#israel
Welcome to the United States of Israel.
Where flags blur together
until no one remembers which nation is grieving anymore.
We sent oceans of dollars across the sea
while veterans slept beneath bridges at home,
wrapping themselves in the same flag
used to justify another shipment of fire.
Welcome to the United States of Israel.
Where elections arrive already purchased,
and men in expensive suits call it “democracy”
while lobbyists count the votes before the people do.
Where news anchors rehearse compassion
with makeup hiding the ash of burning children.
Where the dead are statistics
unless their grief improves ratings.
Welcome to the United States of Israel.
Where silence is patriotic
and conscience is a career-ending disease.
Speak too loudly of blood,
of rubble,
of mothers pulling names from dust,
and suddenly you are dangerous.
Not because you lied
but because you interrupted the business model.
So the cameras blink.
The senators applaud.
The bombs keep falling like quarterly profits.
And somewhere beneath all the speeches about freedom,
humanity sits alone at the back of the room,
uninvited,
watching democracy auction its soul
for campaign donations and applause.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 7:05 PM UTC
Whining, shining, entwining trails,
Dancing through the sky.
Sirens blaring as Tamir flails;
Soaring up so high.
Widespread, warhead, radar-led dome,
A shield of iron,
Over the lands of Eastern Rome;
Protecting Zion.
Stateside, worldwide, bonafide war,
Against the terror
That people show sympathy for;
Oh, how they error.
Sprinkling, twinkling, heart-winkling lights
Soar through the ether;
Interceptions light up the nights-
Some aren't stopped, either.
Womens', childrens', innocents' blood
Soaks all Palestine;
Terror on both sides of the mud-
Hamas's design.
The West seems fooled by terrorist guises,
Turned against the defender,
But as antisemitism rises;
I say return-to-sender.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 5:26 PM UTC
Bullets stream,
A child's scream,
peaceful dreams,
Torn apart.
Rockets roar,
morbid art,
Buildings fall,
A bleeding heart.
Playthings now ash and dust ,
Left shattered under stone ,
Mothers eyes turned lifeless,
A child left alone.
Innocence replaced by hate,
Soft souls turned to stiffened leather,
A self-fulfilling fate,
Radicals you create,
With bombs,
And guns,
With shells,
And planes,
With tanks,
And drones.
No water.
No food.
No medicine.
No humanity.
Only insanity.
One kills for Adonai,
The other in Allah's name.
Both of them are murderer's,
Both one and the same,
Both sides are unburdened,
Deviod of all shame.
Killing women and children,
An uncivilised game.
Hamas bled its people ,
For publicity's sake .
Global condemnation ,
better than a billion bombs,
**** a million people ,
Just to further their cause.
The sons of Israel,
Commit holocaust genocide,
Old Ben is no saint,
He steals, and he lies .
How can you not see ,
Auschwitz is next door ,
Jackbooted Nazis,
Walk your parliament floor.
And shame on the people,
All over the world,
Supporting these demons,
With those flags all unfurled.
Jan 5
Jan 5, 2026 at 1:42 PM UTC
26 May, 2021
1
Ceasefire—looking towards your path, somewhere there the future of a flower.
It falls.
At the bottom night, gab flower trembling-trembling Quran falling in the yard
Between the date leaves, their morning in the madrasa.
In the concentration camp,
I also hear the tilawah of birds, hear the news of dead Palestine — in some ayat; someone's name may be stuck there, cluster of blood, ayat of a bullet pierced in some hard brain; oh martyr, brother of my morning!
2
The death of your remaining brothers may happen, I have seen on Al Jazeera the ruins of house number seventy-seven.
From the turret of ashes a few hands have come out as if,
Your children are suffering a lot in hunger!
Be flexible, or burst in rage at the news of death,
Meowa fruit you know in patience.
It will collapse only the pillars of your house, why you?
3
I did not feel surprised at anything,
Nor did I feel any sorrow anywhere.
Then why am I crying?
You can ask, of course.
I tell you—
I have not seen any such morning,
That morning in which the soil of Palestine did not cry!
One who does not cry seeing someone’s tears,
Such beast with face of demon;
Only one exists in the world — Netanyahu.
4
On cactus living thorns, knows the source of blood as leeches know the pores.
The trembling chest of your mother—
That trust has broken a few times only
Somewhere someone's body is blooming,
In the splinter of bomb the long sigh of belief.
Even after being resolved—
Israel understands weapons, understands the killing of fathers of children
Bomb also knows blood as cactus and leeches also search the source of hemoglobin.
