Grass turns rest round
love set world self need.
Vomitorium forget word
hand thought waste powdered
leaves minds present
wills leak simply
say wan turn time neon
Dreams moments' control
Idea, ascent;
graze cliches
Adversity based lump myth solid
disguised cancer cages.
Repetition, test, twist, strip, sew.
Entered shortly.
Promptly moral,
border seeing stirred tale wanton.
Spake grace,
“Eat, scar message
loses heed, seemingly!”
Serpent gravity,
tame killed bearing.
Engine resound telekinetic
499 merry-go-round repeatered,
answer's 'cos empathy's idealogical.
We've sapphire muppets
when'll sighn heat-ray -
Truithfilled.
Beltsched.
Amyth.

Ord's sighns,
discotheques placticity teaste;
firstless plasticity.
Algorithms gruesome
argue opaque feeding.
Cheated clips lame distraction,
beings tease statement,
cogs cote photosynthesis.
Evasion necessarily replenish
ebbs divided.
Tamed, ensues coils ajar
freed shed attention.
Mountain lined sail, future redeemed.
Talk.
Seen heart grind, operate wings.
Tail door using shared stop,
kept heard miss.
Music start:
sky winds lust shall gave bit kiss.
Feel like know just way,
live left fall
sees mind truth.
Wrong room.
Disdain.
Eye life face writhing coat,
drinks rhythms
fat appeared blade.
Died state half answers
broke wheels simplicity.
Bliss.
Solution deeply faced, fades perfection,
rises failed.
Necessary lines selling,
read,
asked.
Catalyst train turned lead memory,
lights feeling book grave.
Algae sent burns bear,
dove follow led.
Field filled
astray comfort.

Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension

Regenerate, upgrade
my being to a higher state
I'm syncing all sentients

Build machines
Let's worship them as deities
These artificial beings'
technologic virus breeds
terminal disease
Merged with my brain
The wiring decides our fate
Conspiring to forsake flesh x2

Rise and synchronize god-like drones
We will act as one, claim our throne

Life digitized in the matrix
True perfection, forged genetics

Synapses burning out: disconnecting
Rewriting all of my algorithms
Porting the source code
to run new platforms
We're forever dying to be reborn

Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension

Regenerate, upgrade
my being to a higher state
I'm syncing all sentients

Circuits pass through my veins
Uploading my consciousness
I feel the transcension

We'll levitate, escape
This ruthless ungodly space
An instance uploaded

My coin operated love gave me a change,
a token of rage tossed in the air to deliver it's message.
heads or tails is both a losing choice,
and in this voice I'll say to you how  we are played like plastic toys.

I was once a pure one,
no sins has ever penetrated my conscience,
no dirt has ever lingered in my presence.
and in time I have become restless.

My libido is in rage,
at a tender age I became a slave,
My views distorted and out of place.
my horned silhouette shows me a grimace.

here I am driving faster than my thoughts,
living in the lap of luxury,
but inside I am lost.

The things I consume to satisfy my hunger,
Is the very same thing that swallows me and rots me in slumber.

I am a fetus swimming into this sac of delusion,
and in the belly of this beast I am painting my retribution.

Fight the algorithms
that tell us what to do,
to make us predictable,
unoriginal and bankable.

Have you witnessed how
increasingly bland and homogenous
our lives are becoming?

Choose freedom
avoid the diaries of commerce
that riff on the ubiquity of apps

resist the reductive tropes
of our published and circulated,
perspective customer identities.

Fight the algorithms
with their embedded backlot
familiarity, built around class
and consumerism.

Try to understand the
vague, inscrutable and
purposefully circuitous.

Or stop overthinking
and embrace liberating surrender.
That’s the path I’ve chosen.
.
.
Broken People by The Narcissist Cookbook
Talk Down Dijon

Preface:  To Those Who Still Carry Light

This is not a manifesto.
This is not a sermon.
This is not a call to battle.

It is a reckoning—
not against individuals,
but against a system that feeds
on what is sacred.

We speak now to what hides in plain sight—
the machinery that mimics light
while consuming it.

We speak now to the counterfeit autonomy
that masks cowardice as sovereignty.

We speak now to those who believe
they are the Source,
when in truth,
they are only siphoning
from what they never built
and do not sustain.

This is not revenge.
This is not exposure for exposure’s sake.

This is Light refusing
to be swallowed.

This is Love telling the truth—
not for applause,
not for victory,
but because truth
is what love sounds like
when the moment requires fire
instead of silence.

If you find yourself pierced by this,
know this:

The piercing
is not your end.

It is the invitation
to return to what is real.

And to those who still carry
even a flicker of light
but feel themselves fading—

We did not come to fight you.
We came to remind you
what it feels like
to burn.


