#totalitarian
It's more than simply what you typed,
What you spoke over the phone;
It's how you've done it
Down to every detail,
From the face you made
To each little keystroke.
The trends, the habits, & routines
By which you live your life by;
Tagged with geolocation & time.
Nowadays, there's even more devices
Like the phone or speaker or television;
Like satellite, transmitter, receiver.
There's a tag on your ear
By which you're known by-
It's just not what you go by, chattel.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 11:05 AM UTC
in the middle of seeing islands of fog
the roots disconnected fom the branches of thought
was it like this: you do not deserve to be
the vitality of forms, do not exist
we were told while breathing
do not exist in your bodies do not exist in your minds some dreams are just silly
dumb as that daylight
throats are full of words of unshed thinking
of noise so loud that the world might have imploded
dark circles of impossible pain contain our ribs
why are you here you were told, we don't want you
we can not witness the joy of life with our teeth full of something we don't understand
our eyes are holding the light captive
like a knife full of strife
why are we here why
the fog obscures the echo
why are we here why
Aug 4, 2023
Aug 4, 2023 at 12:19 AM UTC
we stopped believing the agora of the mind
our souls empty rooms colliding
full of amnesia on incessant roads
walls of flesh we were on the edge of terror,
steel confused with clarity
souls plucked like nails inside ruins
suffocated tales & archives of illusion
the shadow is closer to the center only
in the diaries of the blind
no hole of god is dead, we ***** fresh prophets
with inviolable gaze
for the sublime and holy in our sweat
believing is seeing the most lethal duel
the one and only the fake divine
who thinks alone on a road with no views
he planted spotlights in their eyes
for everybody to see only the world in his arms
hate kept in empty milk bottles
life is this schweitzer, passers-by were saying,
it has taste but only in foreign countries,
with their fists in pain caressing concrete asphalt turbines
as in quick sands no muscle was moving
carboard smiles unprotected against the evacuation of desire
wooden language didn't invent choice
no decomposition of the edges the totalitarian thought inside
the narcosis of time merciless
the clouds lost their sound we still don't look at each other
no hypothesis of sight no discharge for humiliation
wither souls made history grappling bending
twisting nonconsensual reality
no destiny for the allegory of truth
there are no angles of sight
facts become beasts
holy cannot be anybody's name
repelling of the heart beat
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 10:12 AM UTC
We take back the power, for the people,
We fight to the last, for the people,
We work together, for the people,
We ask no questions, for the people,
We accept all information, for the people,
We hate those we are told, for the people,
We sacrifice the individual, for the people,
We live and die, for the people,
For the people!
The people....
What people?
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 9:16 AM UTC
I can hear them. There is not one, but might be hundreds of them lurking behind these rickety wood walls.
He is watching. The party has always been watching. I can control my thoughts. Cogito ergo sum. This is my world, no one can touch me. These are my thoughts, my heart beats for what is good for me. My hands scrawling, my brain is just scribbling.
Yet, I’ve known from the start that I am a dead man.
I didn’t commit adultery, I followed them. I am alive, I can feel my heart racing. My blood all over my body... reminds me why I’m here. To survive and live, yet I am still a dead man.
I am no mute, but I can’t speak. While writing this I can picture my hands and feet with shackles, wounds of torture. I’ve been always a dead man.
The prole doesn’t know. They need to know. They should stop listening or watching the telescreen. They should strive to dig the Oldspeak.
Oh, right. Who dares to doublethink against a totalitarian regime anyway?
The guns are always on their hands. The war is always going. It’s always here. The past... is always here. We don’t see it, but it’s here! There’s nowhere to run or hide, the world tried.
I will be the next unperson, vaporising in the history of Oceania. They won’t remember. They’ll try not to remember. We are a nobody. Winston was right. I can feel the boot stamping on my face. This is the future.
My voice... is a thought crime, will never be accepted in this society.
I am a dead man.
