#72
1971, they lost East Pakistan,
And Bangladesh was carved.
1972, they conspired terror,
By promising 72 in Jannat.
2024, the fools still believe,
Not just in violence but also in the 72.
****** Nymphs wreak havoc in their minds.
Spreading his Chiropteran wings,
It's actually Satan laughing.
The fools want the world to convert,
Convert to the religion peace at what cost?
They wield their swords and Kalashnikovs,
****** killing, converting, decapitating at will.
They think that they will get virgins in afterlife.
What's described in their scriptures?
72 bathykolpian blue-eyed virgins.
Infinite stamina and limitless wine,
With those 72 eternally ****** Nymphs.
This crude carnal desire motivating,
The ******** to commit more bloodshed.
They rally our daughters, sisters, and mothers.
Like what — they rally them as trophy wives,
Or better if stripped **** and humbled.
They **** our brothers in an exemplary manner,
Decapitating, dismembering, and insulting.
What sort of faith do they follow?
They follow the words of a mad man,
A mad man who claimed to know God.
But actually they follow a barmy man,
A man who lost his mind to the heat,
The Arabic heat with nothing to eat.
No water to drink and it caused him to break,
He was not a sensible man,
About the 2 billion followers?
They're victims of sunstroke too.
We need to strip **** their carnal faith,
Strip them of their human rights,
As they are no humans.
Humans don't behave like jackals,
They follow the religion of the Devil,
But they have the support of bigots,
Bigots who ignore our fallen angels.
Our girls and young women they don't spare,
Why then about theirs should we even care?
Use pliers and plass, pull their nails out,
Send them to their perverted Jannat.
Let the terrorists die of pain,
What will we gain?
Some centuries of actual peace.
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 2:19 AM UTC
I've always liked the moon better than the sun.
I've always painted in black, not in colour.
I've always been a little hidden, never fully exposed.
I've always written, never said.
I've always been afraid of the monster under the bed.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 4:37 AM UTC
There are 72 days between today, October 20, 2025, and the end of the year on December 31, 2025.
and grow tired of the husbandry, the seeding of the rows of corn,
the writing with ribs of meat, the drafts that fallow my life like a herd of less than docile crazy goats, and i shall lead them them to freedom, like spaghetti fresh delivered to the ceiling, some to stick, becoming ceiling tapestries, some to fall to the floor where the housekeeper will deposit them in the cute little can designated solely for compost consumption, an irksome decycling.
There are 72 days between today, October 20, 2025, and the end of the year on December 31, 2025, and that by divine division, means they will come in storms of two or three, for there are many more than merely a minor key of 72.
thus come the new year, I will be cleansed, carefully choosing my newer burdens bundled, and slow unwillingly, start RE~amassing them, like the secret hoarder I truly am.
my apologies in advance. nml
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 12:30 PM UTC
{Plato's Phaedrus reader thinking of Pirsig's odd qualities}
See Spot run,
see Sally laugh,
see some certain time stopped.
Of a sudden, with a **** upright,
sit back, lean against a plane tree being
not of this Mediterranean clime, exactly
but more akin to a true Mulberry bird feeder
in America where people are afraid of wild fruits.
Das Anhalten, hold on, rein in the left most horses.
Happy scholḗ, school days, Golden Rule days, wild
children safe at play outside the crenelated castle wall.
Say, airily, we are bemused, beaming eyes using us to see
or say we see, we see Spot is a dog, a spotted dog, indeed
we mostly remember many, to a child, many such puppies.
Puppies at play, on any given day, in any recorded memory,
some juices from some ancient source seep into true smiles.
Soft ahs, sophistry, sophisticated conscious science user wise.
Will affection actualize attraction toward a rising shining sun?
Beam us up, Scotty, we persist
in pretending our plaids won't fade.
Clash of the senses, bumped up
from five to nine or more some days.
Look at the time, eh, it's five o'clock somewhere.
Laugh a little, being alone re-al ways forced here. At this point,
pausing to surmise a little whying innocence trying our answer.
Yes, qua or no qua, a binary by our post ever before formal code.
On off on off no or nor any wish it all were otherwise, now's t'day.
If, in fact, we two were of the same mind, familiar with literary lust,
aware the Phaedrus is, in fact a nasty bit of familiarity queerly just so.
As Plato was phantasy informing in his own head, waxing ready just so.
The tip, fine, hewn so, for light musing, imagining we think we call it, so
amusing do we find our selves muse used with mere word enforcėd role,
think again. We find ourself, as us, we. Me and you, you and I, force us,
thinking this is that magic trick where we imagine doing adult things as
ifs, mere ifs, if this or that were ever otherwise, might we be led astray?
Danger, Will Robinson, patience.
Never make a movie using your own money. Producer school rule one.
Poems use the absence of value, worthless rich kid summertime blues.
Pretending the use of gnostic allergies to force a sneezers loud oud pluck.
Lucky lucifier leaves dancing in celebration remains from yesterday, luck
has it we live in literary historia known to be expanding universally, truly
fortunate for us, we leisure class persons who read from screens, yes
these are those times taken and shaken as rugs were shaken, olden times.
pre-whirling suction blades whined into tuned whirrr distracting attractėd
tension, tugging, tips the chin, into the wild blue yonder, affiliating
truth inside with truth outside, into the medium of we the idle poets…
who smooth wax smooth with a flick of our fingers, and call qua poetic
enough to make, eh, a body wonder if what if were ours
to beam brighter still.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 12:27 PM UTC