You go to war— removing them throw the enemy's corpse on mother’s Golan land into the soil
When breath becomes heavy — take the smell of blood of a few children.
5
The Lord Who has glorified you, I am also His slave.
The One Who has taken everything from you, I am also His slave.
The One Who gives torment keeping you hungry, I am also His slave.
And in such world I am that unfortunate brother of yours;
That brother who cries beside the corpse of his brother; except being able to cry he has nothing special to do.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 3:49 PM UTC
Let’s be clear,
there exists no reverse gear, nothing can slow them down,
these western administrations of evil clowns.
Good people need to run and hide,
there is no safety in the media’s light.
There is no one coming
to save us all,
from the evil war machine’s ravaging jaws.
My hands are tied.
#CIA
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 10:00 AM UTC
Shattered glass returns to quartz and coral
Human cries caught up in gusts, settle on dunes
Iron rich and red
Those aren't mothers holding children
They were
Now bits and bytes for consumption
So long as the horror ends in under 90 seconds
This is how we doom scroll
Secondhand suffering
Visual colonists
Unwilling donors
Thank God you're here
It's time to cleanse your feed
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 8:46 PM UTC
My name is “Israel” McCorkle, my name proves I am real,
due to its prefix, it’s not just a fix,
it’s a mental realization.
People always ask about,
and compliment my first name.
It has an aura,
It’s a powerful meaning.
Something that holds the strongest value
and is one of the most powerful parts of my identity.
And the word of the known name,
it goes back years and years
all the way to the Bible
and the Israel lights.
Not only does it have the wording of a country,
but it's a name most known in the biblical world.
It echoes through the ages,
back to ancient light,
From stories in the Bible
to the brave Israelites.
It sounds just like a nation,
with history so grand,
Yet also speaks of spirit —
a force that takes a stand.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 8:43 PM UTC
Two bald headed men fighting over a comb, why can’t we leave these war mongering narratives alone?
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 9:45 PM UTC
When missiles fly
The Mullahs lie
They bide their time
To turn the tide
Their constant bluster
Now short of luster
For why we ask
No God sent task
To build a bomb
With feigned aplomb
Their word to spread
Among the dead
They have their place
To find God's grace
Not trample lives
Like stinging hives
Fear and temerity
No road to prosperity
But that's what they seek
Control of the meek
A proud nation with tales of old
A proud people who once were bold
A history where feats abound
A long lost empire to astound
Time for Iranians to now earn
That for which they clearly yearn
Freedoms tenuous flickering light
Now in their grasp in line of sight
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC
The resurrected dead rouses not the dead
In sunshine candles open not any eyes
But a whispery hush suffices for the living
And the sighted sees in the darkest depths
Miracles are not for the dead but the living
Jezebel vowed to **** and Israel yet idolatrous
Parables, crafted tales, to mislead and hide
But turned to wine quenching mourning spirits
Millions are hidden and unknown, oppressed
By chance, without knowledge or intent, one,
by the wicked, blessed, but by miracle, Israel
remains unblessed, untouched by wickedness
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 2:21 AM UTC
A night at the Museum,
and we're dressed to ****
The mood is gleeful–
and the people, chill.
All court the kings and queens of shill.
Our ****** deeds are whitewashed clean.
Our grievous crimes are left unseen–
sanitized versions on the tv screen.
But our steps were tracked with care
by one who could no longer bear
the growing horror, the scenes from there.
The cry of anguish, the dead-eyed stare.
Now the blood drips on our shoes.
Our deaths headline the evening news.
Yet still, the truth has only views
on internet sites with volunteer crews.
When there is no other way
Desperation will have its day
May 22, 2025
May 22, 2025 at 11:36 PM UTC
In Kyiv’s subway shelter, a girl folds
bullet casings into cranes—wings etched
with Psalms hummed as shells tarnish sunsets to brass.
On Donetsk’s front, soldiers pluck petals
to pad boots where redemption sprouts
from blistered roots.
Beneath Gaza’s shattered solar grids,
ants weave fuse-wire nests between Quran
and rifle text—six-legged imams reconciling steel.
An Israeli ****** texts his Palestinian pen pal:
Your olive grove grew through my scope last night.
They meme Moses and Mohamed vaping
under the Red Sea’s algorithmic tide.
This is why laundry dances on Mariupol’s balconies—
why tank crews plant sunflowers in tread marks,
why Bedouin teens stream TikTok psalms
where Hagar’s tears salted dunes.
