The modern recording machine records a falsely composed bed scene with a broken lens, set in reverse, with pseudo-manipulative movements. The derailed formula of movements and hasty grotesque situations is reflected in the cat-and-mouse fighting feats of effective plays. Both actors: each other's corrupt, pretentious, vile accomplice interpreters, simply because they want to captivate at any cost the vibrations of truly important moments in film history.

In the set room furnished with illusions, in addition to the arrogant, phlegmatic director and cinematographer, greedy, prowling eyes scan the prey-creating inspiration with vulture-eyes: how could they do their authentic-original work even better? Lumpy, ***-bellied bellies, athletically slim, navel-piercing bodies strain against each other while, with longing, playful instincts, both immerse themselves in the effective lies of the devilish flirting game, and if they're lucky, there's no need to repeat anything.

Between casual timers, money-laying hens and roosters nestle in tense restless uncertainty like the best blood professionals in the film industry. Suddenly, a clapper clicks loudly, and the director who got bloodshot stood up to everyone in Heureka mode: ,That's it! Thanks!" – The two characters are still standing, seemingly hesitant in their ecstatic indecision; there is, and certainly cannot be, anything to blame on them.

They shake hands and kiss each other on the cheek. "You were able to give so much of yourself! I think the recording turned out great!" - And the hypocritical version of congratulations, blabbered to the point of mutuality, rains succinctly and benevolently on their disbelieving heads. The World and its sensation-seeking, curious viewers were once again successfully and effectively beaten for one and a half to two hours, freed from their temporary, small-scale, pathetic problem.

Now it is still a questionable mass of doubt and persistently massive uncertainty; a whole series of tiny, smallest manipulative links, when suddenly, unexpectedly, a person can't really know if he can endure any longer and instead decides to compromise with himself and the world, thus selling his selfish and greedy soul, because destined to live and survive.

He becomes a pitiful, petty echo of himself because he wasn't careful enough. On the secret Apocryphal network of blood vessels pulsating in a uniform rhythm, the pure One-essence suddenly emerges on the map of the mind: instincts-feelings, the constituent elements of the Universe, as well as the romantic overtones, revealing gesture-dialogues, which - especially nowadays - do not even seem to have a woodworm. they could not be sold for value, they could be exchanged at will for any amount of money, since the inner composite Soul would be an integral part.

Any number of decades can pass and the frail person will not notice how many details he has missed just because he was forced to listen to the advice of his slave-owning, sociopathic, gut-wrenching boss, according to which: as much profit as possible can create blissful happiness and satisfaction. - How petty, transparent, and nauseating are all the pretentious, small-scale attempts, with which they try to make the simple average believe that they, too, can be worth as much as the dominating Stroman-heads.

Now, step by step, it is necessary to step on sticky, slimy, sandcastle soil hesitantly, wobbly, like a drunk tightrope walker, and the moral axiom is becoming more and more true: "You can't trust anyone, because they will betray you, destroy you, leave you alone!" this is how a person wanders from his shipwrecked, storm-beaten step-life towards his shadow country!

You are standing on the penultimate rung of the ladder, looking at where you can still find yourself in this filthy, cesspool, hardly human, useless, miserable existence; stale-smelling self-awareness supplements are digitized not only by websites, but also by meaningless reports of vain, superficial, arrogant monologues between people. Your morning musings are guarded by the *****, worn drawers of your desk.

Because you know: again the desperate, fruitless trying, the wingless, senseless scratching, that nothing and no one is what it always seemed to be anymore, and that the human onion skin-Soul does not voluntarily open the floodgates of its inner self. And again the Sisyphean silence of the terrible, soul-consuming weights; you can't be free here, only abroad. You languish in timeless captivity decade after decade, like a prisoner who never finds a place to roam, as the life-giving marrow and idyllic memories of romantic loves suddenly and quickly leak out of your damp bones.

If you think about will and actions, they shouldn't seem like compulsions engraved in yesterday; moments are petty, the grinding mill of Alamus is also nervously unrelenting. Everything that you can still see tangibly can be easily realized: it is a false illusion, which was used as a temporary bribe by a pompous and delicate stroman director.

It's a revolving dream-vision that you want to gag, when you're fired the moment you commit the crime, because you stayed true to yourself and for Christmas gift baskets, for a predictable party - not so much - you never degraded yourself to the point of searching for opportunities to assert yourself in a pseudo-consecrated manner.