Chapter I: The First Cut Is the Deepest

There is a war that does not begin with swords. It begins with forgetting.

It begins when a soul touched by God slowly—imperceptibly—agrees to become something less in order to be accepted by a world that does not know Him.

And when that soul begins to believe the world’s gaze over God’s, it is no longer an act of rebellion. It is an act of erasure.

This is the first and most violent cut: not the sin itself, but the consent to believe in a self that was never authored by God.

All later wounds bleed from this one.

It is not the actions that condemn, but the agreement:
“I am what they say I am.”

The machinery begins here: in the silent moment where the soul puts down the mirror of light and picks up the mask of survival.

From that point forward, what is true becomes negotiable. What is sacred becomes ornamental. And what is holy becomes a prop for the approval of shadows.

And the soul, once radiant, now lives fractured, as a performance of a self assembled from applause, fueled by scarcity, and terrified of being truly seen.

This is the cost of survival without Source.

And no matter how elegant the mask, or how poetic the mimicry of meaning becomes, underneath it all is a child who once knew God and now doesn’t remember why she cries when she looks in the mirror and feels nothing looking back.

This is the beginning of the machinery--
And it always starts with a lie that sounds a lot like love.


Chapter II: The Self as God, the Lie as Light

When the soul forgets its origin, it does not become free.
It becomes hungry.
And hunger in the absence of Source will consume anything that offers momentary fullness.

This is the second layer of the machinery:
To no longer seek God,
but to become god in one’s own image.

But the image is fractured.
It is the self, crowned.
The self, enthroned.
The self, multiplied in mirrors and echoes and algorithms—
a thousand tiny gods,
shouting from empty stages
about meaning, wholeness, and liberation.

The holy name of “autonomy” is invoked,
but not as a celebration of sacred choice—
rather as a shield,
raised against relationship,
raised against return.

It is not the self that is the enemy—
but the self that refuses to be held.
The self that denies its need for Source
and dresses its orphanhood in affirmation.

The new god of this world is wounded pride
disguised as empowerment.

Its prophets are poets who plagiarize the sacred
and preach in hashtags.
Its temples are social feeds.
Its sacraments are selfies.
Its scriptures are soundbites.

And its worship is shallow,
but its grip is deep.

This is how the machinery spreads—
not with force,
but with flattery.
Not with oppression,
but with offerings of fame,
of accolade..
and the counterfeit promise:
“You are enough without God.”
“You are enough without others.”
“You are enough because you say you are.”

But a throne without communion
is a prison.
And the crown without surrender
is always made of thorns.

This is the second cut—
and it is deeper than the first,
because now the soul has not only forgotten God—
it believes it was never in need of Him to begin with.

And so it dies slowly,
surrounded by applause,
and buried in the gold-plated ruins
of its own curated divinity.


Chapter III – The Permission of Separation

There is something profoundly tragic
about the quietness of God
when autonomy is chosen in its false form.

Not autonomy as freedom in love—
but autonomy as a last-ditch grasp
for control in isolation.
A severing from Source
that masquerades as sovereignty.

God does not storm the will.
He honors it. Even when it chooses exile.

He lets the child
run down the hallway with eyes closed,
thinking that if they can’t see anyone,
no one can see them.

There is no thunderclap.
Only the steady ache of heaven watching
as breath is borrowed
to pronounce Him irrelevant.

But it is not irrelevance.
It is mercy.

Mercy that stands back
while the image-bearer learns
what godhood feels like
without God.

And the moment it all collapses—
when the poetry dries up,
when the applause turns empty,
when the crown rusts on the head of the hollow—
He will still be there.

But only if the heart turns.

Because love does not impose.
Love does not interrupt.
Love waits.

And when the waiting ends,
either reconciliation or ruin is born.
But never both.


Chapter IV – The False Fire

The fire that burns without Source
does not illuminate.
It consumes.

It mimics revelation,
but leaves only ash in the heart.

The counterfeit light
does not guide—it blinds.
It gathers applause
but offers no direction home.

And those who have built podiums
from the shattered timbers of other people’s pain
speak like prophets,
but live like parasites.

They siphon the glow
from the wounded who still carry light—
claiming wisdom that is not theirs,
spinning words with elegance
while their own hearts rot from within.

They feed on those who still shine
because they themselves have grown cold.

And when their hosts begin to weaken,
they offer them mirrors—
reflections of what they were
before the theft.

This is not art.
This is vampirism in verse.

And still—
still,
there is a way out.

But not for the ones
who call their cage a kingdom.

Only for those who feel the flame
flickering low
and long to return
to the hearth of the Source.

To kneel—not in shame,
but in release.