But lick Crimean wounds, let Gaza’s dust
baptize your lens, love the enemy’s laugh—
to hear sparrows in AK barrels chant Salaam
in C minor, eggs cracking into maps
where mines burst figs even Judas craves.
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC
The Vision of Chess
"Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate"
The Vision of Judgment,
Lord Byron
1
Hail, sixty-four squared altar of my doom!
Where I, a washed-up husband, pale and stressed, -
While dishes stack like skyscrapers in gloom,
and kids belt out some earworm they’ve obsessed, -
I click my bishop forth with trembling hand,
A modern Nero in a mouse command.
Oh, Chess! Brain-teasing, sweet time-sucking game,
Where men of leisure waste their waking hours,
While wives, in wrath, but whisper not our name,
Lest we should mock wife's frail domestic powers.
For what’s a husband’s duty? Mop the floors?
Or chase the black and white to victory’s shore?
It does not matter — wives shall weep the more,
And call you childish — nah - yet play we must,
Till death or stalemate stills our foolish lust.
Oh, Chess! Thou thief of kisses, sly and cold,
Who steals the fire that else might warm the bed —
What hands, which once did roam in passion bold,
Now idly push a pawn or knight instead?
What midnight sighs are lost to checkmate’s art,
When lips might meet, and trembling fingers twine?
Yet kings and queens command the foolish heart,
And love’s sweet gambit fades with each passed line.
So wives lie cold, betrayed by chess’s scheme,
While men kneel — not to love, but to a Queen.
2
“But chess is noble!” I shout to the void,
“Not like those sweaty Call of Duty crews!”
Wife doesn’t care—her wifely rage deployed,
My pawn’s sweet moves won’t calm her dishpan blues.
Same crime, same mess: the floor’s a wreck, the bed
Unmade — while pawns dance in my empty head.
So here I sit, a forty-something champ,
My mouse - my sword, the screen - my epic quest.
Pawns drop like flies before the coffee’s amped,
Bishops get smoked by tricks I’ve long professed.
“Brain rules!” I yell—but when the chores pile high,
My queen bolts fast, and I just wave bye-bye.
3
Check out the fate of dudes past forty years:
All fun shrinks down to kid-stuff we adore.
The couch-bound football fan drowns in his beers,
The LARPers clank around and ask for more.
But snowboard bros, once shredding peaks with flair,
Now flop like dads on hills of pure despair.
But wait! One trick can dodge the spousal shade:
Slap “job” on hobbies, watch the scorn retreat.
Bloggers spew hot takes, call it “getting paid,”
Priests dodge the grind with sermons oh-so-sweet.
You start a cult — and housework’s off your plate,
A pro-level flex to sidestep boring fate.
4
But me? I’m chess or bust—need no grandmaster fame,
Nor stuffy clubs with suits and fake applause.
Let “Go” nerds stew in never ending game -
I’ve got three kids – three terrors with no laws.
A quick blitz match, my caffeine-fueled retreat,
“Brain food!” I mutter, dodging chore defeat.
Yet sometimes, through the crumbs and coffee rings,
I glimpse the pros — chess gods who rake in cash.
They shrug off wife aggro with prize bling-bling,
Legends who play while dodging household trash.
But wait — what’s that? A glow through window cracks?
Not dawn — it’s Kovalyov’s canadian pantsless flack!
5
So, came this day—nay, mark the very hour!—
Chess world flipped out with fashion-fueled delight.
Young Kovalyov, Canada’s proud brain-power,
Stormed on Tbilisi, eager for a fight.
Not stalemate’s dread nor rival’s sneaky art—
His knee-length shorts - that was the thing that tore his game apart.
“GM” before his name — a shiny tag,
Which fools read Grandmaster (and so do I).
But real ones know it’s just a humble brag:
“Mom, I’m not a loser!” comes his cry.
And moms, since time began, just nod and say,
“Sure, kid, it’s fine — now go and win the day!”
6
What wrecked his vibe? No chess trap, no cruel twist—
Just Thomas Delega, say Polish-born.
He clocked those knees and threw a judgy hiss:
“Pants, man! The Code’s a rule you can’t unlearn!”
Kovalyov, half-dressed usual - but a mess,
Bare legs sparked scandal — chess’s wildest stress.
“Grzegorz! Three days have passed that I’ve rocked this fit!
Since when do knights need slacks to slay a king?
Did Morphy’s tie get checked? Did Lasker bring
A label saying ‘Dry Clean’? What a thing!
You’d think it’s Wimbledon, not boardgame lore—
Next, rooks in bowties? I’m out the door!”