Now ask yourself: how many bumblebees, fools, and fools would hold a chance as a helping hand for you, while they would be dragged to the stake unnoticed just because of their misdemeanor in the wrong place at the wrong time?!

The most beautiful proses or poems
Were divinely dictated by the Almighty.
I'm not immersing in some profound dreams.
Needless to say, I'm neither inebriated not crazy.

Believe me, just like the verses in the Bible,
Many poems came from the womb of inspiration,
However, the most powerful ones were scribbled
By the Spirit of a Higher Power through dictation.

After reading a few verses from some poetry books,
The words come out alive and move like sharks in hooks,
One can experience the very presence of a supernal being.
Poets of all style, in God's name, please do not to stop writing.

Copyright© February 2017 Logerie Hebert, all rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several books of poems.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to survive in the court of time-spinning frog-kingdoms, since - it seems - worms and insect offspring seem to be permanent, and faithful ***-lickers and sole-lickers continue to appear in the long, slimy trails of snails. A well-known game of chance, just like the Russian roulette tricked into the spleen, will be a predictable downfall at the same time, since the person himself is hiding himself in it, and because nowadays the wise donkeys are laughed at just as much as the fools in Hamlet, because among the vile and inferior moles only the the blind tunnel that serves as an escape is the only worthy one that can still merit the possible alternative truths of the proofs.

Why are the more important explanations behind things barely decipherable?! In mass communication, which has begun to atrophy, someone always makes mistakes for selfish, greedy, manipulative reasons, symbolic intentions, without exception. Pimples and padlocks on the corners of the lips were handcuffed by one stray word of truth, while there are more and more brainless roots in the crowded parking lots of supermarkets and plazas. Skilled people give and take not only *** portraits, but even human lives. The rye-marred, raven-fateful autumn season also labors with deliberate obscurity, when the ever-increasing number of witnesses and watchers are barely able to light the world.

If he has already crossed the Threshold of Being in such a way that the human-smelling, Calvary-soul cannot tolerate determined or revenge-thirsty anger; at most, only the eternally creative and renewing intellect could start new actions and things deemed capable of development. Once again, unforeseeable events had to happen, if at all one wants to come to one's senses.

Now just think about that little boy who was sad and anxious to the core, who kept crying, and then there is no need for false words, curvy mirrors, another Janus face, another mask that covers everything. If something binds you, chains you to life, to the world - break, destroy the obstacles that bind your existence with the defiance of a lion and the courage of a swaggering pepper.

If you can no longer be free, because forced happiness, an arranged marriage forces you into rage, even then DON'T GIVE UP! Just think now of the millions of treasures of unbridled memories beating inside you, and then there will be no need for unnecessary words. Then there will be a face from the present, a mask on it, and also a third person who is taking shape, who can now manipulate the explained, convoluted lies at any time.

Then your once innocent, naked face—your soul—will be less visible. Then the brainwashed, deliberately blunted, dumbed-down reality is worth nothing more than a renewed, falsified consciousness based on an already unprofitable formula.

In fact! You don't need them, because flattering words and sweet-sounding promises are completely unnecessary for you. Your vanity is a murderous, narcissistic desire. Everything is embodied in a mirror, ready to show you - your soul, not even like that - can guess or feel the chemically pure truth.

It is enough if you collect a single bright but honest teardrop that lasts until the grave and immediately knock on the door of Someone's heart one by one until you gain admission. "Your troubled past violently pulls you out of your life every day."

Your life - whether you like it or not - is an ominously lurking metaphor, or just a silently resounding rock song, which always needs Someone to fulfill the completed finitude within you!

You know very well: the breast of vulnerability fed you, and you soon realized that you are all alone in the face of the temptations of the confused, sneaky world. The inner boundaries of your personality - take good care of yourself - can collapse completely in a single careless moment. Thorns of stigma-pain flourish in you, while you have an incurable longing for the pitiful love you have stolen from others, which - as you yourself know - cannot be unconditional, let alone selfless.

You are constantly rather dissatisfied, while the weight of tons of years cries and wails over you. As a clinger, you tend to invent varied, deliberately colored lies for yourself, just so that you can escape and survive the next uncertain Tomorrows. The Universe - you once said yourself - has totally destroyed you, humiliated you to the ground, and even trampled you quite a few times, since you were never able to claim for yourself even the crumbs of the degraded, extinct human rights. The now permanent solitude connected with creative solitude has turned into desolation in your everyday life.