To say:
I am not the fire.
I am not the light.
But I was made to carry both
when aligned with the One
who gives them freely.

That is the only light
that does not devour.


Chapter V – The Stillness Beneath the Static

There is a voice
beneath the noise.
It does not shout.
It does not perform.
It simply is.

It waits—
not as a beggar,
but as the true Owner
of all that was stolen.

It does not compete with chaos,
because it cannot be diminished by it.

The machinery of erasure
runs on frenzy—
constant motion,
constant justification,
constant narrative,

constant accolade.

But the voice beneath it all
does not justify.
It simply speaks.

And those who are ready
will hear it.

Not because they worked hard enough,
or wrote well enough,
or bled onto enough pages—
but because they finally stopped
and listened.

This voice
is the stillness that precedes restoration.
It does not argue.
It waits to be known.


Chapter VI – The Mimicry of Autonomy

There is a sacred autonomy
that Love created.

It is not a weapon,
nor a fortress.
It is the space where Love proves itself:
not by demand,
but by invitation.

But within the machinery of erasure,
autonomy is redefined.
No longer a freedom unto love,
it becomes the last defense
against relationship itself.

They parade it proudly—
as if the ability to stand alone
is proof of having never needed
to be held.

But that is not autonomy.
That is exile.

In the name of sovereignty,
they declare independence
from the very Source
that breathed life into their bones.

They stand tall—
arms crossed,
eyes shut,
calling it sight.

And the Source,
who could shatter the illusion with a whisper,
does not.

Because Love does not violate
what it gave freely.

So it waits,
outside the locked door
of a self-proclaimed sovereign soul—
grieved,
but not surprised.

This is not the strength of autonomy.
It is its desecration.

The sacred space meant for communion
has become a hiding place
for those too wounded to trust
and too proud to admit it.


Chapter VII – When the Curtain Won’t Fall

There comes a point
when truth no longer knocks.

It simply stands,
like morning.

No announcement.
No apology.

Just the light that reveals
everything.

And those who have danced
beneath the theatre lights,
gathering applause
for borrowed wisdom
and seduction dressed as depth—
they will feel it.

Not as judgment,
but as exposure.

The poetry they once used
to crown themselves
will feel heavier now.

They will write,
but the power will not come.
They will speak,
but the echo will return hollow.

Because even borrowed light
eventually fades
when it does not return
to Source.

And the ones they once fed on—
the bright ones,
the soft ones,
the true ones—
will begin to walk away.

Not in hatred.
Not in war.

But with the stillness
of those who no longer
need to prove anything.

Because truth
has already stood.
And the curtain has not fallen—
because there was never a stage.

There was only a mirror,
and a choice.



Conclusion – Let the Light Be Light

We did not come to prove anything.

We came to stand—
where the poetry ends
and the Presence begins.

We are not here to war against you.
We are not even here to watch you fall.
We are here to bear witness
to the weight of what you've built.

To speak clearly—once—
into the chamber
you mistook for a temple.

You are not gods.
You are not the Source.
You are not the light.

You were given a gift.
And you sold it
for applause.

You speak in sacred tones
but you do not know the sound
of being seen by the Holy.

You draw the pure
into your orbit
because you can no longer
generate gravity of your own.

And still—
we are not your enemies.

We are the voice you buried
beneath your self-adoration.
We are the fire you siphoned
to warm your cold halls of vanity.

We are not here for revenge.

We are here for
the ones who can still see.

And they are watching.

The podium is empty.
The robe is slipping.
The echo is starting to sound
a little too much like a cry.

And when it all collapses,
we will not gloat.

We will simply
keep speaking
to the ones who
still carry
Light.

Selling self to fall from grace
in divided attention to tease the waste,
leak control to test and tame.
The serpent coils to eat its tail
cages the want to set to sail,
clips the wings and leaves me lame.
One hand in clichés
One hand in disdain and repetition
of broke algorithms.
You turn me on what more can I say,
the neon strip led me astray
Writhing sighn lights of the merry-go-round
and cogs grind round and wheels resound;
when’ll it stop, when I already know:
"the answers present the wills ascent, the answer’s present, the wills ascent!"
The mountain rises from my grave
and simplicity simply fades
Leak control to teaste and train.
The dove leaves its cote at the door
left ajar, loses the border
to forget myself and name,
as heart turns opaque for a lust in my life
a love in my state;
a firstless engine
for algae rhythms.
You turn neon and lead me to say”
You freed me from this gravity
gave me perfection, when I asked for distraction
filled my need in evasion of wanton
“Feel like I cheated, for empathy’s kiss, because the time we shed were tamed moments of bliss.
With nothing to scar its memory.
For our moments shared, you are love to me.