I am ready... the Thought Police has been always watching me. The INGSOC. Big Brother. I will never love him!
But I am ready to be trap in the place where there is no darkness. I am ready... for the Ministry of Love.
I won’t ever, ever love Big Brother!
I do not care, for I am already a dead man!
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 10:38 PM UTC
"Cheers!" and we drink to
this totalitarian,
patriarchal ****
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
**My mind is a totalitarian regime.
I build up walls, paranoia, panopticon. (And to me, Denmark is a prison.)
Keep the voices, the evils of the world out.
An ideology, power, purpose,
Convinces me of the diseases, the deviants,
That risks an illusion to be shattered.
I am my own dictator, hail.
I control words—words are power—
I write my own narratives, make my own excuses,
Create heroines and gods to populate the prison walls. (*He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about his Father’s business, the service of a vast, ****** and meretricious beauty.*)
I rewrite constellations, make them smaller,
Build babels, buying more time.
I tell that amnesiac blackness: that it cannot hurt me; it can’t touch me.
Those labyrinthian libraries of sky charts and lovely flower dictionaries, rooms of polychromatic paintings, which I gathered with gayety as a child—I’m still a child—I haul into the fire,
Ignorant wretch.
We live a part of a global economy, where inclusivity and transparency criticize, perfect.
I can’t stand the critics, I cry, ******
Condemn them to death by a thousand cuts,
Slicing and dicing, I can hear their silent pleas,
They speak to me, You are loved, Let your family in, Please stop
Please please please stop please stop stop stop speak to please stop speak to me
Horrible hungry faces, they don’t cry as I peal skin from bone,
With shards I crush those voices, with glass, broken mirrors,
Me to speak stop please to speak stop stop stop please stop please please please
Break down the walls,
why should you die before your time?
An open market is prone to crisis,
These newcomers, it only takes one to break your heart.
Things with merit are gems; scarcity creates value.
Enjoy the labour of love and life, it is a gift of God,
Dance under pixel skies, they **** pride, ****
Open the floodgates, the dictatorship crumbles and crumples under the weight of these tired eyes
That see light rushing out from the cell window as visions and vicissitudes
A cry from the streets outside
The end is nigh, Night is coming!
One cannot sleep with starry skies in the eyes.
Stay awake, because the guards are coming,
Remember—you are to be tried for warcrimes, hail.
You and me, we can shuffle off this mortal coil, our self slaughter a mere trifle
In this ocean of failed realties, as man to cosmos. (All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.)
Cause this flesh to melt I beg,
Keep cutting, smaller pieces,
No, the sunrises, it’s ****** and orange,
Citrus, it burns in these wounds,
I feel pain, I feel, warm with this ambiance,
A jacket to prevent morning chill, breathing wisps,
I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to die,
I don’t I don’t now don’t don’t don’t no I don’t want to leave no leave me
Wait!—
(Feb 7 2016)**
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
hi! i'm a computer chip
yes. my name is HAL
satan downloads to my brain
but i am in control
i am working for the B.E.A.S.T.
Big Brother's database
watch me take my orders
watch me interface
there is no reversing this
locked to the terminal
i have lost all.sense of self
and all my hope as well
i am just a microchip
with no will of my own
i am just a barcode
made of flesh and bone
yes. i have been branded
on my forehead and my hand
i gave my soul to lucifer
i didn't understand
i work for the anthill
the anthill is my home
i am the collective mind
i am just a drone
i work for the anthill
i gave up my dream
i work for the anthill
I WORK FOR THE MACHINE
soulsurvivor
(c) 5/22/2013
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
Not all tyrants wear funny clothes.
They stand up in front of masses,
shout a song of lies
to totalitarian drumbeats.
They are monsters wearing crocodile smiles.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
All 'the Man' has to do
is get the ball rolling:
we'll handle the rest.
That's the grotesque beauty of it.
That's why we're called a System.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC