For millennia awaited when appeared crucified
For millennia warned when appeared worshipped
The voice of history, prophetic truths, if perceived
Past and Future, symmetrical, and mutually imaged
A thing and an anti-thing, similar but opposed
Not repeatable science nor philosophical dialecticism
But a reversal of time, a humanly difficult reality
As we look only ahead as we walk the same way
Forward and backward, each way different to the eyes

I’m a lone gunslinger
with a broken trigger finger.
I’m an old firefighter
with a gas can and a lighter.
I’m a spy undercover
with a double agent lover.
I’m the blind preacher
who has Satan for a teacher.
I’m the hangman
with a noose around my neck.
I’m the ship’s cat,
sunbathing on the deck.
The apocalypse is here
and we’re all going to heck.

Perspective changes
Questions asked
Glad I chose
To not believe my mind.

...
What is good that could be bad
even things are thin or fat
when rumor run like a cat
could be good or bad
I judge, you judge
with or without cause
As I feel or As you think
In the dark or in the pink
What is good that could be bad
if there a false can be add
unexpected reality become so sad
but one day there a true feel you had
What is bad that could be good
when truth stands on own foot
of course false has broken down
you made those even with steel or wood
.....
@Musfiq us shaleheen

Kaincha tok normal, ever sangle wunnaya?
Omina tellya diss. Nuthin lie kat is good.
Alla us oiz tok English good allatime
Ever day uhda world in mah neighborhood.

Us is sum, y’know, good tokken people.
Yeah, ain’t nobuddy speaks good lie cuss.
Lessen there from round here, ah mean.
We got eddycated good, no muss, no fuss.

We don’t need no college, no way Jose.
We gunna do jess lock are parents did.
We go to school every day till eitghteen
Jess lock dey did win dey was a kid.

Ever now and then, you can get ahold
Of sum buddy whose totally iggnent.
They stick there noses up in thuh air.
They think there better, sumthin differnt.

But really, it’s just a mute point, I mean
Irregardless of whut they bin sayin’
They jess turn stuff round 360 degrees.
It’s jess a nother word game there playin’.

Thuh important thang is to be understood
Not that thuh  people say everthang rite.
The important stuff to tok about is
To know whut is wrong and whut is rite.

Papers and pens expensive,
careful the words selected.
Prose:
Cautious
Considered
Calculated
Discussed
Digested
Politically correct
Stilted.

But since the advent
of cheap communication,
words are thrown
right and left,
democratized into existence,
bullied down before anyone has time
to grasp the meaning
or the consequences complicit
to disrespecting the dialectic.

I wonder:
Where can I find those mourning
the death of conversation?
Perhaps resigned
to the penance of unabriged silence.

Dear Sanity,
In the night, I wake to find myself without your company, but the warmth of the chain about my neck keeps you at the forefront of my mind. The heavy links rake across my flesh searing your disapproval; pulling me to your ankles so that I might kiss them for mercy. Branded at the chest by this heart of yours, though, I am the very antithesis of your will. I was seduced by the comfort of your homogeneous masses and tempted by the fruits of my curiosity. Yet, it is through fire—the deep passions of my essence—that I will be reborn. And you, who I loved through the eyes of others, will HOWL at my betrayal! Then stand upon your mountain peak and bludgeon me with reason so that I might know what your light looks like.  

To what end? So that I might cling to this chain, this keepsake, which I did not need until you bestowed your judgment. Yes, judgment, though you would have me believe it is your friendship, your safety, your sympathy. Like the swelter of a thousand suns you oppress me saying, “Keep quiet your ***** yearning!” So who would know better, the hour of my discontent, than you who watches me, unblinking, during the day? It is here, at the tween of night, that I shed the scales from my eyes and throw off your burden of want—the goals for which you leave me always pining, but never appeased. Is this shirking to seek the dark? So be it. I will cloak myself in blood—for all that I am wrong—and dance in the pale light of the unassuming.
—Pandora

--------------------

And the faces of the homogeneous masses drew forthwith to witness dawn.

In a drawer,
There was found,
A locket with
A minor crown—

Of leaf: laurel,
And shaded night.

When opened up
All succumbed to fright.
For found inside
Was a broken light;

Pandora’s hope
Had lost the fight

Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead – yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game – till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
****** end to a treacherous story –
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths – that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring – yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles –
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate – their only god,
biding time to shoot their ***.
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…

///
one real feel
I want to share with you,my friend
the shells of strata has three layers:

the upper shell of strata,
alluvium-
very polished-
straightforward-
black and white-
seems nothing wrong-
optimistic-

the middle shell,
the secret song-
surface has hidden-
dialectic-
partial red line-
pessimistic-
pressure on both upper and lower,
uncovered ultimate-

the bottom shell,
compact and tiny-
the hidden beauty–
the ultimate love--
after losing time,
spiritual---
///
- @Musfiq us shaleheen