7
And here - from Georgia’s hills, a titan strode,
Zurab Azmaiparashvili — GM triple-stack!
(At his age, it’s less skill, more “I’ve got the code—
Beat your granddad with dice, and that’s a fact!”)
His growl shook the hall like a thunderclap:
“Defy tradition? Kid, you’re in my trap!”
GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:
"I, who played Fischer 'neath the Iron Curtain,
Who saw Kasparov's cardigans for certain—
I say: No bare legs below the belt, you hear?
Chess ain’t a beach bash for a TikTok’s cheer!
Suit up, you punk, or taste eternal doom—
The board’s no catwalk for your Hollister gloom!
Shorts-wearing brat, You think rules don’t apply?
I’ve crushed kings since your mom was all knee-high!
Again - I've battled kings ere you were born,
I say: No shorts upon the sacred board!
GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:
“Three days I’ve rocked this fit—so why flip now?
What’s with the sudden pants-policing vow?”
GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:
“What’s wrong with you, boy, flashing knees like that?
This ain’t some surf shack—you’re on my mat!
Think you’re a rebel, some board-riding ape?
We guard the game’s soul, not your summer escape!
Get lost, you rogue—you Gypsy trash, I said—
No shorts-clad clown’s wrecking my chess spread!”
(Ah, mark the statesman's art! When tempers rise,
The wise man picks his slurs with enterprise:
Jews own the banks, and Russians stir the ***—
But Gypsies? Perfect scapegoats! They'll... er... not
Sue. Though Kovalyov—that "pantsless *****
took deep offense with sudden gypsy stitch.)
GM - MAMA’S BOY CHAMPION:
“What crusty, old-man venom’s stuff is this?
I’m out—but hear me, your insults won’t stick,
You fossilized relic, stuck in your strange bliss!
Your reign’s on fumes, you are Jurassic *****
Enjoy your throne, you wrinkled crazy czar—
My loyal lawyers are drafting while you spar!”
GM - OLD-SCHOOL TITAN:
"I built this game empire on checkered gold,
I funneled millions through my Georgian hold!
This runt dares mock the sacred code I wrote?
I’ll make him kneel — or slit his fukking* throat."
8
Then Capablanca’s ghost slid in, all chill,
“Zurab, you’d whine if God moved pawns downhill!”
Last Fischer came from nowhere, problematic,
"I told you - all those Russians love to cheat!
Now add some 'clotheshorse' to crooked shemes Asiatic—
Next they'll demand we kiss our king's corrupted feet!
Hey Boy! Your shorts are battle dress - me being enigmatic—
I have no clue what I am saying, dammn*,
Let’s burn this fuckinng circus down, GM!"
9
But then — from frozen lands, a clapback bold!
The Maple Leaf Federation cleared its throat.
(A shock! Since sports bureaucrats, truth be told,
move slower than a dial-up modem’s note.)
"If 'gypsy' be thy slur of choice, Grandmaster,
Know this: Our knight may lack pants, but he's
No target for thy Cold War-era disaster
Of rhetoric. We stand — perplexed — by these
Exposed but principled Canadian knees!"
10
You think that Canada is just some hockey's hype?
They're blasting dingers and lacrosse a lot.
But chess up north's an unexpected type:
Each pawn with stick and fukked* while smoking ***
The bishops blaze in a THC storm.
How was this Federation even born?
Two Jews from Odessa (then-Soviet) took their shot -
Two masters from Soborka chessboard's fray -
"In Canada, we'll score a noble lot:
Let's form a Federation - clean and grey!
Report the cash as gifts from gays and queer,
Then skim our three percent - and disappear."
Their paperwork was filed with lawyer's grace -
with a nonprofit shield and lots of honors.
Each tournament did fill their pockets' space,
While CRA got ******* by happy donors.
Oh Canada! Your tolerance is grand:
With logo shaped like puck - you are in demand.
11
FIDE flared up, its temper old and gray,
With twenty million stacked in vaults below,
Its voice — a boom that made the chessboard sway —
Roared loud, a mix of rage and twisted glow:
"Dammn* Canada — get out, hey - you're dreaming!
Zurab’s cash will not move t'your fuukking* den!
“Gens una Sumus” says our motto - meaning -
your're stuck with three percent - while we have TEN!"
But soon that curse was drowned in wilder sound,
As chess broke free, like stars through Hubble’s lens,
New worlds on worlds flashed out, unbound, profound,
A sprawl of moves no rulebook comprehends —
Like rabbits hummpiing* under cosmic trends.
