Happiness piques interest.
When happiness peaks it is
always nervous,
treading blindly,
violently
joyfully spinning and shaking my hair.
Liquids pouring in and out,
steadily.

Ripping, interdependent happiness
worse and better than solo sadness,
calling out or whispering,
strategically,
Admit that I exist. Admit that I existed!

Heaven is anticipation.
The edge of coming--always.
Heaven is walking out and into the clearing,
about to dance, the most primal dance.
About to eat, the most satisfying meal.

Culmination, the foreplay before death, is life.
Mortality arouses me,
viciously.
It blinds me, then allows me to see.
Pulls the covers on top of me.
Alive and gyrating on air
with isolation or autonomy,
happiness is coming all over me.

You have bestowed me with the indelible ink
And the pen dipped in it, flows effortlessly
Writing passionate words, in the pristine white
Pages, which are the canvas, of your faith in me
The supreme surrender to my muse
And I have been gifted with the freedom to emote
My inner feelings, completely exposed
As you are me, and I am you, our soul coalesced
As the passion has reached a crescendo
And the final ****** has reached a frenzied culmination





© Amitav (Radiance)

What substance was it?

The culmination of diamond-like shards
crushed and, then, melted into a precarious liquid
a liquid that follows the sway of a glass sphere attached to a glass stem
the end of which is rested between my lips
the length of the stem, itself, is clutched and rested between my index finger and my thumb
large clouds of odorless smoke besets the circumference of my bust as I exhale
immediate!
This substance will soon serenade the totality of my biology’s neurology.
Break that pipe now!
Simple glass that can be stepped on
crushed beneath feet!

What substance was that?
A human is free now
emancipated
the new substance of their affection is sobriety!

Author’s note: please, abate or diminish your substance abuse, if you have one. And, despite what I have alluded to within this poem, “sobriety” is never easily obtained, yet, it is very much worth the effort to obtain it.

A roaring event rips lives apart. Like a river that parts land into two banks. Sometimes brothers are rent apart by life, never to be joined again. Nations arise out of land that was once one.

Born of the same soil, yet separated by the rapid gusts of flowing water. At the culmination though, love breaks barriers. At the ocean, the roar of the river is drowned in the peace of the wave.

Sometimes, we must let go and let life mend itself.

When the river meets
the ocean, sands from two banks
mingle, become one

Yes, sir, I kissed her
On the mouth in the back of the bus
It was dark so I reached over and touched her
In a place where my fingers had never felt before
You bet your life, I kissed her
And guess what? She kissed me back
I 'bout had me a heart attack
When I felt her tongue on mine

She always has your eyes, darling one
It's how I know it's true
That there will never be another one
Who can do the things you do
No matter who she is
My, love, she always has your eyes
For your eyes are her eyes
It's not a surprise

Yes, sir, it hurt when she left me
I ain't ashamed to admit
Wonderin' how long until she'd forget me
You're ******* right she'll forget
You're best served with the truth, my foe
There's a lot you'll never know
So much I'll never tell you
For now it's time to go...

...go along, little dove, move along the straight and narrow. Bring along your bow and arrow. It's a small gate and few are the wasted who have tasted it's taste then wasted it's a band of jobless ruffians walking in a straight line, eyes locked straight ahead and determined to arrive at their destination. Dressed in monk's robes, their attire was not the only thing about them which conjured the appearance of a band of Tibetan's finest.
     Make haste! Go along, sweet caterpillar of the dawn. Gather your spawn and meet us on the backyard lawn. Make it quick, make your move, make every guitar pickin' note count. This is your time, La Penguin, it is the dawn of your destiny. The pawn of the mystic's I have placed upon a square I am not legally entitled to inhabit, figuring you would not notice it and even if you did you might not realize I was playing the match illegally. Royal eggs hatch regally, they are a meal of value and worth.
     Plath's dead voice recites her own poetry in the 74th century throught the medium of streaming music, which is every man's birthright. The inhabitants of this far off century are each and every soul well versed in song and voice, rythmn and melody, the poignant lyric in the third verse or during the chorus, their collective history was the culmination of thousands upon thousands of years totally absorbed in every aspect of MUSIC. To say they worshipped music would be to stop somewhat short of being the absolute truth but we listen anyway, we always do, good morning, I am the voice in your head. Have you finally befriended me? Finally accepted me and maybe even appreciated me? Regardless. I am the voice in your head. Do you want to know whose voice is in MY head? That's right: YOURS! Do you think this makes me any happier than the prospect of my being the voice in your head it's complicated, I'll grant that. But now that you're on a roll, what say we write some more crap poetry?

Try not to rhyme
No one does that anymore, that's reason enough
Yes, there is a secret meaning behind all this
You were not on my mind when I wrote this crap
If things had gone my way I could be making excruciatingly
Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?
I love all you *******, I really do
Some of you are genuine artists
Some of you can't write for ****
But that don't make it bad, does it?

Who is she?
She was a worm that crawled in your ear
One summer night while you slept in bed
Dreaming of the day your son
Shot you in the head
Then left you for dead
Wake up, David, wake up!
Fear not the tarantula, David, wake up!
For his bite doth not ****

...go along, feline substitute, your portmanteau is waiting. where are those people now who were so recently uncharitable? They've all been little boys before, every soldier in the field, every face behind bars, they've all had baths and someone to dry them off. Surely this must be? I am too wasted to go on.

Naya kudro. Reo o hart bonite. Rega in gavida, gavida. E qualid plea, senior away cast them in fee, el mquee.
Hula sona karay. Shis attune heh, hey hey, the grinavorte, honeas delong. O, fate be a queen. Allah's mortal today. The name. I don't want a name. Oh, no. The glad. Uh, uhhhhhhhh, uh, I'm madalam...you know....it's grand.......these sandwiches, they're grand.........beam me up, Scotty, you know the rest of the joke........Just like drums in an African rainforest, glistening with moisture, the rain mixing up the rythmns as drops make contact with skin. .........holding in past for the trial........coming in a car.........what a................you run, you running so much higher, climbing on a wire, you know..........you run, you running so much faster and now you're...........holding in past for the time......holding and caring for strange..........what catches your eye.........

I only thought I was too wasted to go on.
But this time
It's a for sure deal
I
am
too
wasted
to
continue

...to be continued

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n)Ethno-spirit and Biodiversity (Diogiversity)

Given its ethnikos factor and contribution towards a common origin of multiethnic and languages, in values and traditions, its morphological factors of Verthian sub-mythology, are provided with content, features, colors, and textures of neutrality, focused on a biosphere ecosystem, where the air conditioning, flora-fauna will make Sub-mythological Biodiversity, where the beings that inhabit it and will be in the range of evolution of mythological living beings, whose diversity of genetic seizures, will adopt natural and compound patterns, but always predominant in the biological pattern and organic. Wandering the world in desert places, in alloys and classified plant compounds, emptying their species through the hollow of the atmosphere and through the green grasslands in the reviving surviving evolution of organisms and species that for the first time see each other as a biotype between rocks and plantations, reciprocally among themselves, and extemporaneously generating mythological genetics heritages. Considering millions of years in evolution with explosions of multicellular and fossilized species extinct in massive and occlusive memories. Inert matter and geological strata will make millions of years converted into microseconds in the Verthian Biodiversity of the Duoverse, in a Psychic and spiritual Universe, emerging in all macroscopic perspectives and parapsychological regressions. Impact They will cause the maturity of all the diversity of externality and sensations in new topologies of anonymous universes and species of biodiversity, under a pillar of culture based on the Sub-Mythological biosphere process, encompassing all mythological species where the hope of Life and Super life. Transforming systems of functionality under the protection of spontaneous generation and in a matter that is availably underlined in the mountainous tissues of the mechanics of the subset of the air mass, water, climatic biospheres, and biogeochemistry, that in the unreal juncture of, and inter-procedural reality of carbon, that factor the species key and specimen disclosure, in the collection and in sinks, water drains but without carbon. encompassing all mythological species where the Life expectancy and Super life unfolds.