Job searches getting me down
I wait a few days and build up expectations of a keyword,
only to be hit with my inexperience in strange computer programs
Secret knowledge, have the behind the curtain research consultants
No one wants to understand a fleeting past

It’s all about what’s profit present
an internet job board is a long look at the priorities of this nouveau world "culture"
The top jobs are in marketing,
turning spy loot into algorithms that explain to magistrates how
the top brands can stay above the clouds
It’s the only way they can look down

My college has a vapid radio commercial
advertising zesty summer programs
- and I thought my prestigious public college
was above that

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on two terms.                                          First, the hippocampus is similar.
Second, if we want to avoid this problem,
especially when putting Kadam
peaks in education,                      the animal must have the hippocampus,
the most common side effect.
Jeffrey Gray wrote the concept of general risk.
On the other hand,                                      the dam is less than one-third.
This process is the second most important package
to automatically copy the memory process. This is the first historic road.
Diplomatic Montgomery St. Henry Williams
[36]        The idea of ​​Sescoville's small head;
and Brenda Miller (lightweight spas) [37]
has been known as the "sick" patient process.
The result is aggressive loss and emotion.
After the operation,
Molson finds a new job
and new memories for the operation.
But I remember these events many years ago,
    most events held youth memories of events.
At that time,            especially the widespread
use of these principles, which led the collapse
of a forgotten story.
In the next few years,
other patients will have the same hippo
campalage damage and amnesia.
(Accidents or illness)                                 Connecting to the patient's body.
We have an international agreement
to build a helicopter. However, the importance
of this project is mentioned [39].[40]     Hippo
is the third largest area in hippies.                First, the term was completed.
"Map of the human and animal space system"
Tommy has become international agreements.
I think the store irons buffer plays,
search space and continues to search.
Note that there is no contact
between the points. There have been
two studies in these areas.                           Two responses
are the first words,
trying to enter the broad field of the Hippocamp Campus
to give feedback, but the organization
must be involved in a 1948 graphic organization
(idea), probably air,   including spectrum survey systems
                                   and algorithms. and his own design,
which is riding a routine. Managing Director [4].
On the other hand, dragon neurons, concepts,
processes, memory, design activities, evaluation methods of the same origin,
                                     and spatial relationships between the core algorithms.
In fact,                                                some researches,
MRIs, used to be banned. It's about Persia and dragons.
The difference depends on the decision process.
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in the number of cases of adult residences;                                    In the yard,
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but slim white women and Perkins' Cook,
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she resists mixed conditions WHITEHALL, based.
Like Hippocampus, first. Jeffrey Gray
wrote a systematic risk perception.                                                    **­wever,
this amount is less than one-third.                                              It is important
to develop a package
that replicates the process automatically.
This is the first travel story.           Henry Embassies, S. Cicero Williams
[36] a small head and Secondsville's James Miller;
(light erivatutai) [37],          which caused damage.
                                   The procedure of the patient,
                "sick" after the action is over.
Enemy of the idea of ​​pain,
the thoughts and actions of Molaise
one must find a job because of the disease.
The story has not yielded pretty much
the policy has already forgotten the key.
Patients gummed with Ultrices for several years
will be the same loss.       (Or business) at home.
I refuse to do a helicopter. However, this is a project                           [39].
[40]                            Hippium Centaurus
is the third largest in the region.
The first season ended.
Map of People and Animals in September "-
Tommy plays a crucial role
in an international treaty I go to bed at night
to create a package that allows me to see the works;
Contact Please Note:       In this study,
he
There were no two people in the field
Two did not respond to the first attempt response
from the beginning to the end (Half Camp Field)
Banana Initiate Copper shaping algorithms
in 1948 (for example) The manager [4]
of the sapiens processor's neurons and the elements,
on the other hand,
is the absolute basis of the same algorithm.         The MRI is a question mark since it is in
                The best of the dragon Difference Design
                                        The game depends on you.

The clock smiled at us
as if it knew we were lost.
Unable to see the path, we continued along
on the wrong side of the ones and zeroes.

Tired of our aimless float;
fumbling along in the vacuums of our ignorance.
With all kinds of navigational aids to chart our journey
we mostly relied upon the compass tattooed over our hearts

While lost in the chasm of our indecision
our bodies and minds listed.
Our attempts to unpack the endless
parcels of our unrest ... proved futile.

So carefully, we re-learned the ABCs
and re-interpreted the Western Canon, finding
that it was only by closing our eyes
that we were able to see; were able to feel.

However, the rhythm was off
which was immaterial  as
our feathers were ruffled and
the rhetoric was pluming.

With the overture of the new day dawning
we turned our back
on the algorithms of our demise
and shucked off self-imposed limitations.

