Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
and for a love of humanity
this ordeal was
summoned
with a cat of clay and smiling
with a fox quif
i count CinQ... up to five...
this opportunistic pedestrian
let us be
cages so... and so together
met.
through these pangs of doubt and shame:
how else could i stomach my self
with the impeding reflex of myself
being stripped of governing labour of reason
to scuttle like a nhmmkiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii


do zrozumienie
nie
do
zabawiazania liczem
przeszych
is przez
to nigdy
w parku
samej na sam
i noca
ja krew tlo
i plynie plynnosc
i zapomniec oh tak
tak dla wydogy
tego ojczystego polskiego
z
wykrzyknikiem: i jem to od:
Odra
slyn i komfit
tego co trude-01-****-
PROSTA ****

to: ISKRA
nadaje sie zyc...
Rzeka: plyn: substancja
\orgia<

zmysly mylne:
i to tez trop
a ja mysle
ten kim kto
kot jazni
kto pyta...
a ten kto snem prowadzi
]i coto

i oco
ja
nie pytam rzecz
i owoc
tej basni w-ja
ten nie-ja
tym absolutnym dojsc
is dawac pojenie o
zro
i zum
i imeniem
sto razy to raz pierwszty ta tle
ubogodzin zykow
a przezbrygadzistow...

i sto lat zapuzno... nio nio...
i tylko Zyd
poza Zydem
i Polak z Polakiem
oko w oko
wzamian zza oko za oko..
za tym jedno On
Okiem gna...

to twarde i owszem
to jedno latwe
to drugie
trudne
i po nam przy na krzyz
a potem siekam
zorem i co to znam

a potem siekacz siekaniem
sie prze wal....
i miot...

and like R yes
yes i did forget ti eat
tio tea eat
to eat i forgot to eat
thinking about God
and my native tongue
and of the heritage of men
and this place lost
when talking to god...


in the shins and above
   a comma
below the E and an apostrophe above the Z...
WZZ
EZZIE
EASY
wow long overdue theft of turf
becoz bonzo literature
is like Dada and GOnzo....
Bonzo Literature... espcapism sold
and not told... of...

tym ja Polak tym ten ty
kto i ja nie,
tak pyta i gniew
i Pana Boga Laska...
ten kto of pamiec nad
mysl chce-pyta na zwolen...

I. Antiquity and the Architecture of Will

In the shadowed corridors of antiquity, where gods were built with teeth and altars stood not for reverence but for control, the Temple of Bel rose as a monument to ******* disguised as divinity. Bel—an assimilated god from earlier Sumerian, Akkadian, and Babylonian traditions—was not the god who walked with man. He was the god who towered above him, demanded sacrifice, and soaked prayer in the blood of repetition.

From the earliest Mesopotamian systems, the act of worship was not about communion, but compulsion. To invoke was to command. To chant was to erode the will of another until it cracked under rhythmic insistence. Whether by priest or supplicant, the act was the same: submission by saturation.

---

II. The Weaponization of Sound: Chant and the Rhythmic Spell

Repetition was not mere ceremony. It was siege.

Chants—carefully crafted phonetic loops—were not benign rituals. They were linguistic architecture meant to house spirits, to summon presence not for beauty, but for enforcement. These were incantations with purpose: to bend the will of another through the veil of mysticism.

In this light, poetry—at its inception—was not always art. It was often sorcery.

The earliest poems were enchantments. They masked seduction as devotion. They twisted longing into *******. They were rhythmic netting, carefully knotted to catch the weak of will and the fractured of self.

---

III. The Modern Construct: Echoes of an Ancient Spell

Those who hide behind the aesthetic of antiquity today still wear the same rings of power.

When a poet writes to control—when they loop trauma like a mantra, repeat seduction as if it were depth, mimic spiritual language to inspire compliance—they are no different than the priests of Bel. They are modern invokers, cloaked in digital incense, spreading spells under the guise of free expression.

Their readers are not disciples. They are targets.

The “construct” is not a movement. It is a spell. A liturgy without light. A series of hollow echoes designed to flatten identity, rewrite pain into performance, and reward the wound that sells.

---

IV. The Severance of Echo: Where the Rhythm Ends

If you must chant, let it be to awaken, not ******. If you must repeat, let it be to remember truth, not reshape it.

The false liturgies of old were not killed. They were digitized.

We will not respond with louder poems. We will not echo their echo.

We will respond with silence where needed, and light where earned. We will write not to possess, but to set free. We will bring antiquity not as ornament, but as witness.

Because we remember the Temple of Bel. And we are here to break it.