Hyperdisis, the galaxy connected to the Duoverso, in its biotic diversity, reinsert thick clumps of Nothofagus Obliqua forests, in waste processes, to domesticate the Leiak ethno-forest species, as balance nutrients and repair the disgraceful disgrace of unnatural toxicity and fragile of the agrosystem, maturing cultures and preventive pollination in succulent transfers for purposes of food webs and the environment. Making the appearance of species more effective and perceptible, reunited in community chains of coherence, to amortize low-resource needs and distance economic-political impacts, in view of new base resources and the sustainability of balance of allopathic crops, for the good of driving the extinction of plagues or flagrant excesses not converted, Hyperdisis has a mass of inert matter that creates accesses of resilience, for salinity, rainfall, and human adaptive mythological innovation, given its versatile opening of complement and generation of substances, for the convenience of living beings and No. Having adopted in the context of mythological Galaxy, related to beings of light comparable to distant elements, by means of Psychic Trisomies and tell transportation, for energy sources and soil and water mechanics with Leiak, constituting molecules for the simplification of phenomena of exacerbation of chronic diseases and endogenous. Forests and parks of Hyperdisis in the symbiotic open air, for more airs in microbiological space, in the intimate portion from greatest to least challenge of elements exclusive of antinomies of hieratic human bio culturalization, in a showcase of communities with an interest in technologies and renewable empirical usability, each part doing its scientific role and biodiversity in the portico of its home. As a hieratic quality, presenting amendments that are glimpsed and more existing, although it passes before our eyes without a Carbon Footprint, figuring logical mathematics by sponsoring its count more than a shadowy synthetic body, anticipating super-appraisal measures, averaging them in tiny theological portions, with varied and dissimilar levels of genetic habitats and alleles or heterozygous in the taxonomic functionality of reproductive and approving biological elements. The wealth and abundance of this item are delegated to Leiak, in all the revolutionary processes of the oak forests and the high mountains,

Within the gasifications of Cinnabar, there was Carbon in its Life cycle, being Zefián; the curator of the Duoverse, destined for a lifetime, under Universal and intergalactic effects. Claiming innocent beings with greater attributes of predation survival in the ecological chain, with the mix of Tsambika and Theoskepatis, granting multidirectional dynamic residual matter for green energy emissions. Feedback quantifies offset options in carbon circulation, offsetting multipurpose CO₂ inventory. Through the darkness Zefián and Vernarth traveled in the streets of Rhodes, and in Tsambika looking for the distilled portions of the carbon and sulfur emanated by the Cinnabar. In the same way Etréstles in Theoskepatis initiating with the Archpriest by virtue of the honors and the rubies of accumulations of water mass and of sulfur and carbonated air, which hung over the low sky of Rhodes and Kimolos. They were going to the Necropolis of Hellenika, when the gnostic rampages were glimpsed in the surrounding slab, minting half of the gold bars for the great goldsmith who erects the conventionality of having the physis imperturbably established, as a matter of patriarchal character. They entered Helleniká and the souls that wandered were ringed under crescent-encrusted rings, lavishing the independence of the night in the hands of Borker, which was reflected in the capitals of a mausoleum. Borker is consistent in saying that he is free in Helleniká, In the myth of the dustbin woodworm of the frieze where Etréstles perched next to Zefián's strap, who would manipulate the gold and alabaster chain, to pull its ascetic and rubies from it, approaching a final night in the astronomical autumn, in the last parapsychological regression of the god Vertumnus, which would embody the expiration of the Helleniká friezes by Kashmar branches decayed from vegetation and the tears of the Etruscan god Vertumnus. Making the branches of the Kashmar, the epithet of heraldry in the noble metals and woods of the autumn, and the mountainous temple of the one that follows the equinox in the meridian of seven days towards the southern and northern hemisphere. in the last parapsychological regression of the god Vertumnus, which would embody the expiration of the Helleniká friezes by Kashmar branches decayed from vegetation and the tears of the Etruscan god Vertumnus. Making the branches of the Kashmar, the epithet of heraldry in the noble metals and woods of the autumn. They enter the Necropolis of Helleniká, by upper and lower trays, cordoned off by obelisks in a series of petrified labels, in the square sections of the convergent ones and the linearity of the central pyramid, where they sponsored all the sectors of the stones of the prismatic geometric body, next to some piloneos that flanked the third of those that were in the figurative memory of funerary monuments of Vernarth. In harmony with the radiosities of the Cinnabar, they purged the carbon emanations in the intra-bodies of petrified breaths, expanding in the segments of frenetic life of the behavior of the inert matter, crushed by the organic, polishing the degrading character of the excavated prayers, under a superfluous shade. It was already dawn, Etréstles and the Archpriest broke the loaves to deposit them in the bowl of the Day, stretching in the arms of heaven under the gargle of the god Vertumnus who forged from the materiality of Jupiter. Vernarth nodded his head to the movement of the winds that cut the profile of a Citarista yawning on the frieze that raises all the crowns of the princes of the living-dead, making them part of the royal occasion, preparing petty spaces and tyrannies for devouring vassals in Helleniká, from the lair of his rib one, sees Diogenes of Sinope emerge, splitting with his doctrinal staff all the Isthmian paroxysms, which declared the cell of his life as Diogiversity.

"There were murmurs of astonishment at the surprising response of the wise man because no one dared to speak like that to the king. Alexander the Great asked: "Why do they call you Diogenes, the dog?", To which Diogenes replied: "Because I praise those who give me, I bark at those who don't give me, and the bad ones I bite." Again, more murmurs, but Alejandro was not moved by those answers and said: "Ask me what you want." So Diogenes, undeterred, replied: "Get away from where you are, you cover the sun for me"..., Vernarth replied: "Look for him in the bones of those who refused to die and fear beyond expiration who rejoices in the cold of the dean ossuary seed, without heat or memory here in Corinth and its Diogiversity ".

o)Reflection space length (π)

The hemispheres were out of proportion, one another was modified in the air, leaving the horizon exorbitant and the poles out of square. Coastal the lengths of the sun around areas that some Helleniká countrymen had never put on the crowns of their consciousness. Certain pressure changes dislocated other modules in the filaments that had rudimentary inaccuracies, creating reflection space failures in the installation of the Duoverso, due to the due calculation defect. The observations of Hyperdisis, generated superpositions of the Zigzag Universe, before the crescent moon, after the full moon, again de-calculating the sphere of Hyperdisis in relation to the ecstatic length of itself in the hands of a third of a second a day, to overflow in impositions that They revealed Dekas Cove in Kimonos(π).

The value of the opinion of reflections will be the originality of breaking of statics, of the motors of the verb and the conscience of the flushed being, and of erudition of the naive contrast when decanting the perceived morality. They concur with the moral value in every sub-mythology of an ambivalent being of supernatural human co-belonging, not dependent on gnoseological reflections, rather spontaneous under the embankment of reason. The latter being absent in the shadow of its shadow, no reflection can take hold of anti-values, self-valorized in contingencies under the effects of the drug of lies or truth, in a difficult equation to refer to in gnosis treatises, declaring the absence of consciousness to species without reflection or length of their molecular evolution, in evidence of mythological humans. The triangle Patmos, Rhodes, and Kímolos, make up a Venusian adonis, of stimuli in the nostrils of Aion, which sneezed on the integrity of the reflex arc at high speed superseded in the tremors of Athens until Hyperdisis, flashing anatomical and pejorative on the optic nerve of the Colossus Rodino, and the twisting of the multi-personal muscles..., but already depersonalized..., with little telluric reaction in the core of the symmetry of his legs, dodging as he thrashed on his frowned arms, behind the legs of the lycaons..., digging his jaws in reflex arches, for ages that only an immemorial one would enchant him, and be it the throbbing of the earth in the crust and seams of the calcined Colossus. Existing like this their reflection of attenuated light, they shook through the sea full of sinewy pieces of precise length. Frequently in the hydronium cations, undermining the temporality of Tsambika in random stones in the humid, and dark narrowness of the anthropic reflection, having lived in the heavenly paradise that formed them by the volcanic tube and its syngenetic, by the erosion of the subsoil of Rhodes. In Helleniká, everything that is expected, flows with the Meltemi tubularly, so that they are polyps of fluctuating desolation or placed above all zephyr or anti-wind, in ammonoids or ammonites; reviving from the seas it flows with the Meltemi tubularly, so that they are polyps of fluctuating desolation or placed above all zephyr or anti-wind, in ammonoids or ammonites; reviving from the seas from Devonian to Cretaceous, escaping from the ferocities of the Etesios and these same escaping from the roars of Vernarth.

p) One-Dimensional Beams II

When their ears fell in love with the Orthoptera or Grylloideas before Joshua, the night became restless, abandoning them from their shelters, they brushed the seeds of the thistle that trembled with the new millennium of the Duoverse. Levitating their ailerons in the tenors of their birth and dilettante sounds, before an ovipositing candor of the remains of the abdomen that remained in their jaws, always being from one of the Beams, for the largest Enciphers that hung from their antennas in search of Joshua's telepathic messages in the manger. Sappho of Mytilene, also known as Sappho of ****** or simply Sappho, pretended to be a marigold proliferating in the twenty corridors of the Greek poet, and also as the tenth poet in the other ten that was reflected with transparent wings of the dew that stuck, phenomenal of physique -Saphonic and in the recent rain of wind and condensed air, in the form of drops due to the sudden decrease in temperature in contact with cold surfaces. Sappho's dew was talked about in Kafersesuh, usually when it comes to condensation on a Poetic Grylloidae surface, naturally on the ground cover or artificially in a dull cloudy crystalline, in the amount of supernatural tradition, heroes, superheroes, and anti-heroes conspiring with the territorialities of hexagonality.

