You make me sick.
Defying the truth
And congratulating
The deaths.
You’ve ignored the signs
And said it’s ******* fine.

How many more will it take,
Until you’ll actually care?
Bodies will pile
Beneath your feet,
But the real killer
Is their blindness.

They consume every word,
Bow to their knees and blow you,
Violently risking safety
And hitting freedom in the face.
Since when was it
The American Way
To **** security?

I have no sympathy for them,
The ones who claim
An article of clothing is oppression.
Their guns will be fine;
No one’s taking them away.
But there’s another killer
Who could infect their cells,
But they don’t care.

The stable genius spouts his wisdom from the podium.
All doctors, scientists, generals - Compared with him, are dumb.
He has the best words and ideas no others could conceive.
He'll cure you of the COVID-19 if you'd just believe.

So eat some Tide Pods™, drink some Lysol™, boof some Listerine™.
Spend twelve hours on a tanning bed and you will come out clean.
No more virus, no more suffering, no more pain or strife.
You will be cured of COVID, by being cured of life!

And as your soul departs your corpse, if might occur to you.
The orange man's thoughts and ramblings might not all be true.
But if you live, my Trumpist friend, I'm sure you'll be content
to cast your vote to re-elect that fool for President!

The morons of Michigan gathered to fight
and to protest the COVID lockdown;
To claim they're entitled, by God-given right
to do as they please in their town.

"You won't take my freedom", they rail and they shout.
"Don't care if I'm wrong or correct.
To Hell with the freedom of everyone else
that I claim every right to infect".

The strangest assortment of people turned out,
with Confederate flags and their guns;
Every anti-press, anti-vax, anti-brain lout;
Every fool and their daughters and sons.

Did their great orange leader entreat them to stop,
lest the crisis become far more dire?
Of course not! He praised them and riled them up
and heaped further fuel on the fire.

So take-up your pitchfork and pick-up a torch
and dress in your white robe and hood
and lay waste to truth and good sense as you scorch
all that used to be selfless and good.

We thought  we were the rise and fall of the world,
           could we have been more wrong..

I remember an old proverb,


"Control is foolish without batteries,
   because once they run out.
                        Your stuck on
                         one channel,
watching
                 a singular view unchanging,

Could we mould the world,
like a pottery class we're moulding it  
         thinking we could
            paint it,
kiln it,

and it was perfection..

But we had a malevolent arrogance,
thinking we were saintly,
       all though we thought we were saints.

So boastful of our accomplishments,
           we never looked at the singular crack.
Barley visible to the eye, but there never the less.

After a while we ignored it, as we never
                                                       expected
Our work to falter..

I remember a proverb that paid heed to this.

Discontinuity may be a scratch,
            visually constrained

but protracted in depth. malevolent

Beneath will never show the truth till

                            it collapses within its self..

Wordy I know, but a truth of now.
         Never paying attention to the scratch
but not seeing the fracture just waiting for that
                                            singular weight to
descend us to the now. So many cracks in the world.

Now no matter our skill the world is just putty,
   remoulding itself with every new day..

A sunrise of reflection,
            Dusk hiding the truth of our folly.

We now live in this new world of our undoing..
           The poetry wheel is fragmentary,
the vase now floating, shifting in the well
we used to mould it with.

And we stare at the
                             sunrise seeing our
vindictive creation...

We are the evil of this world, a creation of arrogance.

He says I should stop being kiddish...
What he doesn't know is
That I love this innocence of us

He says go for it ...
Either say or make him do it
N I m here waiting for exact time

He says u both r noob
Well he is right
Maybe that's what makes us stupid enough
to know each other

He says get mature
Take desicions
N I m just pondering
Not to get hurt

The boogey man is not a man,
But a monstrous cavity in the minds of the men.
Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What deamon, boggle, hobgoblin the bedstead-dark holds?


Eyes are sticked on the darkness,
Noble nowhere: the wide pupil is seeing far less,
While the truth is under your nose:
Thousand lies' eyes lie upon you that no one knows now.


Spiders? Rat snakes? What's hidden there?
No one knows and no one cares by-chance you barely dare;
It's you and your mind - your demons
Who barely care - its self-destruction deepens itself.


Dark room, wardrobe and under-bed;
Darkness dwells in none of among them, but in your head.
Empty-headed pics of crassness,
Made by no boogey, but an ignorant's recklessness.


Put away your holy water;
No need for illusive Jinn-conjurer Gin-tonics.
Darkness knows one weapon: homage;
Nightmares can be killed only through the light of knowledge.


Black corners and shaded wardrobes,
What morbid poison, what fearful drug your brain cells hold?
Embrace no torch, no crucifix;
The thirst of knowledge dries out every grim-naughty pics.

Mangele
And many others
Bring the hippocratic oath
Hippocrates Cries with
Sadness
And spits in his grave
In rage.