the heavy heart is a heathen
corrupter of better nature
committer of soul-treason

fueled by the miserable notion
that death is twilight
and life is dawn

to flight, to flail
to rage, to rail
to weep, to wail
to no avail

to unhope

and all of this minus the mercy

©Jason Cole

why does the monster have to  come out of the shadows  

why have i become this evil being with no cause

is it because i fail and i have decided to Take whats mine

Choices we make reflect our actions trust me  i am not your savior i am completely a demon  to your parents eyes

the Corrupter which is false oh well past is past because i am a dark soul but i am still caring and will forever  Love is a sick sick feeling full of  idiotic happiness and false reality sky high then your on the ground broken in half

Aren't  all of man kind carry a black spot that is pure evil pure sick twisted hunger for revenge and the craving of wanting more and more

I keep on telling the truth,
You know, like you never do.
I call you by name and say
All I say about you is true.
I wrote poems about you,
What the hell do you want?
You ignore all I have said
You ignore all my taunts.

I want you to sue me
Then with proof that you lie
The world can finally rest
And bid you goodbye
As they drag your fat ***
Off to Leavenworth jail
Where you won’t have Twitter,
Internet or even email.

I hope you get convicted
As the Corrupter In Chief
Because you are nearly
The worst kind of public thief.
You steal from the poor
And have kidnapped children,
And you  think your cowardice
Is a secret and is hidden.

Daily I hope someone intelligent
Will go sue you for defaulting
On the promises you made us
That have been obviously insulting.
You broadcast your hatred for us if we
Are not rich, perverted Republicans.
Now you are reversing all the good
That decent people have done.

I am ashamed of the millions
Who act like you are Jesus
When it’s as plain as your nose
You are like an obese Rhesus.
I’m sorry so many people are nuts,
Too weak-minded to recognize
What an ugly fate for America
You are unveiling before their eyes.

She wonders why she wants more
More of what she shouldn’t have
Like poison or acid in her lungs
She should not want this
She should not want him

He is the poison running through her
The acid that’s tormenting her mind
She feels his presences inside of her
But yet she does not worry
She likes the feeling of losing hope
Of losing self respect
She does not care of what she sees herself as
But of what he sees in her

His eyes burn into her soul
They have corrupted in more ways than one
And therefore will lie forever
In her veins, in her mind and in her heart

She will look back on those days
And try to see what she saw in him
She will see nothing
But only remember of what he did
His kiss, his touch, his lips lingering along her neckline
All these will come back to her
And she will not mind

For her veins, and her mind, and her heart
They will all want it back
But now it will be to late
She has grown up and seen what he really is
A corrupter of the mind
Of the heart and of the veins that run threw her system
He will be there forever
And there’s nothing she can do

But she does not mind
For she wants him
No matter how he has possessed her
And has ruined her forever
She still wants the devil
And he still wants her soul

i once had two sessions with a west end
psychologist - a woman in her 50s or 60s...
she brewed chamomile tea (cha cha cha?
or cat? this aesthetic is a real burden for
some people - too many particulars to
remember - i blame the missing diacritical
marks, inviting the monopoly of
phonetic encoding, which put off the
people who are famous, because they never
wrote anything) - we spoke the first time
within the designated time-frame, a session
of an hour... i told her about a dream i had:
i am sitting with a boy in my room,
a hellish figure, gluttonous and burnt walks
in, behind him an artist's representation of
schizophrenia - the sole medical condition
that's abused by politics - shame really...
it means there's an authentic loss of understanding
what was once known as premature dementia -
long gone the ancient days of old age being
equated with melancholy - come forth the modern
age and old age being demented - as if to say
nothing was ever accomplished in the first place,
come old age: still no melancholy concerning
fulfilled accomplishments - i'm guessing 100
crosswords later, you'd get that...
about the same time when people are drawn away
from political language, and invited to play
games... bad move... whoever invented language
games never cared for the crucible of language's
essential purpose - to elevate, to elevate...
so this second session lasted well over 4 hours...
she really became a leech -
i told her about that dream, about those two
hellish figures, the boy sitting next to me just said:
this is Allah... so who the **** is this ***
accompanying him? i heard the story that Allah
has no accomplices... who's that?!
the rarity of a dream... so we talked for 4 hours about
this that and the other sipping chamomile tea...
buttery tea i call it...
                                    i'd eat a tonne of grass
to epitomise the muscles of horses, just to get
the right picture... then all the world went to ****...
quiet distinctly the memory of leaving one
of the two sessions, walking in the humid air of
west London, a woman dragging her caravan of
shopping bags... almost started weeping while
i passed her...
                         but what curiosity came when
psychologist said something encrypted in her sway
away from dogmatism -
                     she said to me: the police are looking
for a Greek...
                         i swear to god, i sometimes don't know
what people are talking about, it just fazes me,
fizzes in my insides and comes out as merely: huh?
the police are looking for a Greek.
        who's the Greek? do i know him?
  you sure they're not looking for a Roman?
         i used to do this trick when i reached the body
image zenith of finger down my throat,
and regurgitate chocolate - by the end i trained
my esophagus to the point where i was regurgitating
like if i were at a Roman food ****...
               it just came naturally...
  well, then i thought: **** it... can't be bothered,
i'm not getting any *****, and i'm putting all that work in...
  it's not worth it... let me get back into shape
with a lamb's torso... it really wasn't worth it...
still, the session was supposed to last an hour,
we started talking for 4... she got the money,
i just begat dim... and the light-bulb moment never came...
it's funny, because i was actually hiding a very simple
answer... but i did inspect the whole psychological spectrum...
didn't leave the practice any smarter,
i actually became smarter having experienced the rich boy's
treatment: psychology...          and the poor boy's treatment:
  psychiatry...            but i didn't leave the two
any wiser...           they really weren't that different
from zoological studies...
                         rich boy treatment didn't involve pills...
    poor boy's treatment did...
              my treatment just involved a drug of my choice
(a sleeping pill), alcohol - because i'd be raving mad
if i did have some sort of outlet - and a painkiller -
perfect night's sleep - and no Freudian ******* about
dreams having meaning - i need sleep,
   i don't need exploration of meaning that life designates
into some ******-pharmacological revision of the 1960s -
if you take acid wide-awake, there you are,
obstacles everywhere, nowhere is safe...
               dreams are like taking l.s.d. but in a controlled
environment: the unconscious...
               it's safe: the police are looking for a Greek?
what's that about? well, i guess 4 hours spent talking with
me is enough to produce such a random expression -
subsequently i have been profiled by the police:
one time lamenting in my garden,
          another time ******* in an alley,
     another time drinking beer on a bench in the centre of town,
  another time finishing a can of beer outside a shop
           in the outer-suburbia -
oh right, another time being driven home in one of their cars,
   those vans with cages, after being poisoned by warm
***** in a club and getting a Vladimir Klitschko handshake
to the cheek - stepped off the bus and landed face down
on the pavement - warm ***** is horrid enough,
           warm ***** that's spiked? that's another.
i'm wondering: do these people even know *******
someone, or am i experiencing one murderous ******
after another? it's just getting silly... it's like they're testing
the grounds for something shocking to jellyfish their *****
straight up to the moon: whizz-kids my ****.
but here i am, after all that - and i've picked up
essential Kierkegaard - you know... i think he's the first
man to create novels out of philosophy, he's actually
the first philosophical novelist... swear to god,
Nietzsche is nothing by comparison, i too could utter
maxim after maxim and later an aphorism or two...
but to write philosophy like a novel, Kierkegaard if your
man, your safest bet...
                                  he writes philosophy like a novel,
it just flows and flows out of him, if Nietzsche
is a poet-philosopher, then Kierkegaard is a novelist /
philosopher (yep, Zeus' lightning rod slash is just
as important as the hyphen compound -
                   which means the latter received all the appeal
that poetic hearts retain the most abhorred shadows:
that of women... horrid stuff) -
he was a true philosophical novelist.
              i guess the other thing to point out:
   i'll be known as the corrupter of old age -
        have no idea why children, animals and esp. old
people approach me while i'm minding my own business
     on park benches, smoking and drinking a beer -
but as it's said about western society: they simply
don't know how to drink *****! they haven't the foggiest!
ice cold, ice cold! warm ***** is horrid!
        this isn't whiskey, that wheat perfume...
you don't lounge with *****... ice cold... shot after shot
in between nibbles...
                                  and the drinking culture is even
worse, come to think about it in England...
                   no hot food, nibbles, crisps,
      chocolate... who... the... ****... drinks... alcohol...
of... that... calibre... and... nibbles... on... chocolate?!
              meat... meat, meat!
                           ah but wait...
   this country never experienced a Mongolian horde...
they're keen on the 19th century *******...
    the days when now wearing a hat was considered
a mental illness...
                                   they barely translated Descartes
into: he's not proving his existence,
             he's saying something akin to:
                         how thinking waterfalls' cascades into
either being, or non-being:
             hence the one side bravado and chauvinism,
and the other side shy sacred creature -
                  if you're conscious of thought
you won't shy away from it -
                                                       with so much sensual /
empirical ******* it's hard not to think,
         and the more it's easier to think, the harder it is
to be -                                  so we have the apples
and pears                    of Jacob -
               or as some old geezer once said (and rightly):
all the idiots have the confidence, while
                       the intelligentsia has all the doubts -
          guess that leaves the politicians as having
   all the necessary denials: primarily?
the denial of not lying.

By: Cedric McClester

Uncomfortable days
And sleepless nights
He eats their souls
In tiny bites
While promoting the
Supremacy of whites
The kind of controversy
In which he delights

They find themselves
Acquiescing
To various things
That he’s addressing
It takes a while for them
To learn their lesson
After they’ve become
One of his possessions

In good time
No one denies
Everything he touches
Eventually dies
Or becomes someone
For him to despise
With reputations tattered
Otherwise

If he’s not Satan,
Who is he then?
A corrupter
Of women and of men
Who swallows their souls
Like only he can
Which his victims
Eventually understand










Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

The Herd of Turtles

Shell of lies—you bear it proudly,
Thicker grows it every day.
Scoundrels shaped it, stacking loudly—
Truth? It’s long been burned away.

If your mind is dull and hollow,
Reason lost without a trace,
Soon your shell will feel too shallow—
Then they’ll lay you in your place.

And the others, creeping, crawling,
Won’t break free or drift apart.
They will march where lies are calling,
Herded turtles—what a art!



---------------------



SOS, or The Theater Starts with a Cloakroom, Hell—With Lies

A play begins where coats are hung,
But Hell is born from whispered lies.
And if you scan the news with eyes,
You'll see—deceit just multiplies.

The goal? To spread a Satan’s creed,
Corrupt the souls and twist the mind.
And oh, how well they sow the seed—
Now fascist rot is far and wide.

A world wrapped tight in fake delusion,
Lies upon lies—a grim decree.
Dishonor grows in dark profusion,
Defying nature’s purity.

Decay will spread, no way to halt it,
The point of no return is near.
A few more years—the end is calling...
"Now Saving Cattle—on the air!"



---------------------



Read, Reader—See the Lie, Viewer

Read on, dear reader—watch, observer,
As heaps of filthy lies expand.
Deceitful words, a sly corrupter,
Plant mirages in your hand.

It’s staged with skill, a mass production,
To rot the soul—that is the aim.
The devil thrives on mind destruction,
A herd of husks—his perfect game.

He builds a Pen—so vast, enclosing
A third of Earth within its wall.
And as the world in lies keeps dosing,
Fake plagues arise to doom us all.



---------------------



"Wise" and Other Rabble

Rabble’s mark—you’ll often find it
Stamped on "clever" heads as well.
Not just birth, but those who’d blind it,
Selling truth their souls would sell.

If you cheer while lies are spreading,
Aid the rot and play along,
Know—you join the mindless herding,
Spewing nonsense, loud and strong.



---------------------



Exists Only What the Screen Declares

What says the screen—that must be real,
No other world outside.
Dark is now the light they feel,
Truth is flipped and cast aside.

CowID, fear, the fools obey,
Another war in sight.
They "care"—or so they say,
But care has drowned us tight.

The world sank deep in blind submission,
Hell knocks beneath the floor.
We've almost breached the last partition—
Three out of four—mad to the core.



---------------------



Should I Multiply "Joy"?

Should I seek to multiply joy?
Well, frankly, I don’t care.
Awareness, that’s my only ploy,
Though bitterness fills the air.



---------------------



Pseudo-life Hanging by a Thread

Since childhood, hanging by a thread,
You don’t fall—you just drift away.
Seems you’ve found a way instead
To make that thread your home, they say.



---------------------



Global Madness

Springtime’s here, the madness grows—
Yes, that’s right—CowID’s the key!
We control the wretched flows,
Lies have almost set us free.



---------------------



Heat and the Wires Melt

The heat—and wires start to fry,
In Soviet homes, a desperate try.
If it's not ***** in your hand,
You’ll play the box, my friend—just stand.



---------------------



Curfew for Fools

Curfew falls for fools outside,
The streets are empty, cold, and wide.
The wise stay home, their minds intact,
For they know—the world is but a fact.



---------------------



Hermit Crab

My idol is the hermit crab,
A lazy soul, I don’t need lab.
To hell with life, I’m free, no care,
All my poems, just for me to share.

In everything, the pests will find,
A profit-seeking, greedy mind.



---------------------



Progress or Press?

The Wheel of Samsara CRUSHES
Fools with progress—empty lies.
The soul’s rebirth, it just pushes—
Hell’s PRESS will bring their demise!

