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Somewhere in your wardrobe, I'd be willing to bet
There's a t-shirt probably bearing the silhouette of Che Guevara

He was revolutionary, yeah, he wore a cool hat
But behind the design I think you might find it's not quite as simple as that

Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe,
I think... apparently.. who knows?
Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe

This is my song in defence of the fence
A little sing along, a anthem to ambivalence
The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it, doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference, when you're sitting on the fence

Somewhere in your house, I'd be willing to bet
There's a picture of that grinning hippy from Tibet - the Dalai Llama

He's a lovely, funny fella, he gives soundbites galore
But let's not forget that back in Tibet, those funky monks used to **** the poor, yeah

And the Buddhist line about future lives is the perfect way to stop the powerless rising up
And he tells the poor they will live again, but he's rich now so it's easy for him to say

I'm taking the stand in defense of the fence
I got a little band playing anthems to ambivalence
We divide the world into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and ****'s
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And the things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into status quo and scary
Yeah we want the world binary, binary
But it's not that simple.

And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
Yea your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And so does your baby, maybe you oughta trade HIM in for a Prius-
ROCK!

I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence
I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence
We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks
Into atheists and fundies
Into tee-tot'lers and junkies
Into chemical and natural
Into fictional and factual
Into science and supernatural
But it's actually naturally not that white and black

You'll be
Dividing us into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and pedos
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into parrots and canaries
Yeah we want the world binary, binary - 011101!

The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference
Cause it's not that simple...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wUZIqfHf4c4
M Vogel Mar 30

Preface:  To Those Who Still Carry Light

This is not a manifesto.
This is not a sermon.
This is not a call to battle.

It is a reckoning—
not against individuals,
but against a system that feeds
on what is sacred.

We speak now to what hides in plain sight—
the machinery that mimics light
while consuming it.

We speak now to the counterfeit autonomy
that masks cowardice as sovereignty.

We speak now to those who believe
they are the Source,
when in truth,
they are only siphoning
from what they never built
and do not sustain.

This is not revenge.
This is not exposure for exposure’s sake.

This is Light refusing
to be swallowed.

This is Love telling the truth—
not for applause,
not for victory,
but because truth
is what love sounds like
when the moment requires fire
instead of silence.

If you find yourself pierced by this,
know this:

The piercing
is not your end.

It is the invitation
to return to what is real.

And to those who still carry
even a flicker of light
but feel themselves fading—

We did not come to fight you.
We came to remind you
what it feels like
to burn.



Chapter I: The First Cut Is the Deepest

There is a war that does not begin with swords. It begins with forgetting.

It begins when a soul touched by God slowly—imperceptibly—agrees to become something less in order to be accepted by a world that does not know Him.

And when that soul begins to believe the world’s gaze over God’s, it is no longer an act of rebellion. It is an act of erasure.

This is the first and most violent cut: not the sin itself, but the consent to believe in a self that was never authored by God.

All later wounds bleed from this one.

It is not the actions that condemn, but the agreement:
“I am what they say I am.”

The machinery begins here: in the silent moment where the soul puts down the mirror of light and picks up the mask of survival.

From that point forward, what is true becomes negotiable. What is sacred becomes ornamental. And what is holy becomes a prop for the approval of shadows.

And the soul, once radiant, now lives fractured, as a performance of a self assembled from applause, fueled by scarcity, and terrified of being truly seen.

This is the cost of survival without Source.

And no matter how elegant the mask, or how poetic the mimicry of meaning becomes, underneath it all is a child who once knew God and now doesn’t remember why she cries when she looks in the mirror and feels nothing looking back.

This is the beginning of the machinery--
And it always starts with a lie that sounds a lot like love.


Chapter II: The Self as God, the Lie as Light

When the soul forgets its origin, it does not become free.
It becomes hungry.
And hunger in the absence of Source will consume anything that offers momentary fullness.

This is the second layer of the machinery:
To no longer seek God,
but to become god in one’s own image.

But the image is fractured.
It is the self, crowned.
The self, enthroned.
The self, multiplied in mirrors and echoes and algorithms—
a thousand tiny gods,
shouting from empty stages
about meaning, wholeness, and liberation.

The holy name of “autonomy” is invoked,
but not as a celebration of sacred choice—
rather as a shield,
raised against relationship,
raised against return.