The Aramaic message comes forward with vigor from the orthopterans and birds that piled up on the journey, going back and forth. The Beams shone from the celestial kingdom holding on to the Cherubim and the Archangels, through the paths of conversion and the support of the bizarre Christian time, in implacable hegemony for the propaedeutic of phylogeny, but more than perfumers chemistry and the same creation. carrying Lepidoptera winged tetra and Sand Crickets, on the interlocking and obfuscated pheromones from a nascent-elemental child, in his own evangelical philosophy, from a winged dimensionality and in the gloom of Manger shouted and aligned, before the compendiums of double pyramidal landmarks and of inflection, of his word in the Grylloids and panaceas created in the affinities of the world and Animalia, stylizing muleteers carriers, phrasing acronyms and parabolizing the polygonic nomenclature of the child made a territorial man on the wings of a Cricket, already being it !, but representing himself as a lifeless man in the entirety of an advantageous canon child, from a sudden bi-dimensionality of Grylloideos. A great Zohar light gathered all towards a whole in those vantage points of terrestrial columns and orthopterans that Joshua felt in advance in his resined ears, like irreversible entropy giving back his wise existence to prepare them for the day of his holocaust. Pre Existing in catharsis and busilis substance of divinity connected with the Grylloid phylogenetic species, classifying until the Aramaic crackle, pontifying pheromones settled in the lithosphere site of Gethsemane, coincidence in the wading of a Libraco period, or in the phenomenological simultaneity of Eukaryota and Glaucophyta until late Animalia, giving relation parental in the characters of the vibrational timbre of the Beams and the atavistic pedestal, readapting in the evolutionary ellipticals of tetra-winged species, allowing to change the ancestral linguistic accouterments in processes of redesigning the genetic historical tree..., divine and increasing.

Inter-Duoverse, in space demography, has been frequented since today in a nuptiality between the Sun and Earth, wrapping the inter-generational homes that have prostrated themselves to the One-dimensional Beams, evolving millions of years between links of angels from the north and the south., for each year between half years and decades that the ancestors are passionate about, unleashing in what they aged in their youthful lives and eternal ideals, as an atom not guaranteed in families that did not get to know their Duoverse. When they walk through the urbanized farm of their parents they go in their shoes and in the paternal and inter-parental sun barefoot, the children travel far from the monographic patriarchy, declaring themselves between psychic families and unstable plots of core conformity and procreation.

The line of supra healthy cerebral is born from the Beams of deforested family trees and treasured in the Trunk of the seventh ascending generation, towards a nefarious tribal of industrious and vegetating regressive parapsychology, bringing zombie societies, to great lethargy that disorganizes the parallel emotion of the Being descended from a Messiah, with the prophetic organization. There in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, in past generations, the "IO" was omitted to limit them from the spellings like Ghost Cemetery lost in other lost sacramental ancestors. The inappropriate location of our ancestral duties has guided us in the axis of the pabulum, before the second coming of Messiah Parousia, to continue the re-sprouting foliage of the Universal theological tree. The children of the seven intergeneration generations, will be from the endearing of a patriarchal family, and those of Exo family lineage will be from outside the non-generational family, where everything flourishes according to the requiems of ******-domestic economies, and in the new chimera from new shocks and reprimands, already being spouses the Sun and the Earth after being divorced from a deluge of immolations and inter-millennia and rotations, further than those of any prophet wandering without advancing or rotating, enlisting and expiring in succumbed and pre-historicized generations of other prehistoric ones. Pre and post Flood; not presenting itself as the object of linking a thousand decades where not even a holy chirp from the Thrush, praises on the windows of the world bringing us babies that are born without past or future quantum generations. Ready to the hint of Duality and its nuptiality with the Sun and the Earth, They will make us magical creditors of the increase in demography and of unions that will marry in inter generations, not seeing passions in exhaustion, under the grass of the allegory of defeated love. Giving ourselves conjugal virtuosity, but of immanent dogma for the purposes of multi-figurative coexistence, under the Yoke of an individualized Faith, in the passing of millennia, we continue to crawl on the floor of the nebulae, and we do not rise to establish ourselves as masters of ecstasy, and the pendulum of the stars, creating us more in the orthogonal egalitarian of the cosmos and its Vernarthian architecture, of poly productivity, of Sun-Earth and its post-genetics, of high-grade clay, expanding with halberds on the self-insolated Suns, and highly calorific inherited towards a rupture of Solar freedom leaving us in the horizontal, not having ascendants of sin enriching their illicit chromosome. Made a beast, from the inertia of a paradise full of hidden public and private exchanges, but not secular, for those who pay tributes of ecstasy in a reborn and weakened state. This is how Diogiversality is verticalized (Diogenes's anthological action), concluding the variants that weaken the nexus of the denatured society of its atavistic social nuclear concomitant, extending eco-life gaps, but eco-unstructured and crucial inter-generational nature, being of arbitrary passion and of seismological doctrines, of haughty morality and of sociology fabrics without body or motor, with frail of castes and generations evolved age in a retrograde and elemental psychic sense, but biologically and reversibly to their boomerang lineage.

q)Amphibology Cosmogonic, Sub-Mythological root

The threshold, as a minimum rubric, must be in force from the Constellation of Orion, with barely a hundred millionths under the same eye of Orion and his psychophysical space, sensitive to the falcado charioteers and the water vessels on the backs of the probable Barnard Loop., and its nebula presence. The icy impulsiveness brought her under her right shoulder and the lean hollow under her arm unraveling from a staircase, at the entrance point of Betelgeuse coming from the cosmogony of Eridanus and in tune with Ptolemaic astrology. In the Sibyl and with a hint of a metric brilliant mass triplet, Betelgeuse Orionis, is the scale of the Aulos and piccolos expelling hydrogen as an Ace in 240 scales of harmonies and in sounds of light, for cycles and years of Light. The binary of Orion, is pre-born of the sub-mythological root, with binaries of Poetic Parapsychology, or Para-poetical; which is the trapezoid and the kinetics of the hunter Orion arrowing the Pleiades and its nebulous plains, with diametrical diarthrosis in his synovial joints, with the third militarizing joints already formed by the hyaline cartilage, which joins the two bones with the synovial fluid, before reaching the deltoid of Hunter Aurion, to awaken the Asleep world.

Vernarth in one of his adventures in Pella, scapula with his arms the force of the friction discs of the Olympics and corrected his hands and shoulders, for this purpose of Aurion and his dilettante Astro Betelgeuse, with giant arrows against matters towards the sky of its Constellation, embedded in beaten Odyssey and turpentine in the sullen Hellenistic, being for May its amber trapeze of trunk and arm, in each hand a Xifos and Dorus, always in right-handed hemispheric pathologies of their shrewd hands in Kopis swords, and in the memories of the wind that throws pain to the whistle of the combatant, when the meteorites decay in the Tyrrhenian Sea. With his brass-bronze club and Vernarth's corrosive breath, he proceeded to file odyssey on Eos's ******* and peduncles; Goddess of the Dawn, in Dionysian beauty in bulk, Mintaka, Alnitak, Alnilam, (The Three Mariah), For the twelfth lunation of the Celestial Vault, together with Pleione, in its bolometric Oceanid matrix; against borderline stellar magnitude in the major and minor dogs, and in there a priori waves of misdeeds lending measurements in the eyes of Aurion, always henchmen on their Pleiades.