12
Then came a mob — no one could pin their source,
Some black-hole crack where asteroids vanish -
The Chess Pros Fed, spitting a lot of words
In Russian, English, German, French and Spanish:
"Zurab, you Georgian mutt, your end’s a bet!
No FIDE ghost will shield you from our grip—
Tbilisi, two weeks — time to place your debt —
Bow now, or we will DOGE your sinking ship!"
Then head of Canada's Chess Federation shrieked,
A suit named Vlad Drukletch, some nervous jerrk*.
(Croat or not, his roots were hard to leek).
He stepped up too, all pale, his words a perk.
And puzzle cleared itself like long awaited ace,
Unveiling why this war began in the first place.
13
Few years ago the wheel of power jjerrked —
Steve Harper crashed, that right-wing king of gloom,
Trudeau soared up, all snowboards, rights, and work
For climate, weeeedd, and every woke-asss* bloom.
The Right hoards cash till people’s patience frays,
Then Lefties swoop, with rights and *** to spare,
The finance system dies in liberal haze,
Plus NDP just doubles down on flair —
and splits the wreck, with ruins everywhere.
When funds dry up, the Right locks down the vault,
But when they bulge, the Left burns through the stack —
It's not just Russia stumbles in this fault,
The world’s a drunk who’s lost the sober track —
It's reeling blind from dawn down to pitch-black.
Still, here’s the catch: the whip lands when it’s due,
Each decade, business kneels to take its hit.
A messed-up game, sure, but it’s got a clue —
More fair than screws that tighten bit by bit,
A grind where no one ever calls for quit.
14
The leftward tide now sweeps both East and West,
While right-wing fools still cling to what they know.
"Let's work!" they cry. "No whining! Earn your bread!"
The left just wails "Oppression!" loud and low.
When pipelines thicken, Leftists ask their share,
Yet Rightists clutch the spigot, firm and cold —
Not just in dunes where camels tread with care,
But boardrooms where the new crusades are sold.
The maps they draw in ink of liquid gold
Still bleed like wounds that never learned to knit.
Each barrel priced, each treaty bought and signed,
Yet ancient grudges fester, unconfined.
The West once carved the feast with steady knives,
But now the plates are cracked, the guests revolt —
Some scream for walls, some beg for homeless hives,
While deep beneath, the drills still twist and bolt.
Here comes the Holy Land - a bleakest jot,
Where prophets weep at profits dearly bought.
And Christ is preaching not on love or grace,
But quotas, pipelines, and who gets what place.
But Son of God himself by strange decree
Stands homeless where he preached “Come unto Me.”
15
UNESCO, with its crooked left 'politess',
Declared the Temple Mount not Israel's right.
And Canada with Russia voted "Yes!"
While Europe coughed and shrank out of the sight.
It's strange when Russia's stance align with that
of maple-leaf moralists so pure and trite.
Perhaps they played some deeper game instead -
Fed fools the rope to hang themselves with pride.
Lavrov might smirk, "Who cares what's wrong or right?
Let's vote for chaos - watch the baassstarrds slide!"
Now Trudeau won't set foot on Jewish land,
While Hamas's praised, the IDF's condemned.
But what's this got to do with chess, you ask?
The threads connect - just trace them to the task!
16
So, Drukletch stormed in, fury in his eyes,
Two damning charges, sharp as battle cries:
"Zurab himself defiled our sacred rule!
Last time he flaunted shorts himself — so cruel!
Here is that photo - if you trust your eyes -
Those shameless knees expose their master's lies!"
The tournament hall, once prim, now gaped in shock,
As chess tradition crumbled 'neath this frock.
"And second — mark this plot, so sly and dire —
He schemed with Max Rodshtein, that Israeli liar!
When Kovalyov received this reprimand,
Rodshtein did claim his win by Zurab's hand!"
17
The camera's lenze caught that very scene
Where Zurab clashed with Kovalyev Anton —
Behind his back, so real and serene,
The Jewish flag unfurled it's hexagon.
Was it pure chance or some malicious craft?
We may dispute for ages as we see
That irony is flawless in its art —
To stir the doubt, yet hide the guilty part.
And Maxim Rodshtein — what’s his voice to this?
Zip. Nada. None, or so the silence tells.
He’s mute as stone, no stance to curse nor hiss,
His thoughts lie hushed in deep, uncharted wells.
His statement might have cleared the foggy mess —
Perhaps a quip where wry amusement dwells:
“I, Maxim, swear, on all that’s been debated,
I’ve naught to say - and thus stay unberated.”