Look around—are they still human,
Or icons of Satan’s reign?
Soft jelly fills their skulls, and
Their feelings burn with endless pain.

Driven by emotions’ fury,
Creatures march towards their doom—
Wars, fake plagues—their lies are blurry,
Peddling anything to bloom.

A few exceptions—statistical mistake,
But darkness drags each generation’s wake.
To deny the truth is sinful, so,
Seeing death—that’s the mortal woe...



---------------------



The Chancellor’s Deceit

The chancellor's schemes have led the way,
And in that filth, the people stray.
Believe the creatures, lose your soul—
No talent, no worth, no goal.



---------------------



News of Hell

The news is just a load of lies,
Propaganda fills the skies.
Not a day without the waste,
Insanity’s their latest taste.

They watch the fools with broken minds,
The result: nothing—just a grind.
Zero’s stretched to nothing more,
And Black God laughs forevermore.



---------------------



Horses at the Crossing

Horses die at the crossing's edge,
Left bank, right—both lead to dread.
From the mud to worse we ride,
Wait a bit—there’s no respite.
Rest? Unlikely—they’ll decide,
The beasts will beat you down with pride.



---------------------



"Upbringing" and the Future Path

A toddler bears a heavy load—
Rules of *******, set in stone.
Then he walks life's narrow road:
Coward, traitor… or just prone

To be foolish. Odds are high—
That’s his fate, unless one day
He resists and dares to try
Walking his own, freer way.

If he learns to think, not trust
Lies disguised as "wisdom" bright,
He will cast off Hell’s own rust,
Spread his wings and take to flight.

If in dreams and not awake,
Still, the day may come at last—
If he dares the veil to break,
Hell will fade into the past.

To the Spirit’s heights ascend,
But beware—one truth is raw:
Those who never dream or fend
Serve as chains for Evil’s law.



---------------------



****** of Mind and Talent by Overloading Memory with Nonsense

School exam – a child’s trial,
Workaholics, rise once more!
How much longer will denial
Crush young minds through mem’ry’s door?

How much longer will they force us,
Through their programs, through their rules?
This concern is most enormous
For the foes of kids and schools.

Schemes are crafted by the schemers –
Dumbing down’s their hidden aim.
Parents fail to see the dreamers
Taken hostage in this game...

What to learn? Not what—but thinking!
Through the spark of keen finesse!
Dullards rise, their reason sinking—
Schooling’s weight brings mind’s distress.



---------------------



Vile Traitors

The cash is gone—so fast it flew,
CowID declared in every nation.
But soon it chokes them, through and through,
A thorn unseen—yet no salvation.

No time to pay for what they’ve done—
These Judases will rot and perish.
The filth they spread will come undone,
The Earth won’t keep what none should cherish.

Yet few are pure—so loss is small,
Corruption weakens its foundation.
A better people soon will call
For kindness, strength, and restoration.

And what of those who stand alone?
We’ll see—the time itself will show it.
But liars bred by demons’ throne
Still flood the world, and devils stoke it.



---------------------



A Circus on a Wire

"Choosing presidents"—what a show!
A circus played on tightropes high.
The dumbed-down crowd must never know—
Deception rules, and truth’s a lie.

Propaganda spins the wheel,
Lifts a fool like Bush up tall.
Soulless jesters love to deal
Kingship to the lowest thrall.

Puppets bow to wicked lords—
Thus it’s always been before.
Fools are trapped in false accords,
Jesters rule forevermore.

A circus real—not just a play,
Theater's but a hollow dream.
If the world’s in Hell’s decay,
Then lies are ***** supreme.



---------------------



The World—A Dead Man’s Cart

The cart of death rolls on,
Its journey nearly gone.
No mercy, no revision—
The end is no decision.

So do not heed the mind,
But leave regrets behind.
Let spirit guide your motion—
A path, not mere devotion.

Just seek—don’t fear the night,
For seeking is the light.
The goal is not essential,
But seeking’s quintessential...

The mind may lead astray,
And cast you in delay.
The soul’s pure transformation
Is seen through revelation...



---------------------



Wild Game

Fences small yet close together—
People fail to break on through.
Many lost their best endeavors,
Struck by lies, disguised as true.

Falsehoods flourish, masks appealing,
Sugar-coated, painted bright.
Still in caves—our darkened ceilings,
Kin is "kin" and that feels right.

Nations, kennels filled with barking,
Set to clash in frenzied lies.
Feudal order, crude and starking,
Seems more human, seems more wise.

Times grow bitter, times grow colder,
Cruel, deceitful—on and on.
And the verdict, growing bolder:
We have reached the very BOTTOM.



--- Total 21 poems. ---