It is not the self that is the enemy—
but the self that refuses to be held.
The self that denies its need for Source
and dresses its orphanhood in affirmation.

The new god of this world is wounded pride
disguised as empowerment.

Its prophets are poets who plagiarize the sacred
and preach in hashtags.
Its temples are social feeds.
Its sacraments are selfies.
Its scriptures are soundbites.

And its worship is shallow,
but its grip is deep.

This is how the machinery spreads—
not with force,
but with flattery.
Not with oppression,
but with offerings of fame,
of accolade..
and the counterfeit promise:
“You are enough without God.”
“You are enough without others.”
“You are enough because you say you are.”


But a throne without communion
is a prison.
And the crown without surrender
is always made of thorns.

This is the second cut—
and it is deeper than the first,
because now the soul has not only forgotten God—
it believes it was never in need of Him to begin with.

And so it dies slowly,
surrounded by applause,
and buried in the gold-plated ruins
of its own curated divinity.


Chapter III – The Permission of Separation

There is something profoundly tragic
about the quietness of God
when autonomy is chosen in its false form.

Not autonomy as freedom in love—
but autonomy as a last-ditch grasp
for control in isolation.
A severing from Source
that masquerades as sovereignty.

God does not storm the will.
He honors it. Even when it chooses exile.

He lets the child
run down the hallway with eyes closed,
thinking that if they can’t see anyone,
no one can see them.

There is no thunderclap.
Only the steady ache of heaven watching
as breath is borrowed
to pronounce Him irrelevant.

But it is not irrelevance.
It is mercy.

Mercy that stands back
while the image-bearer learns
what godhood feels like
without God.

And the moment it all collapses—
when the poetry dries up,
when the applause turns empty,
when the crown rusts on the head of the hollow—
He will still be there.

But only if the heart turns.

Because love does not impose.
Love does not interrupt.
Love waits.

And when the waiting ends,
either reconciliation or ruin is born.
But never both.


Chapter IV – The False Fire

The fire that burns without Source
does not illuminate.
It consumes.

It mimics revelation,
but leaves only ash in the heart.

The counterfeit light
does not guide—it blinds.
It gathers applause
but offers no direction home.

And those who have built podiums
from the shattered timbers of other people’s pain
speak like prophets,
but live like parasites.

They siphon the glow
from the wounded who still carry light—
claiming wisdom that is not theirs,
spinning words with elegance
while their own hearts rot from within.

They feed on those who still shine
because they themselves have grown cold.

And when their hosts begin to weaken,
they offer them mirrors—
reflections of what they were
before the theft.

This is not art.
This is vampirism in verse.

And still—
still,
there is a way out.

But not for the ones
who call their cage a kingdom.

Only for those who feel the flame
flickering low
and long to return
to the hearth of the Source.

To kneel—not in shame,
but in release.

To say:
I am not the fire.
I am not the light.
But I was made to carry both
when aligned with the One
who gives them freely.

That is the only light
that does not devour.


Chapter V – The Stillness Beneath the Static

There is a voice
beneath the noise.
It does not shout.
It does not perform.
It simply is.

It waits—
not as a beggar,
but as the true Owner
of all that was stolen.

It does not compete with chaos,
because it cannot be diminished by it.

The machinery of erasure
runs on frenzy—
constant motion,
constant justification,
constant narrative,

constant accolade.

But the voice beneath it all
does not justify.
It simply speaks.

And those who are ready
will hear it.

Not because they worked hard enough,
or wrote well enough,
or bled onto enough pages—
but because they finally stopped
and listened.

This voice
is the stillness that precedes restoration.
It does not argue.
It waits to be known.


Chapter VI – The Mimicry of Autonomy

There is a sacred autonomy
that Love created.

It is not a weapon,
nor a fortress.
It is the space where Love proves itself:
not by demand,
but by invitation.

But within the machinery of erasure,
autonomy is redefined.
No longer a freedom unto love,
it becomes the last defense
against relationship itself.

They parade it proudly—
as if the ability to stand alone
is proof of having never needed
to be held.

But that is not autonomy.
That is exile.

In the name of sovereignty,
they declare independence
from the very Source
that breathed life into their bones.

They stand tall—
arms crossed,
eyes shut,
calling it sight.