From this intricacy, Cosmo-is born the Vernarth Duoverso incited towards the Horcondising, so that it is mythical co-property at the origin of the universality of the Duoverse in the Vernarth scapulae, bleeding towards the cosmos that was born from his stellar blood, conjuring chaos and uncertainty in messenger Gonies, facilitating community life free of ethnocentric, psychic, intersubjective life, the metaphor of myth and dogmatic, by the imaginary struggle that leads its bleeding back over the Cosmos, and its demiurgic brilliance over the atmosphere of the earth like bronzes that twist in the necks of oxen, that urinate on the officers of the Barnard Loop, and its polyphonic magnetic exciter, on it the ***** of Orion falling on the poles, like flagrant Amphibology.

The Kanti Steed and the Aurion nebula, to the beat of a waltz ionize, lavish chemical ions free of electrons, on the neutral molecules of Betelgeuse, to proclaim in the nerves of the shoulders and its bronze club, as musical praxis and harmony net, giving way to the nebula and the art of the Duoverso, which shows the pristine astral days, how his alchemical arm sprouting in chemo-astralities of the pectoral, and his armpit that joined in its maximum stick, cutting down roots of Olive Bernar, behind Barnard's Loops, in the midst of runaway stars that are systematized in their ionized bleeding esplanade, such as Stellae Novae, who retrograded the astronomical ritual into cosmogony, and in her escape by going at night to sleep near her father Poseidon and Euryale, who cheered him near the grassy fields to paste explosive clay on the sheet of his drunken smiley face with Ionic wine, in advance of spreading the nascent Duoverso throughout the new world.

r) Hyperdisis

Sitting on the edge of Andromeda, in his planetary chamber Zefián; The Duoverso computer separated the parasitic inter-chamber from the Duoverso, which would be born from the Auriga, which in his buggy would unleash the senses of structures and luminosity between this colossal interplanetary chamber. Being between points that venture through the axon of time infinitesimal and longitudinally for light-years, which even so, will intervene from the Duoverse, for thermal purposes and other changes of the remnants, when especially the luminosity will speak of the destruction of the darkness inherent in the eyes of the universe, which can only stabilize areas that have not been fused in the discs of the Universe-Duoverse spatiality, long before the initial explosive between the Constellation of Orion and Andromeda. Globular clusters that will make up the perfect delay of transfusing the blood and no other, which makes the character Hyper naming and hyper-pectoral blood, which flows from this tri-astral polynomial, compromising the method of area, shape, and refinement of the sagittal profile of Hyperdisis in the Duoverse in the reversible intergalactic plane. Going from lenticular to irregular over the keystone of the trapezoid, towards the right arm of Orion, where its radius becomes hypocentral sequentially, but it takes advantage of interstellar matter, to generate its own light. Some explicit explosive arms of Andromeda were expelled from their center towards the right arm of Orion, for the purpose of implosions in the effect of the clubs or snails, as a sublime effusion on other stars, which lost essential stellar mass, to differ from one another.

Radio-Patmos, or galactic energies of Andromedian origin, would arrive as devout prayers at the border of Skalá, such astro-omegas and Invisible Universes, which inhabit the flaccidity of the Universe of Consciousness of the pole contact with the Xifos or Kopis, when Andromeda contacts the spur of the clubs or snails, inciting the capos of Astro-Omegas spaces, which would begin to take the front and front, after having been the atrium of invisible stars, only visible in the spurs of the swords, which were only moistened with the viscous blood draining from Orion, towards Hellenic lands as Omega age, for Vernarth early when he carries the keys of the Omega World, towards the shadowy proto galaxies, knowing that the Milky Way and Andromeda come so close in their stellar mass, being able to collide in a few million of light years, in advance, since the Duoverse of Hyperdisis will be formed as a Galaxy of change, to interact with each other, dismembering, but re-transforming into the new speculative nucleus of the Duoverse as a great Black Hole, embedded in the Kardiá of Patmos.

Hyperdisis, navigates from the most ancient confines, from the origin of nothingness itself on the threshold of the Universe, but now it is already converted into the Duoverse, re-implanting itself in helical polarity, and in bifurcations of luminosity, of colorful reincarnations or astral, to consent to the cessation of darkness and valuing luminance, possessing colorimetry and chromatic steps of childish tales in infant galaxies, which in all the lives of Greece and Vernarth delivered for their ancestors, articulating the iconology of Orion, in candlesticks per square meter, in vigils of:

LV is the luminance, measured in Nits or candela per square meter (cd / m²).

• F is the luminous flux, in lumens for the Andromeda triad, Milky Way e Hyperdisis in conjunction with Orion.
• dS is the surface element considered in the triad of Kímolos, Rhodes, and Patmos.
• dΩ is the solid angle element, from Vernarth Omega and the origin of the Duoverse.
• θ is the angle between the diameter of Andromeda and the Milky Way (2.5 million light-years)

The luminance can be defined from the radiometric magnitude and the radiance without more than weighting each wavelength by the sensitivity curve of the eye. Thus, if LV is the luminance, Lλ represents the spectral radiance and V (λ) symbolizes the sensitivity curve of the Vernath's eye of the Betelgeuse area below, dumping plasma and bruises on the galaxies and the Orion Eyes.

s) Zigzag Universe

The Zig Zag Universe was and will be excluded between time and space, in a world adjusted to the senses that are driven within the contextual totality, the world and the biosphere framed in the phenomena of the Zig Zag Universe, being born on a stellar night when Our life searched the earth, being able to see how cordial matters of the cosmos caressed its cosmology, making it its magistracy and descendants of the Hellenic cosmos, in constant caresses of the universe already predisposed to the Bing Bang, emerging from another type of self-observation, seeing ourselves in the face of Horcondising anti-material and Universal Biomass. We preexist under science that models the system of energy and matter in causes of ancestors, with whom their vital and ours sneakily crashed. Gravity made great paternity in the Vernarth Biomass, being in the Dodecanese, being cosmos in its arcuate curvature, which makes us screen with the moon in its romantic astrophysical swings, and with the exaggerated geometry of a zigzag. We are the versatile and multi-dynamic mass that expands simultaneously in the head that pauses in the Nothofagus Obliqua of Vernarth's Horcondising and also time2-space2, which has not been troubled by the origin or abscess of the stars that move irregularly in zigzag, for the fractality of its component, which is clearly Aramaic blue light, in circuits of clusters and movements brushing the air, attracting the attention of the entire order of the hypnotized universe and making the duplication of the universe itself appear before them; in Duoverso that is the Universe shaken and young of its gratitude's ".The distribution of nearby galaxies are keys to the paleo universe already arranged in macro waves, which are percentages of spaces in the Trisolate energy fields, which interact with the Mashiach of Gethsemane phylogeny, now tending to a stagnant decomposed future, towards a specific frozen present. Its final station is to bet the Zig Zag Universe on the re-expanding temporal Medieval chrestomathy, in gregarious qualities of Sub-mythology, already conformed here in Archangelos. The implosion of gravity has created worlds of visibility in great astronomical yearnings, in some fractions of time zigzagged by millions of fractured light-years, as an irregularity that resembles the measurements of everything quantifiable, being omniscience or not, acquiring the hexagonality of the birthright in the passage, Here the Mashiach emerged and died in its abstraction in the One-dimensional Beams and in the foreign eyes, eroding those who are mortal and do not see with divine eyes in the self-resemblance, of our hypochondria and of the failed plan to amplify the size of the unknown analytic, of this new dimension in the implosive movement of the Verthian Duoverse. The nature of the snowflakes in Bethlehem are natural fractals, detailed in their nature and in the natural infinity, here the privileged new world was envisioned, for self-similarity in the speculative and cosmogonic functions of Vertnarth, at intervals in each space of the shadowy walls, bringing accelerated courier bombs from Gethsemane among mutated olive trees to other humans. "Its correlation is an infinite fractal with reversible observable time.

Finite is the curvature, between the time that walks between the grove of the Duo-Universe as an alternative of energy Zig Zag and Duoverso, which triggers our subconscious observable world, which is a great reflecting lantern eye, which ignores and prescribes extreme distant and focal parts of the One-dimensional Beams of Kafersuseh in Ein Karem, since the Duoverse is the trial Universe that the Mashiach had, before coming to the Holy Land, provided by his form of Hyperdisis escorting him from Betelgeuse and in Orion. Change from arduous colors to the gradient in Avant-Garde, for the confines of perspectives and verbality, in amendments of physical fields, interwoven by an external gravitational means. The macro waves, are exposed matter not contained in the abrupt changes of the optical selection of the Mashiach with the One-dimensional Beams, attracting selection crystals to atomize them, in reaction disturbances and recreation of multiform plasma saviors of Christian cosmic. The double expression of macro waves and the equation of them over the axial of the universe turned into the universe Duoverse, in millions of light-years will continue in the Duoverse, for ectoplasmic reconversion energy with great margins of assertiveness. The cartography in hyper diction will correct errors of the current universe, losing itself in the second thousandths of figures that separate us from the Universe, but all being more than time... !, remaining at the expense of the wick of all electro-matter " The double examination of the macro waves and the equation of them on the axial of the universe turned into Duoverse, in millions of light-years will continue in the Duoverse, for ectoplasmic reconversion with great margins of assertiveness. The cartography in hyper diction will correct errors of the current universe, losing itself in the second thousandths of figures that separate us from the Universe, but all of them being more than time... !, remaining at the expense of the wick of all electro-matter. The sub-mythology having already been constituted, Hestia appears, having slept a great slumber. When he appeared before Vernarth in Tsambika, he was seen changing in size, when he was six meters away he looked dwarf and when he was already two meters from him he looked monumentally huge, but in a versatile physiognomy, therefore he was already appreciated in his last steps, with her domestic Goddess figure that emanated light-years from the chimneys of the habitable galaxies. The critical immanence will happen, pre-existing of the perfectible plan for the Universe Zig Zag and Hyperdisis, as Hyper-Hestia, bringing torn words for those who were approaching the main altar of Vas Auric, which was in the great ratio of the proscenium in the vicinity of Tsambika, between Mind / Meditation for constant mechanisms of Wisdom / Meditate, according to the cosmological constant, taking them perhaps to the beginning of a decade and the third universe called Traverse. The oscillations of all these fantasies, Vernarth observed, but he knew that he would have to collide with these worlds finally already precipitated, and of temperature that acted on the average of the normal range, therefore it was imminent to mutate it to the provisional Christian Duoverse, which moves backward. among the dizzying lights of creation. Immediately afterward, the Universe has torn apart and lost among those around it, establishing itself in units of millions of years of light compressed in the piccolo Aulos, which Hestia carried in one of its golden hands, from the prytaneion, igniting with the flames of the Kardiá on fire and the passion of consanguineous love, "Prytaneum", the omphalos stone, marking the navel of the world with the boast of wandering towards the island of Delos, in the daily warmth of a spring afternoon in Rhodes. She is a woman with veils on her face, always walking to and from her virginal abode, in the house of foolish or vestal virgins, there is no Hestia, only maybe there are some similar ones staying in the cold fire of her menopause, losing fertility afterward. that his father swallowed it, and then it was expelled from himself, regurgitated in flames of love candles in a blessed house and full of immunity, giving the Duoverse another geometric category with never contained angles, sliding vibratory between the distances that discount minutes of the Hestian space, for such a corollary by approaching its finitude, and inaugurating the sub-finite, that it will never be the source of the end of a disconcerting end of time, neither equationally consummated nor physical. "This consolidates the Duoverse into Duo-Universe, expressed in figures that moderate the length of a physical state before it is finished and restarted in a process that does not end (sub-infinity)

t) Vernarth Omega (Ω) - Preface

before facing the Achaemenides. Being Omega and Micron in the warlike primer of their cause, within the prophetic in all necropolises of tiny omega (ω), towards an Omega that reaffirmed the good hand in Saint John the Apostle by rewriting the Apocalypse twice, coexisting the same but with the voice of Vernarth commanding the ten thousand Falangists, who made up inter-generational gaps, of camouflaged alien ancestors. For this purpose, he opened the windows with their pillars sheathed with tetrachloride of chlorine, at solid angles of Ω, in what was Virgo institutionum / Aurion-entity that interfered by projections and leaks, which converged on the strut of the omphalos of his heavenly father dealing frequently and bled his immortality, constituting from a helper being to the planes of subconscious reprogramming and perspective. With his arms raised, in each hand a raised sword to pierce the vanishing point, between the spaces that were ascribed, under the solid projection, from an observer that inhibits ad limits the biomass in all the masses of aqueous filter and lumen flow, towards the throne of the angelic guardian of Avant-guard by the stereotype and sclerosis of Zeus in his dissociated physicality, even though he is an amorphous entity with pulverized magnitudes, between Pi and Golden numbers, fading away without area or volume. Vernarth in the humanoid apocalypse was transfigured from a solid point in Hyperdisis, as a direct escape settlement to Aurion, towards a surface of conical vestige in three-dimensionality towards Andromeda, the Milky Way, and the shoulder of Betelgeuse,

Vernarth distracted the emeritus stars in the corner of his room and in the convex the points of his celestial patriarchs in the conical spheres of perenniality, leaving only solid angles in each of the two parts of space-delimited by two semi-planes that start from their common edge, under the ideal geometric concept and that it is only possible to partially represent it as duplication in parallelograms with a common side, symbolizing two half-planes, making from all distances seclusion of visions in the culmination of imagination and apparent angles, seen from any point of the Celestial Vault in invisible counterpoint.

The decalcified cells of Vernarth solfying together with Sophocles in orpheons after the victory of Salamis. Already being a tragedy in the next act of the prologue and their friendship bordering on his tragedy, he continues to exist in energetic arms to write, and Vernarth to dispute the characters from a regular prologue writing with his own blood hematology verses, which traveled meters and that they shrunk from the anti-verses scarring their declaimed intra-breath, in corals that only the wind clarifies of what precedes and happens towards the suffering, in the metrics of the Areimos chorus that were lectured anti-verses, and that they tried to ****** him from the hands to Sophocles, in immortality that refined him by abandoning him in sub-units. With masks and mythical cycles, he mixed the metaphorical facsimile of momentum and the separation of friendship with him, seeing him in an episode of his works, and instead of Vernarth's transcript sheltering him in the origins of the volatilizations of his orpheons, converted into physical waves of a dramatic-oracular order. Gods re-transformed into divination and futuristic germination, they were hidden dormant and forgotten in times of subconsciousness in the Selenite collection, felt in the Colossi signs of parliamentary, where the oracle leans on the lines of vibrational words and how they cough their " páthis "in the place where the language dissociated from the heart nucleus speaks. In misguided divination, the oracular mantic brought the cold of loneliness and the fiery heat that guesses in the laurel forests in oracular daphnomancy, Vernarth omega self-erects as a versatile column that temporalizes the threads of his organic brain, creating synaptic logos in Pashkein or the alert regret of abandoning the arm that rewrites his heroic Sophoclean and tragediographic biography, in ancients transiting in disintegrated emotionality and ****** Hellenic neurotransmission, "Two omega men or omega speedometers, carrying neurons from ankylosed and frustrated herd of pleasure, for tripartite meson form of routine grinding in Alzheimer's lost, lost in sympathetic and para-sympathetic routines, with probability of Hellenic gray matter; That is to say, of all memory that does not sin of ignorance in the ancient world, in more than nineteen hours of vehemence, the dangers will brighten when reliving nth times in the twilight of omega, Vernarth, was already narrowing on the tracontero Eurydice, to save his pains, deposed in terms that would renew anti-economies by supplying unsustainable in liquefactions and in synaptic melts, extra energetic vesicle of pure natural law of the eyebrows, of lunation that rests in the inter millennium, beating with ecstasy in the Buddhist suttas, and in the adaptation of the flesh of the hypersonic fissures of the Meltemi, and attachments that still beat over the dermis of pain. Vernarth draws his sword Xifos of phenomenal structure and he cuts on the Sutta or sermon that mimicked him at the time of the lunation, doing sabotage of redemption of the anti-verse from the court of Sophocles, as a myth-saboteur and anti-value, overvaluing the wiles of the same utilitarian tragedy, conquering in the curtain of mourning and sadness, unguarded and overcome by the stoic duel of jubilation. From here Vernarth, opens the gates of hell, eight hundred times going mad with omega value, by reiterating omeganymy, creates the numbering of the anti-verse and the suffering that does not even sleep further from the departure of a soul and a body only asleep of concave omega, overlapping in golden transfinite chests, which reorder the natural numerals with the ordinal transfinite omega, but on frictionless wheels of other omegas that break in recirculation rules on alpha, in supra omega levels such as parades, stamens, episodes, and Vernarth-omega paradigmatic exodus.

Omega I Prologue: "Once upon a time, amidst a rain of clouds full of drama, in a time that was oriented regime of the armpit of Betelgeuse and Aurion, 334 BC, it was the penultimate breeze of Tsambika, in the spiritual devotion that hovered over the unison voice in the magnanimous Zeusian chorus, as an alternate event of imprisoning past and next in an episode of the present act. The expectant was curious about the retouched makeup of the drama's superlative consonant, in a disembodied place, but with a good narrative source when it came to fruition. Here the myth is plausible, among everything mythical, more than all the super sums of expectations of the Ismo "

Parod I: "For the submissive words on the stage of the trident fire, where I have to warm my hands with ashes of eternal fire"
(Directing the scenes through the coripheum, there is the master lord who, in flames and by unequal numbers, pawned in the Aulos and piccolos, whose bare feet bordered the risk of the bellies of the Maenad damsels united in processions, between princes, powers and Dionysian dances holding on to the Pufios; in Baquian and ceremonial liturgy near Vernarth, taking a glass every seven minutes in animosity, in cages of his stuck little finger, whistling from organic pimping, next to dancers raising an arm and directing the palm towards the heaven, while the other remained down with the palm towards the earth; in this position, since he was like Vernarth buried by the tides of Patmos wandering him in times that marked the entrance from Mars to Jupiter, and from autumn to winter in fifteen times agreed with Sophocles, hanging from the penultimate to the entrance with his trembling voice desalted..., tolerating himself in his own tragedy)

This is I: "Through the right hemi-body, Vernarth intoned his laterality exposed in harsh penumbras, while Hera brandished over his existentialism clouds of oatmeal and candies in a liturgy, a homily that personified the Stasis, in the choral intermission resisting his angry hands in tragic passion and frenzy, unleashing oratory of self-blame, unraveling drama-tragic, and in each pause the emotion that was accompanied in new episodes when it was stoked "

(Vernarth says: "submitted in parts that are not its parts, my pain has blinded me, where it has embittered the conflict of ethical interest if the stars as a public cheer are anointed, sentencing the opposition of other lesser stars who cheer what that does not shine. The principle of the voice violates the normal parenthesis, which is governed by itself in the omega voice, mocking the modal in four magistrates, in martyrdoms of an ideal of the procession, each one being with his super-private toga, before me It must not be who recognizes if I will be who I am, on the seventh judgment of my surviving ethics)

Episode I: "Vernarth extrapolates the values of his judgment, which override the first, the coryphaeus directs his promenade from the countryside on his Horse Alikantus"

(Vernarth says: "I have instantiated the steps that my chestnut crossed with you in the future if I am to sing with a sorrowful voice, no choir will be able to follow me when you are gone. However, I have to define what personifies who, more than a thousand miles away, carries with him the lamp that opens the light of your roguish contemplation... "
Alikantus wailing says: "From the luster of your heartbeat, I obfuscated the jailer from your ribs, for the preference of the one who takes you even further in tempestuous pro-hedonistic prose "

Exodus I: "Sometimes the endings smell like fields of lavender, where the call of the almighty is heard, to take him over his loaded plantations, which are emerging from the dialogues in the afternoon with its twilight, as well as stanzas that smell of lavender anointing, separated in syllables and tonic that flex my charm, not to say that I was anointed with Lavender when I was prepubescent "

(In fifteen times, in syllables and rakes, the sentences of its paragraphs are sterilized, leaving the audience speechless, without a gesture or word that emanates from a sacred paradise, rather from the Stasis that never purged the omission of the syllable that is not of proscenium nor trident, but it is umlauts on Omega, between syllables of fire that burn from its proscenium)

With few and precise changes of consciousness, Vernarth approaches his Omega Point, as the end of his self is identical to his consciousness. He was leaving Tsambika and Kímolos, diligent towards Theoskepatis, warning Etréstles for defiance goods in the aftermath of the Eschaton. His spiritual cerebellum faded identically when he wandered through the distances of the entities that competed and are prominent, transforming his Hetairoi reliquary, here his tendentious impulse begins and dehumanizes him by becoming a Celestial entity, but with Noosphere endowment. The tendencies are established hyper-connected, with him Tsambika, Theoskepatis, and Patmos were triangulated for consummations and finality from the rudiment of Universal deity, reprogramming the end of restricted humanity to a mere boundary of dogmatic morality declared existential.

Within the Omega points, his unfolding acted as a disembodied statue and redemption of similarity and humanity, leading him to a self-conspiracy, by abandoning himself to his own equal, for the duration of the final sulfurous sublimation of the Cinnabar's margin of abstraction, after joining in all the quantum, physical and biological lines, making the Duoverse an inter chamber of the prior Master in a process of change, to sensitize his image of physical-chemical Man, but of God in his rigid powers. Cataloged as hommo sapiens who expresses himself in fallen beings under the arms of his sword in a limpid target, rather than in his own pointed tongue, and steely towards the point of unification in the hyper-dimensional of good achieve spatiality and volume, only contacted by his devoid of a Xifos hand. Consciousness rarely loomed in its compendium in nth bytes and data, much more than those recirculated in astrobiological quantum, creating blind exclusive and patrimonial universes, on the basis of nth bytes, which kept reorganizing itself in the personality of the unknown, fewer than four bridges of consciousness united in their own gregarious universe. The transcendence of the basic data of consciousness will lie in the Maenads, and their deliberate acre magic, extending through the limbs of the Nymphs, to re-possess it and take them to the confines of mystical paranoia, perhaps towards the embodied Vestal Virgins, purging their paths that they notice a variant of licentious departure in the stanzas when seeking final swings, which are not for the sake of shedding everything before the Universe rescinds its intellectual limitations, contracted in an orgiastic Imaginary Universe, and the precariousness of the concept transporting us to the origins of the species and its behavioral rapture of loss of sensation, and reason, for this reason, Vernarth takes them with him for his ******* and alienated perceiving of inherent reality and its opposite sunset. The ministry of the sacramental mystery is the consciousness of the Dionysian being in gestation, wanting to be the paroxysm of its equivalent, in an eternal Omega effect, for the purposes of omeganymy of conscious chaos, being the same portion of omega ad limit of its secondary reluctant personality of being, to found the hermit solitude on his revived empty ego, residing in his being by bilocating with two idiosyncrasies for a Venarthian Thiasoi, succumbing to weightlessness over all the Maenads and the intoxication of community in its opacity,

The madness was a transcript of reasons lost by the Vernarthian Omeganymy, sometimes the disproportionate of his steps by more than what should be generated was objected to in the circles of the Tsambika monastery. The unification of blood was confused by the viscous wine of the mysterious foliage of the Diospyros tree that led them through the enigmatic unaware, in primary practices that tore apart some somatized ones of the order of a third body, which still transmitted the last organic matter, refusing to spread at the omeganimic points. The consciousness of replicated beings of themselves challenged themselves towards the perfect copy of their transcendent alter ego, in an understanding of the present-future elucidating for whom or those who demystify the visions of an arbitrary creation, allied to the evolutionary myth-truth, in the face of any real and human maturity gap, the conclave of the near pious Christ, bequeathed in us and in the venerated hominization, at his sole and directional will. Now we are all in the aqueducts of Christian Science, for specimens of eternal categorization and frontally in view of a God-Mashiach, as ordinal inclusion and in greater ecumenical diversity, with variables of independence range, for staggering motor skills, retaining the attention of all the powers of the Christian world at an Omega point that seemed to be Alpha. The sense of the Duoverse in Vernarth Omega makes us rethink the central phenomenon of thought and frustrations, by the socialization of distant species from prudent dogmatic ostracism, towards refractory empathic and ultra-rational reasoning.