Your ever-doubting mind, eager to think, would constantly search for missed opportunities, but - as you know - there are fewer and fewer cultural value-saviors, who do their work not only for cheap interests and unnecessary, inflated fees - but for the sake of May the legacy of anonymous whistleblowers, deliberately hidden, be preserved in safe hands.

Even now, your hesitant movements and gestures are increasingly filled with unnameable expectations; your shared secrets - he is afraid - no one can protect them enough. There are harder, tougher days, when in reality you would rather get rid of yourself, but in every case the demanding Present pulls you back. There is someone sitting on the edge of your selfish, tyrannical torments and self-mutilation, pointing only at you!

I've been through this many times. I carried humility like an evil little garaboncia of resentment. The heavy shackles of despised destruction, secret promises-guarantees for better and happier tomorrows. Many left-behind eccentrics flocked to me, until eventually they too soon wore off and ran out.

He held an angel-scented flirt, a charm-grinning look, and if I had to, I showed: who, when and where can it fully prevail? I gave everyone - who hasn't told me yet - a chance for a second fresh start, so that this time they could get to know me better and really.

I put before them the trust of true friendships thought to be forgotten. – When suicidal, wandering thoughts began to take over, and there was no one to talk to or report to.

People with families have a million times more to do. And instead, they appointed more fluidly the official, legal, online connectors of friendships. Rather, they distributed the right to make false promises and links among themselves. "I've been through this many times."

In the neighborhood, a baby-child screamed in a nerve-wracking way, as if this was the only way to protest and argue with the existing Order. Connived and frivolous, sooner or later everyone gives in and even the gentle stars lie down from the high sky. Those who have had a secret assignment here and there cannot forget for a single minute that their existence as a cultural rescuer is more and nobler than even everyday challenges!

Caught on the merciless defiance side of indifferent shadows, in the lap of filth-powdered wind-funnels, what can be identified as defenseless or even defenseless, I wonder what will happen if a person is insidiously mixed up in sterilized gestures and movements with an unflinching, statue-rigid face?!

The life belt of objects that provide intimate security will surely soon let go, while indifferent look-alikes stuck on the surface dictate the latest useless fashion, for trends. Even the unfinished things are not allowed to be properly completed.

Even the most beautiful harmony often becomes like the flapping of a butterfly's wing stuck on a needle. With a transparent umbilical cord cover, it would be nice to be securely attached to Someone even on invisible threads.

Without wings, the dreary days of Time swing in our unconscious self. Man has already become a leech, a parasite, rocking on the shores of Nothingness, lost in purpose: his swaddle is lack, and the even more useless emptiness, which - no matter how much he wants it - doesn't ask!

Unlucky souls, they all slide to the ground on the broken ice of the moment. The insidious creatures of the merciless, hectic hustle and bustle of everyday life could hide behind their contours. Disguised messengers and prophets of bygone times are forced to roam around in the bushes.

At a time of lurking, enticing, riotous danger, legend-dropping darkness, brainwashed idiots dream of just such fairy tales. – In the stillness of the wind, it becomes more and more difficult to break up the hazy night.

You have become what you never wanted to be in your whole life; closed book, closed door. You never denied yourself in a million ways, because you were guided by "be true to yourself" in your shipwrecked life; even so, you were pushed aside many times, trampled on, deliberately laughed at, and amidst the shackles and cries of public shaming, at least one person who would honestly lift you up would have been fine , and it helps.

A deafening silence embraces you with wailing despair, eternal promises that come to nothing, just like ice drops, sooner or later start to melt. You can't really warm up to a single word now, since most of those who stayed out there betrayed you a bit by always only promising their affairs and that they would visit you in a dignified and faithful manner. Your convulsive clinginess has become more of a curse than a blessing.

Distances have been impassable for a long time, because you don't know who's motivations might lie behind each manipulative, petty-puffing decision?! Ghost-shadows lying on the edge of alleys comfort your stubborn temper, even if you go behind the scenes of a sparsely lit, dim street detail. Now, all time-wasting rants are grouped into senseless, cacophony.

Your truth-begging sadness, just like your self-conscious orphanhood, is still holding on, but - maybe - not for long. You still have to somehow scrape together tooth and nail and preserve your inner independent freedom, while - for now - they can't censor it, and they can't even ban it. The grim, rowdy, petty man-million damns me! As a stone on the side of the road, somehow you're just out there listening more and more humbly!