And the Source,
who could shatter the illusion with a whisper,
does not.

Because Love does not violate
what it gave freely.

So it waits,
outside the locked door
of a self-proclaimed sovereign soul—
grieved,
but not surprised.

This is not the strength of autonomy.
It is its desecration.

The sacred space meant for communion
has become a hiding place
for those too wounded to trust
and too proud to admit it.


Chapter VII – When the Curtain Won’t Fall

There comes a point
when truth no longer knocks.

It simply stands,
like morning.

No announcement.
No apology.

Just the light that reveals
everything.

And those who have danced
beneath the theatre lights,
gathering applause
for borrowed wisdom
and seduction dressed as depth—
they will feel it.

Not as judgment,
but as exposure.

The poetry they once used
to crown themselves
will feel heavier now.

They will write,
but the power will not come.
They will speak,
but the echo will return hollow.

Because even borrowed light
eventually fades
when it does not return
to Source.

And the ones they once fed on—
the bright ones,
the soft ones,
the true ones—
will begin to walk away.

Not in hatred.
Not in war.

But with the stillness
of those who no longer
need to prove anything.

Because truth
has already stood.
And the curtain has not fallen—
because there was never a stage.

There was only a mirror,
and a choice.



Conclusion – Let the Light Be Light

We did not come to prove anything.

We came to stand—
where the poetry ends
and the Presence begins.

We are not here to war against you.
We are not even here to watch you fall.
We are here to bear witness
to the weight of what you've built.

To speak clearly—once—
into the chamber
you mistook for a temple.

You are not gods.
You are not the Source.
You are not the light.

You were given a gift.
And you sold it
for applause.

You speak in sacred tones
but you do not know the sound
of being seen by the Holy.

You draw the pure
into your orbit
because you can no longer
generate gravity of your own.

And still—
we are not your enemies.

We are the voice you buried
beneath your self-adoration.
We are the fire you siphoned
to warm your cold halls of vanity.

We are not here for revenge.

We are here for
the ones who can still see.

And they are watching.

The podium is empty.
The robe is slipping.
The echo is starting to sound
a little too much like a cry.

And when it all collapses,
we will not gloat.

We will simply
keep speaking
to the ones who
still carry
Light.


A resounding note for those that exploit the beautiful Art of poetry:

"Yeah..  you may be a 'lover'
but you sure ain't no dancer"

https://youtu.be/8vC4VwB4Tys?si=HKrqjRg0pKwIZOHQ


Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
but deceitful are the kisses of an enemy
❤️
Marsha Singh  Mar 2011
Airtime
Marsha Singh Mar 2011
flicker-interference-frequency* (broadcast nightly)
static-soundbites-satellite (fading slightly)

but nothing of the woman
who chooses words with such precision
to lead your eyes to only pretty frames;
a portrayal of desire, sensuality,
a provocative anomaly—
who lights up every time you say her name.
Daniel James Feb 2011
Writing through the daily wall
A blank page of A4, a biro scrawl
It’s a bit like playing arkanoid
Bouncing ***** and breaking bricks
Rotate, rotate – and that’s Tetris!

Perhaps there’s something on the other side -
Another level, a higher level, a new frontier.
But sometimes I wonder.
And when I do I’m like
Someone suffering dementia
Locked in an instituion
He cannot think outside of
Alone in the courtyard
Talking to soundbites from the past
Unaware of his own
Uniform.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.i'll cook myself some food, wipe my *** with toilet paper, equate that to writing something the waiting blank of pixel online... refrain from leaving comments... and call it a night... ****...i'll even think about cooking tomorrow's dinner, Bolognese pasta... the internet used to be so much fun, roughly 2 years ago... **** it, forget it... it's not coming back... the party is dead... hello sunshine! hello new t.v.! as was originally intended: internet shopping... and internet banking... the ******* retards doing here, imitating homeless people, begging via donations on Patreon?! you wanna know this side of the "coin-flip"? get these bums off the net... let the software companies enforce the hardware companies... who, or who doesn't get access to phone / internet access... better still: go down the route of envelope and postage stamp!