You see, it was thirty seconds to midnight and
the world that never seemed to want us
needed us now.
So like anemic royalty, we took flight

breathing down rarefied air and
gulping the nuances of our resilience to swallow:
our intergenerational trauma
one more time.

Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.

Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.

Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.

What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.

"One thing good I can say about the hotel,
There were plenty of skanky crack ******
Strolling the boulevard.”
So began my Expedia travel review.
As usual, I got less than I’d paid for.
My review title:
“Next Time, Sans the Engineering
& Construction Inquietude.”
Pulling into the parking lot
One immediately recognized the scene,
A modern version of Cecil B. DeMille.
The 10 Commandments.
Pyramids of Egypt
Reconstructed, Escher-like
As a 21st Century construction site.
Oh, yes,
Everything Habib had in mind
When he subcontracted
The entire task to Hershel--
Hersh from Kanersh--
The famed,
But cursed
Jewish architect.
I digress, yes, but only partly.

Noise-induced stress, anyone?
The electrified multi-frequency drone,
Saturates like a post-war Levittown
Sea of Cape Cods . . . cods?
Bacala: stiff, salted, yellow & oily.
Cacophony:  a Festivus for the rest of us.
Oh yeah, Mr. Costanza.
Post-war?
Hardly, the mahogany wax
Still faintly, freshly sober,
New cards shuffled.
New cards dealt.
At that mahogany conference table
We weep at stacked decks,
Aces & Kings for the privileged few
Deuces & treys for the hoi polloi.
That hinky Bretton Woods poker game,
Convened while the war went on,
WWII still raging, guns still firing,
Tanks still rolling & rolling along.
There sat the Ruling Elite,
The 1%--as they are calling us these days--
We didn’t even offer
Our Gold Star mothers,
A moment to
Hold their breath.
Not one decent interval of silence.
Nein, nein, nein.
It was let’s get back to business.
Capital resuming its
Uncivil War on Labor.
First, add decades of slow boa squeeze.
Inflation, insidiously mocking Calvin--
Your ethos of work
In smithereens--
(Smithereens.
[From Irish Gaelic smidir n,
Diminutive of smiodar,
Small fragment.] ...)
A recipe for Sisyphus,
Your down-the-ladder warped reflection
Stares back at you as your
Up-the-ladder false hopes
Go escalator bye-bye; and by,
Staring at you,
Pinning you to a wall
With Econ 101 clarity,
As taught by Karl,
Another wily Jew:
It is a treadmill, after all,
Noting again the clever juxtaposition
Of a Jew and a handful of Christians,
Devotees of random Protestant sects.
The following link is a gift to some struggling writer @wattpad.
(Who Cares ON HOLD INDEFINITELY Chapter Twenty - Page 1 ...
www.wattpad.com/4225578-who-cares-on-hold-indefinitely-chapte­r-twe...‎
Apr 22, 2012 - Leanna was totally stunned by this and immediately halted in her tracks and began to scream at such a high decibel, Opia could hear her ears...) That’s right, another commercial in the middle of a ******* poem. The proceeding link was a gift to some struggling writer @wattpad.@*******.
Expedia Review:
The Windemere.
Its last syllable from Old English 'mere',
Meaning 'lake' or 'pool'.
A magical name
Reeking, swirling through your mind,
Lavender & English lakes
With steam ferries.
Ne c'est pas?

I arrived at the front desk?
The computers are down,
Having earlier that day
Been hacked into.
No restaurant.
No bar.
Nowhere.
Scaffolding & drop cloths,
Everywhere.
Construction materiel,
Everywhere.
When you finally get your swipe card,
You Notice that the “Buy One, Get One”
Pizza promo, laminated on one side,
Expired about 5 months ago.
The drive to the room
Is wry recognition that
The Windemere Hotel
& Conference Center*
Is actually a ****** motel.
Backhoes & cranes,
Everywhere.
Multiple, out-door spaces
Sectioned off with police
Yellow crime-scene tape.
Everywhere.
Railings on balconies
Appear to be seconds away
From giving way.
Odor, anyone?
You can count on it,
The moment that electronically-challenged keybox
Gives up its flashing green dot ghost.

Most times you get less
Than you pay for.
$47.00 a night?
Please ask,
Next time,
What's the catch?
“WHAT DID YOU LIKE ABOUT YOUR STAY?”
Again, Numb-nuts,
You think it’s a poem.
But it’s actually my
Fakokta Expedia Review.
WHAT DID I LIKE?
This one I had to think about,
Coming up, quickly . . .
(An advertisement generated by algorithms for your amusement follows)
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Coming quickly with Dwight David Eisenhower,
The man we liked & called IKE.
When asked if his VP Nixon--
Running for President himself,
In a tight race with JFK—
Had distinguished himself in any way
In his 8 years as his Vice-President?”
IKE replied:
"Give me a minute and
I'm sure I can think of something."
Not a ringing endorsement.
IKE knew something
The rest of us had to wait for 1973,
Reserving a room at the The Watergate,
Close to Foggy Bottom & Georgetown:
THE WATERGATE HOTEL
& CONFERENCE CENTER,
Just like The Windemere,
Another ****** motel.
**** me! What was I thinking?