18
When Drukletch dropped his **** unhinged and loud,
Maxim, perchance, just smirked beneath his breath —
And thought: “These crazy fools have lost their ground",
And mused, while dodging scandal’s creeping mess.
Was he, too, in shorts, blending with the crowd?
He slipped in early, missing Gzhegosh’s eye,
And whispered humbly to Zurab about
His sin and swore to make amends or die.
Or not. Perchance instead he bided time,
Till eyes turned blind, and then he fixed his crime.
Imagine this: when not observed by jury
He popped his belt, let shorts sag low and free—
Dashed to his quarters, swift as fleeting fury,
And slid into fresh pants for all to see.
Then sauntered back as if returned from jerry,
And calmly waited how the pantsless mess
Unfolds - True whizz of sneaky moves and shady chess.
19
Of course, he blew it — mute, he stands accused,
A silence thick with fault, a rookie’s sin —
No star up high turns random, unexcused,
When chess and junk from youtube fill their din.
We - slaves of FIDE, time’s obsessive kin, -
Find solace in the board’s eternal grind,
Yet heavens spill a truth no app can bind.
From stellar drift, our souls snag cosmic crumbs,
A science feast where fans like us abide —
Each orbit track unveils existence’s sums,
A rock from space could crush a species wide,
Or bare the Chess Union’s throne, once ruled
By old-school titan, grizzled, grand, and sly,
Since days when knights and kings refused to die.
The plot twists hard, two tangled farces join!
Two Europes clash — one freaks at Israel’s claims,
The next, per Zurab's hand, awards it points,
GM-OLD-TITAN gambits double game!
And that's a place where I have to proclaim -
(I hope, my friend, you safely sit on cushions) -
That Kovalyev and Rodshtain - both are Russians,
Like Zurab, Gzrghegozsh, Drukletch, you and me,
Whichever rugs you hoist on guilty knee.
But even if this chess is a complex game,
There is no cause to quit the hunt for who’s to blame.
20
I lift my eyes — cheap telescope in hand —
(Black Friday deal, now half in coffee rust ) -
To scan the heavens where the gods once lived
A clockwork sphere, both elegant and just.
But no! The sky’s a glitching simulation,
A cosmic joke beyond verification.
The 3-b problem laughs — its dance malign
Mocks supercomps and makes them crash outright.
While black holes, like some crypto-scheme divine,
Suckk matter in and vanish out of sight.
And every week, some space-tool’s revelation
Just adds more trash to scientists' frustration.
The theorists weep (their models are so neat),
Now watch dark energy their work erase.
The universe cares not for their conceit —
It shrinks, expands, and memes right in our face.
The flat-Earthers beliefs are nice to keep!
At least they never lose a wink of sleep.
I hope they don't. And so do I. Indeed,
The Brownian churn of facts will lead
to nowhere. For mind's sake I need some order,
I need to find myself on someone’s border
To get involved in real life's galore
Where shorts defend their truth, and trousers soar.
21
Look at the great and blind machine of life,
That's called 'the evolution'. With no plan,
No grand design, no meaning in the strife,
it's creatures fight. For what? - Because they can.
Yet from this carnage we, like plants, emerged —
through wars, and plagues, and famine neatly purged.
Life’s blind fists scrabble through time’s suckkkingggg* mire,
With no grand scheme or plan to light its way.
No goal, no guide — just chance’s old desire,
Where cells just splice and rot in Darwin’s gear.
They split, they clash, they fight in endless roll,
And do not know why do they live at all.
Life’s vivid pulse is carved from pain’s harsh sting,
Survival forged in shadows of despair.
Each wound, each war, each plague’s unyielding spring
Sharpens the blade of life’s relentless lair.
Dare to erase the rot, the fang, the claw?
In vain. The fangs just sharpen, craving more.
We boast we’re not like beasts, blind to the fray,
Our minds, we claim, can carve a flawless state.
With logic’s torch, we’ll chase all vice away,
And moral codes will banish every hate.
Yet smug, we scorn the sludge where life’s begun,
Convinced we’re gods, not fools who chase the sun.
We say - let the economists hold sway,
While math whiiizzz minds make finances align.
Philosophers, who swear they’ve found the way,
Will purge all wrong with Marxist truth divine.
But pride infects their hearts, a fatal flaw —
Their zeal breeds ruin, shattering the law.
When brainiacs seize the power, chains arise,
The world morphs fast into a prison’s gloom.
Wars rage so fierce, the death toll blinds the skies,
While taxes crush and cleave the social room.