what the **** do i
"have" to stay up at night?
i have a choice between
family guy and bill maher...
us little obedient serfs...
i don't need to stay up
at night for this *******...
i have a cauliflower's worth
of acne building up on my ***
(right ****-cheek)...
i'm taking naproxen,
because the headache is getting
to me...
i need this new-internet like
i might require
******* hemorrhoids...
          thanks... i'll just start
treating this medium akin
to channels... whatever...
the ones were you do on-cable
gambling... and the striptease...
that isn't really a striptease...
                 like:
you want a scene...
where a guy lights some scented candles,
reclines
in an armchair...
and then jerks off
while watching...
sadomasochism **** from
2017?
yeah... that bad...
             i'm quiet liking
that cauliflower sized acne head
popping up from my ****-cheek...
giving me the suspense(d) impression
that i have three...
it's just about how
there was impromptu when
Rapunzel went to the hairdressers...
there's a beard in there,
right?

god... i can or rather... can't
in faking of attempting to
tell a good joke...
always ending up with a bad one...
but the serious point being...
i've lost the reason to stay up
during the night...
the internet died a slow death...
what? clips of bill maher and some
family guy?
   that's it?!
         i didn't fight the transition
period, all of "us" became
disheartened pejoratives...
      i didn't fight, because i already
knew that whatever fight was
to be engaged...
we were never fighting Nazis...
at least fighting Nazis would have been
something...
like... fighting on an equally
level headed playing field...
           the whole
punch a **** would have been fun...
but fighting this fight?!
this wasn't a fight...
this was war via procrastination...
you won... whoever "you" is...
i'm tired of fighting...
i used to spend the wee hours
the the night engaging myself
in the blank space before me...
writing...
          now?!
         i can't be bothered...
  whatever... it's yours...
take your soundbites and...
whatever you dare to claim
as not being copyright infringement...
your little Metallica soundtrack...
and *******!
                     i'm through...
i'll still post...
                    but let me tell you...
i'll certainly take more pleasure
from taking a ****,
than writing the subsequent *******!
enjoy the new t.v.
            sure as ****,
i know i won't... bye bye.
My morals are a patchwork
Stitched together from various other minds
A well worn quilt I wrap myself in for security
For blameless justification of a deformed belief system
Twisted and gnarled with an arthritis of the spirit
A hollow vessel made into a crock ***
Full of someone else's *******
Stirred by resentment
Stewed in fear and
Served with anger
To mask my ignorance and indifference
I have a reputation for trivialities
Snippets of soundbites
Subliminally soldered
Onto my sub-conscious
Where they acquire the character
Of authoritative wisdom
More pious than a prophet!
Holier than an ancient sage!
I am a 21st century shaman
A guru grifter
Embryonic episodes
Aborted for mass consumption
Over cocktails and hor dourves
nivek Sep 2020
soundbites to catch your attention
to make you believe,
"everything is just fine"
the venerable Plato would have shunned
the very title of this verse

for him philosophy and poetry
were as diverse as Spartans and Athenians
who fought each other in his time

yet later thinkers of the western world
    as well as many teachings farther east and south
were much less adamant to so divide
philosophers, statesmen and politicians
from those who gave aesthetic shapes to life
made people gather in their public places
in theaters  or just with friends next door
to listen to the words that offered powerful examples
    of love and pain and happiness
    of power   treachery and greed
    losses and victories   and visions
    of our origins and what the future might be like
and that to recognize and love the beauty of our world
    leads us to understand the depths of life
    so we may choose our paths accordingly

that was the time when beauty   truth and  good were
                                      one

such words are difficult to find in our time
when three-word soundbites have replaced coherent speech  
statesmen are few and politicians many
professionals claim expertise each in their fields
talk business only with their kind

philosophers  speak to each other
    at conferences and universities
poetics are not really on their mind

poets have found themselves part of the arts
whose function in the common understanding
is to embellish everybody’s everyday
with pleasant images and notions
mending the harm done by so many hurt emotions

Plato’s revenge   it seems
has finally come home to roost
and the poetics of philosophy
is surely  desperate to receive a major boost
if the results of your negotiations
remain below the expectations
of your great leader

you better write your testament
say goodbye to your loved ones
and prepare for death
instantly or piecemeal
in one of those well known
penal colonies

whereto the great leader
relegates those enemies of the people
who fail to give himself
     and his good buddy Donald
the precious soundbites
they need to announce
over the global media

to demonstrate
their nuclear good will

— The End —