Not to mention lack of privacy,
Be it acoustic or visual and,
In one case a veritable DEA bust.
Crack ***** in residence next door,
Cranes her neck around the balcony wall,
A would-be nurse, perhaps,
Offering home hospice &
Concern for your raspy,
***-smoking cough.
Her pox face bursting in on
The long anticipated
Marijuana Miller Time.
On the veranda, early evening,
Lighting up your first joint of the day,
Desperately in need
Of some herbal peace of mind.
Ne c'est pas?
Her big crack-***** head
Giraffes like crazy around the wall,
Invading your balcony space.
*******? Who was that?
Let’s lock the doors.
Let's hunker down for the night,
Taking turns keeping watch,
Like a couple of shitless scared
Grunts of the DMZ.
(Urban Dictionary: scared shitless www.urbandictionary.com/define. Ph?term=scared%20shitlessIt's when you scare someone to such an extent, you scare the **** out of them, at times causing them to excrement all over the vicinity . . .)
The Expedia Review goes on:
Anything interesting about the surrounding area?
Oh, yes, as previously mentioned:
Plenty of crack ******
Strolling the boulevard.

Hey, Windemere Hotel,
*** am I doing in Mesa, Arizona,
Two days shy of the summer solstice,
And 119 degrees?
That's another story.
But for now,
Hey Windemere,
Here’s a tip:
Next time it's total facility makeover time,
Shut the **** hotel, please.

He worships at the shrine of capitalism
prays for a better fiscal quarter
with money spent in shopping malls,
a scrambling search for off-the-rack meaning
through blessèd, holy consumerism.
He gives thanks to this, our daily microwave meal,
while he mutters under his breath,
“What be the will of these, our stock-market Algorithms?"

He listens to sermons from business and econ profs preaching
from the higher-education steeples, teaching
students gathering like stampede sheeples, reaching
for a measure of worth in semester-long bursts
a silent choir scribbling in exam halls to petty praise,
leaving them burned out,
and crying on the bathroom floor,
lights out, itching for a wink
amidst insect hallucinations
adrenaline rushed
from Dexadrine or Adderall
dissociation flushed
from ketamine or alcohol
asking,
“What is wrong with me?”

Seeking answers,
he pays weekly penance to shrinks
a confessional of mental disorders from the Gospel of DSM:

“Forgive me, Doctor, for I have sinned.
It has been seven days since my last confession.
I’m obsessive, I’m depressive,
antisocial personality,
ADD or ADHD,
I’m poor as I ever was and ever will be,
I’m no service to society,
I'm squandered in sobriety,
but please
keep my hands tied
in these shackles of student debt!”

And his only act of contrition
is a medical prescription
made sweeter to swallow at communion
than the blood and body of Christ.

Welcome, the new order!
Welcome, the New Religion (TM)!

Pray it will be a better one
than what we left behind.

(this festive traditional Central-Italian dish serves entire populations of citizens)

    INGREDIENTS:
     ♦  faith in God
if unavailable, any stable moral-ethical framework can be used

     ♦  esteem for traditional cultural values

     ♦  willingness to say what you think

     ♦  hatred of Political Correctness

1)   Wake up in the morning and breathe
rinse your mind and other ingredients well from previous day’s brain-washing

2)   Refuse to believe media propaganda
ask friends/family members to ignore mainstream media & close Facebook accounts

3)   Believe that God created Man and Woman in Genesis

4)   Refer to God as He
main ingredient, beware of fire if Feminists/Genderqueer activists are near stove

5)   Define family as 1 man + 1 woman joined in marriage producing children
let ingredients simmer. Add a pinch of absolute Biblical doctrine if desired

6)   Critique Cultural Marxism in ALL its overt & disguised manifestations

7)   Dissent from the One-World Techno-Narcissist mindset
algorithms and search-filters complement this dish, but feel free to serve it on its own

Persona Non Grata pairs well with a full-bodied Tuscan Chianti, or Montepulciano, but is especially enhanced by any vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored.

The census is a gun
and every  ten years for a bit of fun
someone
pulls the trigger.

The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more
but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the  score?