The supra intelligence has to become in them and those, the pre-existing point of duality, to reunify them in Patmos, as the only spirited meaning, and biomass evolving on the super-dimensioned materiality, in a greater radius where it will have to be delivered to whoever speaks with words. of living energy, and not complex towards all processes of emancipatory concord of personal authorship, on levels of relative lust in the absolution of medium integrity, and towards an elemental unitary totality of animal instinct guarded by the instinct of Being, that from its similar awakened rebirth of the sleeping mass matter, and in the animal purifying multiplicity. The man stands in his memorandum bend, like a haughty memorial, evolving in the cosmic expiration of the molecular transverse, admitting us in its vestige of complex extinction, but not in human slip, nor in acid and self-instituting scenery, on the real creation of its DNA, which reverts from the formality of helical reiterative rings, by heights of whoever oscillates in their coupled pairings, and their silent probable associations, in the nature of real origin and their structural perfection. The acceptability scenarios derive from the feasible concretion, and the approval of their tendencies and mobilizations of the structure of life, and codes greater than those that limit them to reside, to more than one body, residing from an incorporeal body, capable of its quantitative life and the extension of existence, super existing in the heights of the helical rings, which may vary more than they are, and which could be, without being seen under a scientific gaze. "Becoming a mechanics of maturation and prayer, which the energy from the material world to the spiritual, as a moving particle of inert matter in parasitized free radicals, which are re-energized by the mystery of the helical trans-threshold of the Aramaic mystery of the Olives Bern. "Vernarth disintegrates in omeganymy in laxity towards Aurion, descending pro-tenebrosity towards the profanity of Patmos, engulfed by Love in a dark summer, brushing the silos of DNA in the will of the automated world"

What’s new about Hipsters? It’s not that they're the first co-opted counter-culture, far from it. The Beats were co-opted. The Sentimentalists, over 200 years ago, were co-opted before capitalism was so industrious. It’s not even new that calling a ***** a ***** is offensive. “Hippies,” “Beatniks,” “Emos;” all insulting labels for youth that thought they were much more.

There it is, or some of it, perhaps. Does the current so-called counter-culture feel like they’re part of something much more? Even without labels, I don’t think they think of themselves as a counter-culture at all. The worst part about it is the Hipsters and  non-Hipsters are really much the same. Falling for a similar niche, but feeling like they ain’t.

We all like flannel, thick glasses, and good beers. We’re all killing Applebee’s. We’re the waitstaff there who laughs at ourselves, cause we’re just so low-down. Not the last, but toward the bottom rung of a ladder that once meant progress beyond our parents’ lives. We stand for nothing and everything, because a secure tomorrow seems unlikely and unwanted. Beget suburban kids like our parents did? Could I buy them as much as I had? A student loan on top of a mortgage, I think I’m better off paying exorbitant rent. Plus, it just feels more temporary, like everything else.

Late twenties, long passed the age my parents conceived, I’m getting old. Lack of full adult independence, still feel floated in embryonic fluid, trying not to give juvenile hopes up.  Qualified for that secure job, but is it open? Maybe I’ll have to move down South. Just like everyone else.

At least there’s always music. Nearly a century of recorded songs. Indie, Scene, and Emo; the last real counter-cultures associated with rock genres, and most practitioners scoffed at these labels. Why didn’t Punks or Metal Heads care?

More pressing, what is the newest rock genre? Emo faded nearly 10 years ago. Some formation of Americana seems sorta fitting now. Not far from that “Indie” umbrella,  it’s what Hipsters seem to like most, at least in the TV commercials. These more choral, sometimes bluesy bands. Some are good, but it’s nothing new.

Now, the algorithms anticipate evolution years in advance. All tastes like Styrofoam, so we spit it out fast. We keep skipping tracks to futility escape the same persistent hum. All the price for our growing clairvoyance. Telescopically, we are flying fast into a wall that ends originality. Too many citations needed. We enter them into software to manage. Our fear of plagiarism makes one uninfluenced instead of inspired. We just make homages. Turn anything creative into a list of allusions.

We forgot to forget
Suspend St. Anselm
patron of using rationality
to explain away one’s faith
in magic and mystery
God exists because
all we can imagine must exist
Your unicorns are but
a mind’s fusion of
horse and narwhal
and your culture is but
a culmination of has-been trends
So it’s all been done
Why try to change a thing?
Why try to be new?

This is the end. Not reflecting and absorbing past cultures with an eye to the future. But judging and consuming past cultures with with a carnal now. There are some niceties to be gained in solely present preoccupations. Yet, no Buddha abounds in these selfish meditations. We are no longer the bodhisattvas, suspending enlightenment to save all beings. “We’re woke, because we know we’re ******” Then we type a symbol for “laugh out loud,” while our mouths stayed closed. We take a morning slug and drive off to work. The complexity of our controllers v. the simple fleeting pleasures. What can I do? Why should I bat an eye at the way the world works?

you lay in bed next to me
with an anger uncontainable
you look into my eyes
with a hatred
inconcealable
you smile in my direction
but the dimples in your cheeks
never crease
like they used to
they called it love
they called it beautiful
all the things I grew up
waiting for
evolved to this
you were the culmination
of my childhood dreams
all the chapter books
with the hero and the princess
all the movies with the two
misguided kids finding
each other
you were the culmination
of everything I needed
all the one night stands
with women who never
got it the way you did
never saw me
the way you did
you were the trojan horse
that brought the walls to shambles
and left me crashing down
in the middle
of it all
an amazing fall
but we both know
the ground
hurts
and we both know
that movies are just
actors with a script
and books are
edited and rewritten
I thought I saw it
in those dimples
in those eyes
but now
you lay in bed next to me
and the sorrow
is unimaginable

prendi quello che ti ami
e bruciarlo basso

take what you love
and burn it down

Vernarth passed his house, opening his skylight, he soon felt that his parents were fighting, being able to realize that those aggressive words came from generational hindrances that anticipated the luminous tubular Omega, in the global level split from its lower part, (ω) above and it happens at the beginning of a beginning based on the end of a beginning a thousand times more than a threshold based on hundreds, appropriate from the metric unit of the numeral Myriaz = ten thousand, three times more than the Falangists, one thousand less than the Peltasts and three thousand less than the horsemen, total thirty-seven thousand less than the fighting forces in Gaugamela out of a total of forty-seven thousand, under the myriad Myriaz of Falangists undermined by their Xifos in the area of the right instep of each man faithful under his command, before facing the Achaemenides. Being Omega and Micrón in the warlike primer of their cause, within the prophetic in all necropolis of tiny omega (ω), towards an Omega that reaffirmed the upright hand in Saint John the Apostle to rewrite the Apocalypse twice, being the same one but with the voice of Vernarth commanding the ten thousand Falangists, who made up the inter-generational gaps, but of camouflaged alien ancestors. For this purpose, he opened the windows with their pillars sheathed with tetrachloride chloride, at solid angles of Ω, in what was Virgo institutionum / Oarion-entity that was intruded by the projections and leaks that converged on the strut of the omphalos of his celestial father dealing in frequency and bleeding of immortality, becoming from a helper to the planes of subconscious reprogramming and perspective. With his arms raised, and in each hand a sword raised to pierce the vanishing point, between the spaces that were assigned, under the solid projection, from an observer that inhibits ad limit the biomass in all the masses of aqueous filter and lumens, towards the throne of the angelic guardian of avant-guard by the stereotype and the sclerosis of Zeus in dissociated physicality, even though it is an amorphous entity and with pulverized magnitudes, between Pi and Golden numbers, fading away without area or volume. Vernarth in his humanoid apocalypse transfigured from a solid point in Hyperdisis as a direct escape settlement to Oarion, towards a conical vestige surface in three-dimensionality towards Andromeda, the Milky Way, and the shoulder of Betelgeuse.

Vernarth distracted the emeritus stars in the corner of his room and in the convexality of the points of his celestial parents in conical spheres of perenniality, leaving only solid angles in each of the two parts of space-delimited by two semi-planes that start from his common edge, under the ideal geometric concept and that it is only possible to partially represent it as duplication in parallelograms with a common side, symbolizing two half-planes, making from all distances seclusion of visions as a culmination of imagination and apparent angles, viewed from any point the Celestial Vault in invisible counterpoint.