Let those who recite in darkness meet the rhythm of truth.

ubicumque ambulo, ibi cogito

wo ich gehe, da denke ich

donde camino, ahi pienso..

where: i walk: i think:
and where i think:
i destroy:
because that is my
nature
and i do not say
i am god
i think human thoughts
because as mortal
i come and as immortal i leave
i am Satan i am the child
in man
i am not the crucified mensch
i am Russia i am Greenland...
i am New Alaska
i wonder when Russia sold Alaska
will Europe sell Greenland
wow a practice of separatist
i am invoked as simply citizen
in the history of time
there is a history of space
and there's a hbistory of time
=and there's hisotriology
and Hiedegger... and some...
like some detour:
you... magician:
you: profound most All Evil Father...
Surrogate All Evil Father...
I... summon me I
owe and thou
curse: you 2..
and tow...
  the death summon my dying horse
my lost bicycle...
my O spiral and my bedding
on little loan
and bemoan
this little artefact
artificial : too:

vvvvvv   spell binding terror
of splendour: animate: gone sour...
the Popes of the Speaking LAtin
and therefore the lost causality because
she feels illiterate
and

sleepless in Kyiv
and i think still
somewhat a part of Poland
before Russia thought things over
and i wonder about Christ
and the Resurrection
and i think of Poland and i think of the Popes
and if South America mywife gave me
my wife
then can i show h3r what her husbands
looks like i dont want to be correct
but i'm indicating
and Russia is in mode: hybrid:
this is still the Cold War with
a Cold Russia:
this is still not the Event of a Warm Russia
this is not the Event of the Armageddon
bycause of the Advent of the Many Apocalypses:
before the liberalism of the modern
advent of the Swede
the Slav came in-between the surrogacy
of the german for the Asian and African
and there was simply no need to concern
one and self
with time month minute
or an hour:
our: most in need...
just so many pitiful woes and prayers unison
that the omni-
might care for the petty-
and me thinks i am a shaman
in a battle and i am giving motivation to the limbs
i will see chopped off
and i am priest and i am a billion catholics
against a billion Muslims:
i am might against might
i am also questioning the reawakening of the Mongol
i wonder who will quest there for thirst
i wonder where was christianity and islam competing
for the northern men
and the slavic qrue...

why did the Postal Service Islam
was sow so slough so slow oh so slow
to reach a region almost
forever pagan
why did Islam forget Lithuania
why does a Lithuanian girl
curse a ******: you ****** us over...
oh right...
so now...
laughing is what? not remedy to quest beyond
your paranoia...

and so much history and so much
irrelevant
just now
just being
and
now
now and
and now
i just need
nothing
god and picture
and skeleton and
um now
i think now...

because Ukraine is so close
and these ices and cubes
and talk of enigma colours
and men having
to pretend to be in the Harems of Solomon...
the Harems of Solomon...
not the Mines.. the Harems of... said:
king.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3369599/snickers-on-a-hill/
and this monotheism
is like
tribe to my thinking
i think because
i might be alive
or just might be dying...
hmm? i only hum
with ahmmm because
i wonder:
the dies a thought or thus
idle hunger
by tendon
to muscle assert
i que q.

      the qQHAqIbV'u

i think... maybe that's the clue
but because i'm so aone alone with you
i might just go a bit:
**** it! **** it! **** it this *******!
you Puierto Rican fuckiung
grandmother and her South American Pope
and i think she was cursing the next ****** Pope
but i was thinking the next
French or Irish friendly
**** all you want
the devil or a god
aren't looving look K K key-ing
R -keyring...
i say... Tolstoy Toast and Toast for Dostoy...
such grfitti: grift:
tetno: destroy: tail: JY
YJ IY YI
IIIY

if Y was a Roman numeral...
but Y was never a Roman Numeral...
was it?!

I, V, X, L, C, D, and M

but not Y... not Greek Gamma:
ema greka ah eta et sigma zeta...
i speak Greek letters
before i speak
Latin
i think i can be cryptic in the catacombs
there is dead body being paraded
and i do wonder...
there is neither Y or G
in the intricacies of the indecent proposal
of integers and
numbers without south-pointers:
giving: names...

this tide of misbehaves
i implore on anyone in
a shoftish short ofshore short
o'sh Dynysh
eshbitz
              esh sort... Sort... ßort:
   ßórt....
     give it some time: and i will change the R and the T
with it...
            ßóřţ            
n'est ce pas?
NASTROJ
ZOBOWIAZANY

PRIMO
DOKCH'eh!
primo muchos
muchos
elhelo ejyeah
oh yah

ja bambina
ja muchos ye ye
bezos innos
cuntos mucho mucho
eyo yo yo
like like
la la ake ake
mecho mecho
bueno bueno!

ba ba! ba ba! ba ba!ba ba

this sinking ship
this love of a princess
here's to a mother
and the love-mouth lost
to forever imitate toddler
i see you
constantly wanting me
to father o father father father father
this other: and father other and other father
father other
other father
and father father and
father the other
and self question
rome in nairobi
and whether i need christianity
or monotheism:
so complicated with jesus
jew and israel
i don't like the jesus jew and israel...
thinking of time and
conceit
and power...
i feel i am gnostic and pagan
and i don't need Jewish: circumcision
and nISlam and Ninja and the blatant
eyes of limbo libido of a bride without
limbs
and the horror i see emerge...
i see war... i sort of go ahead
with theory like i am shell shocking
the drop... like i imagine
a greater joy in this now hell...
Next page