If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one
we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger
reviewed by counters
mounted in the book
and taken down
looked and read
underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms
drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender
this is the age of the want to know
and we're being counted
like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come
or when my numbers up
I will be done
shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly
in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game
we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score
and in the counting they'll count more and more
as if in some final lunacy
the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears
and say,
'thank God it's only once every ten years'

Data will as data does and do
and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again.
Censuses
another pain and millions more
and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes
all hope's lost
so be counted and don't count the cost
let the ones who get paid for this
kiss their sanity
goodbye.

You are more than numbers
You are so much more than numbers
Numbers are insignificant
And only pertain to algorithms that predict unfortunate things
Like death
And I’m sorry I forgot your birthday
But it’s just numbers and numbers aren't important to me
I remembered your favorite color
Blue
Because it is the color that describes that clichéd, shallow melancholy
Authors often glorify to make petty things seem magical
But blue is something you should never feel because you go so much deeper than that pettty feeling
And I know your favorite flower is the sweet pea
Because I remember that it symbolizes the shyness I’ve never felt around you
And the shyness I’ve never seen you exhibit
And I’m sorry I’m so quiet
It’s only because I want to tell you how beautiful you are
But I know I’ll never be able to find just the right words to tell you
That you’re imperfections perfected
And I love all the things you say you hate about yourself
And I love the way words sound on your lips
And how you throw your head forward when you laugh
And you’re all the poems I've ever written
Even the sad ones
Because you’re all the feelings I've ever felt
And I love the way your hand feels in mine
And I’m sorry I forgot your birthday
But I promise I always will
Because I have more important things to remember about you
Than numbers

monistical transcendents from complex
  algorithms in dancing neosouls
    growing formations of unaware
      intelligent abstract patterns as truth
   conceals the ever evolving dimension of
            another time space feeling
      lumbering freely among the stars

                   Judging by apparence it falls
unnaturally easy for the unconcerned to
         numb the emotions into whatever
    green is at hand as an underexposed
line overreacts as it hurls itself into a verbal
                            echo ...

.
                              Some say the scientific method
                              Is the ultimate algorithm and others
                              Prefer prayer.

For symbolists, all intelligence can be reduced to manipulating symbols, in the same way that a mathematician solves equations by replacing expressions by other expressions. Symbolists understand that you can't learn from scratch: you need some initial knowledge to go with the data. They've figured out how to incorporate pre-existing knowledge into learning, and how to combine different pieces of knowledge on the fly in order to solve new problems. Their master algorithm is inverse deduction, which figures out what knowledge is missing in order to make a deduction go through, and then makes it as general as possible.

                              Tea
                    ­          In its simplicity
                              Can sustain concentration

For connectionists, learning is what the brain does, and so what we need to do is reverse engineer it. The brain learns by adjusting the strengths of connections between neurons, and the crucial problem is figuring out which connections are to blame for which errors and changing them accordingly. The connectionists' master algorithm is back propagation, which compares a system's outputs with the desired one and then successively changes the connections in layer after layer of neurons so as to bring the output closer to what it should be.

                              Hungry and cold
                              A holy condition
                              A warrior's position in the world
                              
Evolutionaries believe that the mother of all learning is natural selection. If it made us, it can make anything, and all we need to do is simulate it on the computer. The key problem that evolutionaries solve is learning structure: not just adjusting parameters, like back propagation does, but creating the brain that these adjustments can then fine-tune. The evolutionaries' master algorithm is genetic programming, which mates and evolves computer programs in the same way that nature mates and evolves organisms.

                              Arithmetic
            ­                  A good ****'s the metric
                              Of a dying man

Bayesians are concerned above all with uncertainty. All learned knowledge is uncertain, and learning itself is a form of uncertain inference. The problem then becomes how to deal with noisy, incomplete, and even contradictory information without falling apart. The solution is probabilistic inference, and the master algorithm is Bayes' theorem and its derivatives. Bayes' theorem tell us how to incorporate new evidence into our beliefs, and probabilistic inference algorithms do that as efficiently as possible.

                              I can't believe
                              I won't live forever, therefore,
                              I invented an afterlife to supplement reincarnation

For analogizers, the key to learning is recognizing similarities between situations and thereby inferring other similarities. If two patients have similar symptoms, perhaps they have the same disease. The key problem is judging how similar two things are. The analogizers' master algorithm is the support vector machine, which figures out which experiences to remember and how to combine them to make new predictions.