The more they plan, the more the world rebels,
And feeds the very hells they sought to quell.
Watching this circus of brain-power frays,
Where ivy-league bacilli sheit* their pants,
I won’t pose as some sage or cuantt who stays
Above the brawl. No coward’s sheitt, my friends.
Feeling myself a part of nature's law,
I always pick a side in every war.
22
I stand with Israel, Trump, Fide and Jesus -
that one of eastern Orthodox edition.
The void of saints and sinners sits between us,
or "readers" - I should say - and this petition -
like modern Moses' tablets' audition -
is craving for your sacred recognition:
Go fuuckck yourself with any crap you own!
I do not care… or do I? Hard to tell.
My veins are Red Bull buzz, emotions blown,
A clown in life’s circus, yelling 'hell'!
Like I’ve pants down and stand right here, felled,
Waiting for love — or Zurab's leather belt.
And so I wish you too, dear wasted reader,
(Gorged on the trash the internet excretes),
May life be tournament — be it FIDE or tweeter—
And bruise you hard, yet leave you weirdly freed.
A twisted prize from this digital bleeder,
Served hot, with middle fingers as your leader.
I'll go get scammed by crypto’s latest fad,
Or doomscroll news that fry my last brain cell.
Cry on no hill — all hills are good and bad.
But if you’re yelling at the void - yell well:
Let hope ignite where broken life still glows
And screams for love that vanished.
Smooches, bros!
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 7:23 AM UTC
A promise made, a vow—unbelievably grand
Until tanks and footsteps disturb the land
Handshakes firm, papers signed
Yet missiles and bullets still lag behind
Peace is non-transferable, war is our own,
Limited liability for the lives that we've blown
For threat prevention, we may reinforce,
Bombs will drop without a hint of remorse
When the world begins to ask
We say we honored it, our assured task
A truce! A pause! A peaceful day!
We’ll bomb them all by the end of May
We reserve the right to reverse the ceasefire
As bodies fall to the chorus of our choir
Diplomacy’s a practiced art—
Where ceasefires end before they start
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 8:48 AM UTC
In lands where ancient echoes call,
'Neath olive trees that stand so tall,
The question lingers, heavy, cast,
Israel God's chosen or self chosen—vast.
A land that's waged a war, it seems,
Against both civilians and Hamas streams,
No line drawn 'twixt darkness or light,
A struggle that endures through night.
The Palestinian people bear the toll,
Of a conflict that consumes the whole,
Paying the price of an unfocused hate,
In a history's shadow, they contemplate.
As though blinded by the night so deep,
Where tears of mothers silently weep,
For peace, for solace, for wounds to mend,
For a dawn where all hearts can blend.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
independent
all alone
in this country
we call home
alone
but not lonely
peaceful
... if only
through true struggles and true strife
the awful people take our lives
from rocky peaks to desert sands
a trustworthy hope; a nation's plan
we will make it
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 5:48 PM UTC
a six day war
fight for our lives
form our hives
pray for our wives
a six day war
get our land
let our boots sink in sand
and reach for
that savior of a hand
a six day war
lose our hope
try to cope
we
will
win
the
war
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 11:27 AM UTC
bombs
rain hopelessly from the sky
blood
forms pools around our best friends
pain
is all we can feel
so, we send them bombs back.
Dec 2, 2024
Dec 2, 2024 at 2:26 PM UTC
David repented and seventy thousand fell
Jerusalem's execution stayed for God relented
And where the Angel stood the Temple arose
Anti-David hardened and strengthened
The war entrenched and more enemies joined
Captives remained and fires uncontrollably raged
Surely this time it'll be more than three years
And enemies indestructible more wicked shall be
And Jerusalem's destruction, once more, unstayed
Oct 9, 2024
Oct 9, 2024 at 2:08 AM UTC
Zionist father's "lamentation; his sons burial."
The family of an IDF soldier was gathered for his funeral from Rapha rubble. All that was left of him was a small box of his ash remains. Words began to pass over his grave.
"I remember how handsome he looked in uniform," said his mother, "with his matching Helmet & Pampers." "I remember how brave he was," said his father, "he once neutralized a neonatal intensive care unit without hesitating for a second." "I remember how loving he was," said his daughter, "he once demolished a school for me on my birthday." "I remember how strong he was," said his wife, "every child he faced fell before his might." "I remember him being bigger," said his son, "What happened to him?". "Apparently," stated his mother,
"He triggered a booby-trap while plundering a house in Gaza."
"Well, I guess he died as Israel lives" stated his father.
"And how is that?"
Asked the others?
