the same old trip – the first century
has seen all of it come and go:
such transcendent explosions of heresy
are worth less than the price of the show.
In the local body of Iesous Moshiach our pastor has faithfully showed us:
nonsensical notions of Gnostic obnoxiousness
fail to enlighten – but load us
with half-truths and fantasies, cosmic conspiracies,
spiritually false revelation;
which turn on the blacklight and dazzle the mind
but maroon you in dark desolation.
So I’d like to prepare you for several short poems
exploring the way of the Gnostics.
Though I love Elaine Pagels and Demian‘s Hesse,
they fail to provide diagnostics…
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/spiritual/

Α♥Ω
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