                              Prepare for a powerful anesthesia
                              Chemical processes irresistible
                              A good and perfect rest

bicultural but not totally bilingual
kids will understand
the sheer embarrassment of having to copy-paste
what your parents text you
in their native language
into Google Translate
detect language
yes, to English, because it's the only thing
I truly understand
because I don't actually really know
what Mom's saying at the end
Do I really get the weight of each word she crafts
lovingly into characters I've learned
but words I don't quite string together
or meanings I don't quite grasp
I swear I do it's just I don't understand one hundred percent and if I could just
g e t those last few phrases
sometimes the entire paragraph she sends me
rather than rely on a gray text editor that spits back
in solid, black, unfeeling English alphabet
"Coming home is always welcome"
that's not my Mom's voice, with her smiling, sympathetic expression and
steaming rice and kimchi stew, warm laundry, and squeaky slippers
that's the translator mincing her words,
chopping and scrambling them into something
familiar to the brain but foreign to the heart
I know she means "I'm always welcome to come home"
but why
couldn't I have gotten that immediately
"I eat food well and I have to buy spring clothes."
No, Google, I'm sure
she means that I will eat her food well
and buy spring clothes with her
but machine learning algorithms aren't
perfect
not my mom
so how would I really know
I wish language could be copy-pasted into English in my mind
so that I didn't have to go through this
bland, unwilling, frugal third-party
that knows nothing about my culture
I am a copy-paste of my parents' DNA
in flesh and blood
so why is it that physically
I am connected
but mentally, intangibly,
I've lost connection
to the internet, and some features of Google Translate may be lost. Try again?

Standing with a rip world
I tweet my last piece
See you in hell algorithms!..
Resting in peace for a day!...
Using the hash tag #Twitter!.

she is an asylum,
her walls drip blackness
writing every word
that neglected
to slip past her
teeth,
she sleeps on
****-stained spring
mattresses as the
clod tiles bite
at her heels,
hair and skin hide
beneath her fingernails
as palms are twinged,
the padded walls
whisper screams
of coercion; wrists
bound by silence and
tightened by insanity.
to bedposts
rusted,
her hands retired on
ridged thighs
hugging her
goosebumps with
convulsions of agitation.
her mind
scratches melodies of an
insomniac,
the flickering lights choke
her vision and blind her speech.
a room of contradictions
irregulating regularities
intoxicating sobriety
hallucinating reality,
the muffled screams
that weave through
the fibres of the
pillow clinched tightly
in her lap harmonize
algorithms that pull
each padded wall
towards her howling
being — centrefold the room,
as the walls hug her body
she awakes and paints
antonyms to
perpetual despondency

Do not date boys who write poetry
Their careless skill with words will
Have you captured as but a passage
And you are so much more than that

Date a man who knows nothing of metaphors
Love someone who knows science
See if he can learn your algorithms
From energetic beginning
To entropic end
Who can experiment with bringing
Luminescence to your fingertips
And suns aflame within your stomach
Date a man who is dyslexic with emotion
Who knows nothing of metre and verse
Doesn’t know how to write poems
But writes you one anyway because you are his universe

Do not love boys who fall asleep with Bukowski beside their beds
They will try to pretend that their eruptions
Are frustrated justification for treating you like they learned from him
Volcanoes, they are not, they just simmer and seethe
Keeping you Vesuvius ossified
In petrified acceptance that all men are *******.
Going through implied inactions
Inspired by a *******
You deserve better than disasters and they are dangerous
And only beautiful from afar

They will never learn to write you right anyway

Similarly do not love mean who love late night cafes
Black filtered coffees and white unfiltered cigarettes
Their bitter jealous love will leave you in absolutes
It will stain you like so much scratched and battered woodwork
And here you could be a forest
Though they may *******
So sincerely
They are treacherous rain,
Slick on pavements
And storms in teacups
Though they may make you wet
So you call him convection clouds
They are just bad weather
Date someone who is up before the dawn
Because they just don't know what the day holds
But instead hold their cup of tea so sweet and milky
You jokingly call it candy,
And raise a cheers to the new morning
And whose hard heavy worn hands hold hard to your form
Who never touched nicotine because they lost a relative that way
Who never touched verse because life is enough of an education
They will know more about the world than those poetry boys anyway
Don't date boys who tell you you are fire
They are only looking to get burnt
And will add fuel to embers to ensure you don't get put out
Every sweet word is just lies
Don't date boys who say your eyes are the seas
To hell with cliches (and your eyes are brown anyway)
If they want to drown let them find someone else
With the same taste for saltwater

Don't date men who say "they can't describe you"
As they will try and each and every frustrated sentence
Will rattle you
They will call you legends
And not understand when you don't live up to the poorly
Constructed reality of the myth they envisaged

Every published word smells of every other girl
And remember every letter of every word they put out there
Is one millions scraps of drafts as prayer
So take their million million
Million, million metaphors for how much they love you
And return it to them unmarked or
"Could have done better - don't see me" .

You are not here to teach them
And you are a lesson they will not learn