"By burglarizing someone else's home after proudly murdering all palestinian family members "
Oh! Said his grandmother
"Every muslim Palestinian, any non zionist jewish birth poses an existential threat to his new and future born children, thats why
"this IDF soldier's remains are buried among genocidal war criminal hereos in Izrahell."
~~~~~
Izrael:August 2024.
~~~~
Aug 20, 2024
Aug 20, 2024 at 1:19 AM UTC
Children of Gaza
Still
With trembling hands
Eating dry bread
Without looking at anyone's face
Eyes lowered
Heads down
Lowered the noise.
Occasionally
Don't look at the sky
Will try to face up
Whole body
Trembling
sweat
the end
Close the eyes.
It fell right next to it and broke
Bomb, Grenade, Missile
The ringing in their ears
It was abandoned that day
in faces
wounds
Not yet dry
Still
They are
Haven't slept yet
In bunkers and shelters
For nights and days
is increasing.
Hugging each other
Crying babies
Anywhere on the streets
See you
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 5:19 AM UTC
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
These are poems about Palestinian children and their mothers...
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Epitaph for a Palestinian Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Find in her pallid, dread repose,
no hope, alas!, for a human Rose.
who, US?
by Michael R. Burch
jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there’s no Room
for the meek and the mild
… and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of “no Room!”
and Puritanical scorn …
under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same—
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:
“who’s to blame?”
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable …
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss …
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears …
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Night Labor
by Michael R. Burch
for Rachel Corrie
Tonight we keep the flame alive;
we keep the candle lit.
We burn bright incense in your name
and swear we’ll not forget—
your innocence, your courage,
your commitment—till bleak night
surrenders to irrevocable dawn
and hate yields to love’s light.
Amen.
Well, Almost
by Michael R. Burch
Jews and Christians say “Never again!”
to the inhumanity of men
(except when the object of phlegm
is a Palestinian).
I, too, have a dream …
by the Child Poets of Gaza (a pseudonym of Michael R. Burch)
I, too, have a dream …
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve such scorn.
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers of Gaza
There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough …
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
Suffer the Little Children
by Nakba, an alias of Michael R. Burch
for the children of Gaza
I saw the carnage ... saw girl’s dreaming heads
blown to red atoms, and their dreams with them ...
saw babies liquefied in burning beds
as, horrified, I heard their murderers’ phlegm ...
I saw my mother stitch my shroud’s black hem,
for in that moment I was once of them ...
I saw our Father’s eyes grow hard and bleak
to see his roses severed at the stem.
How could I fail to speak?
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)
Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure!
Your intentions were noble and ineluctably pure.
And what the hell does THE LORD care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
King of the World
by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child free, for my people’s sake.
And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
back to my palace, for free ice cream!
Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?
If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.
Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)
Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose?
If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;
and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas —and presents—every day of the year!
Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!
If I were King of the World, I would send
my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end …
But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry!
Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry!
If I were King of the World, I’d declare
a year of happiness, with no despair—
only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects!
Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects!
Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects!
If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.
And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!
Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout?
If I were King of the World, I would drive
a red Ferrari, like no man alive!
But behind would be busses for my legions of friends:
we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends!
Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends!
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,
and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!
Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!
Keywords/Tag: Palestinian, child, Palestine, Gaza, children, mothers, death, grave, Israel, USA
Apr 5, 2024
Apr 5, 2024 at 3:17 PM UTC
Theres a genocide going on in 4K
And the world's acting like its okay
And I wonder who's more pathetic
The antagonist or the apatethic
That we shouldnt **** children is not really that complex
Unless you are from the military industrial complex
And you do not need to know the history of a millennium
To know its wrong to displace millions
And carpet bomb civilians
And humanity is not political
Unless you are a politician
And peace is not controversial
Unless you are hell bound on controverting
Well,you are hell bound anyway
The placards and slogans are up again
Its better than nothing,even if it doesnt bring any change
You wanna feel like you've done something
Even if its meaningless in greater scheme of things
In a world where everything little thing is trauma
The genocide becomes a newsroom drama
As they make you believe they are others
And convince you its fine to **** your brothers
And you get convinced in a day
However much we can scream
Continues the killing spree
From the river to the sea
Only hatred seems to be free
So theres a genocide going on in 4K
And it will never be okay
However much they try to erase the voices
And cover it up in chemical warplane noises
And if you wondering which side you should be on
If its the one killing children,its probably wrong
Dumbf*ck
Mar 21, 2024
Mar 21, 2024 at 4:41 AM UTC