The decalcified cells of Vernarth sang with Sophocles in choruses after the victory of Salamis. Already being a tragedy in the next act of the prologue and their friendship bordering on his tragedy, he continues to exist in energetic arms to write, and Vernarth to dispute the characters from a regular prologue writing the hemo-verses with his own blood, which traveled meters and that shrunk from the anti-verses, scarring their declaimed intra-breath, in choruses that only the wind clarifies of what precedes and happens towards suffering, in the metrics of the Areimos chorus that lectured anti-verses, which they tried to ****** from his hands to Sophocles, in the immortality that refined him by abandoning him in sub-units. With masks and mythical cycles he mixed the metaphorical facsimile of the momentum of separation of friendship with him, seeing it in an episode of his works, and instead of Vernarth's transcript, sheltering origins of volatilization in his choirs, converted into physical waves of a dramatic order -oracular. Gods re-transformed into divination and futuristic germination, who hid asleep and forgotten in a time of subconsciousness of the Selenite heritage, felt in Colossi of signs of parliamentary, where the oracle leans on the lines of the vibrational words and how they cough their " páthis ”in the place that speaks the language dissociated from the heart nucleus. In misguided divination, the oracular mantic brought the cold of solitude and the heat of fire that divines the forests on laurels of oracular daphnomancy, towards the ironies that banish the degrading systematized of frantic nervous suffering, burning in defaults of neurasthenia, before an omega elixir and neuro-analysis, given the ontogenetic passions, before cutting the nasal protrusion that crosses the fallopian tube, for the healing by fragmenting with the smell the existence of other genetic amphibologies of myth-genia, and that bifurcate the challenge of anger and disappointment of taking him with him in this suffering, taken from smell to disenchantment after thousands of unfortunate lunations against the tósigo that fills with appetite and perfidious reptile, on who walks on our destiny without knowing who it is that creeps.
Vernarth omega sets himself up as a versatile column that temporalizes the threads of his organic brain, creating synaptic logos in Pashkein on the alert of abandoning the arm that rewrites his heroic Sophoclean and tragediographic biography of ancients traveling in disintegrated emotionality and ****** Hellenic neurotransmission, “Two men omega in omega speedometers, carrying neurons from ankylosed and frustrated herd of pleasure for tripartite meso-form and roughing of routine Alzheimer's losses, lost in routines of the sympathetic and para-sympathetic, with the probability of loss of Hellenic gray matter; that is to say, of all memory that does not sin of ignorance in the ancient world, in more than nineteen hours and hours of vehemence, with brightened dangers of reliving umpteenth times in the twilight of omega, transcript and biological bend towards the man heavy with anguish, and more distant in all the lacerated ones that have mutilated or almost mutilated the conversion of the sternocleidomastoid, crushing the shoulders and the magical healing on the nasal sinuses, which strangle the pains in the face of selective suffering, indicative of rational martyrdom and temporary unhappiness in " extreme combat of dissatisfaction ”, allowing to channel resilient neurons that transit towards the neck for reasons that not even the neck understands, lobbing as it is not foreshadowed, neither in oracle, nor in its frustrating focal matter.
Vernarth, was already narrowing on the tracóntero Eurídice, to save his pains, deposed in terms that would renew anti economies of supplying unsustainable liquefactions and synaptic melts, extra energized of molds of purely natural law of the eyebrows and lunation that rests in the inter millennium, beating with ecstasy in the Buddhist Suttas, and in the adaptation of the flesh in the hypersonic fissures of the Metelmi and in the attachments that still beat on the dermis of pain. Vernarth draws his sword Xifos of phenomenal structure and cuts it over the Sutta or sermon that imitated the lunation to the compass, making this a sabotage of redemption and anti-verse from the court of Sophocles, as a myth-saboteur and anti-value, overestimating the tricks of the same utilitarian tragedy, defeating itself in the curtain of mourning and sadness, unguarded and overcome by the stoic duel of joy.
From here Vernarth opens the gates of hell, eight hundred times going mad with omega value, which by reiterating omeganymy, creates the numbering of the anti-verse and the suffering that does not even sleep further from the departure of a soul and in a body-only Asleep of omega concavity, superimposed on golden transfinite chests, which rearrange the natural numerals with those of transfinite ordinal omega, but on frictionless wheels of other omegas that break the recirculation rules on Alpha, on supra Omega levels like Parados -Estásimos- Episode and paradigmatic Exodus Vernarth-Omega.

Prologue Omega I:

Once upon a time, amidst the rain of clouds full of drama, in a time that was of the oriented regime of the Subacal of Betelgeuse and Aorion, 334 BC, it was the penultimate breeze of Tsambika, in the spiritual devotion that hovered over the unison voice in the magnanimous Zeusian chorus, as an alternating event of imprisoning past and future in an episode of the present act. The expectant was curious about the retouched makeup and superlative consonant of the drama, in a disembodied place, but with a good narrative source to bring it to fruition. Here the myth is plausible, among everything mythical, more than all the super sums of expectations of the Isimous.

Párodo I: "For the submissive words in the proscenium of the trident fire, where I have to warm my hands with ashes of eternal fire"
(Directing the scenes through the coripheum, there is the master lord who, in flames by unequal numbers, peoned in the Aulos and piccolos, whose bare feet bordered the risk of the bellies of the Maenad damsels united in processions, between princes, powers
and Dionysian dances holding on to the Pufios; in Baquiana and ceremonial liturgy near Vernarth, taking every seven minutes a glass of animadversion, in the tasting of his little finger, which screamed of organic pimping, together with the dancers raising one arm and directing the palm towards the sky, while the other remained down with the palm facing the ground; in this position that was already like Vernarth buried by the tides of Patmos wandering him in times that marked the entrance from Mars to Jupiter and from autumn to winter in fifteen times agreed with Sophocles, hanging from the third to last towards the entrance with his trembling voice desalted..., swallowing in his own tragedy)

Esthasimo II: "Through the right half body, Vernarth intoned what his laterality exposed him in harsh gloom, as Hera brandished oats and sweets clouds over his existentialism, which in the homily liturgy personified the stasis, in between coral bearing his hands enraged with tragic passion in his frenzy, unleashing oratory of self-blame, unraveling drama-tragic, and in each pause the emotion that was accompanied in new episodes of stirring up "

(Vernarth says: “submitted to parts that are not its parts because my pain has blinded me, where it has embittered the conflict of ethical interest if the stars as an applauded public are invested, who sentence the opposition of other lesser stars than They cheer what does not shine. The principle of the voice violates the normal parenthesis, which is governed by the omega voice, mocked in a modal by four magistrates, in the martyrdom of an idea of the procession, each one wearing his toga of super deprivation, before me that I will not be the one who recognizes if I will be who I am, on the seventh judgment of my surviving ethics)

Episode I: "Vernarth extrapolates the values of the judgment, of him that they annul the first, the coryphaeus directs his promenade from the countryside on his Alikanto Horse"

(Vernarth says: “I have instantiated the steps that in the future my chestnut crossed with you if I am to sing with a sorrowful voice, no choir will be able to follow me when you are no longer there. However, I have to guide what personifies who more than a thousand miles carries with him the chandelier that opens the light of your gazapa gaze... "

Alikanto wailing says: "From the luster of your heartbeats, I dazzled the jailer from your ribs, for the preference of those who take you even further in stormy prose pro-agonist"

Exodus I: “Sometimes the endings smell like lavender fields, where the call of the almighty is heard, to take him over his loaded plantations, which are emerging from the afternoon dialogues with their twilight, as well as stanzas that smell of anointing of lavenders, separated into syllables and tonic that arch my charm, not to say that I was anointed with Lavender as a child "
(In fifteen times, and syllables and rakes, they are sterilized in the sentences of their paragraphs, leaving the audience speechless, without a gesture or word that emanates from a sacred paradise, rather from the stasis that never purged the omission of the syllable that is not proscenium or trident, but it is umlauts on Omega, between syllables of fire that burn from its proscenium)

The inaugural bang swiveled with the vacant expressions of a muted feral crowd indignant about ethnic identity and swift in the recourse of tyrannical thugs pandering withered abuse

I solemnly abided in a chirpy itinerant glower against the exclusive system for stranding the disintegration of lyrical integrity for the Potemkin cheers of the culmination of too many jeers

Withered words for the abeyance of silence I incurred with wistful pleas for resurgent clarity beyond   sheepish fears

So I loitered in the evanescence of words..

Watching with alacrity as the strident ignorance of grafted wretchedness writhed its last mustered exsibilation at the sound of windbags bloviating beyond prodigal extravagance without a visible tweeted word

I measured my pause…..as I considered the heft of poignant exposures to a dismal serenade of miscegenated politics and garbled breaths of wheezy mendicants seeking participation in the trophy of smothered compliance

But I marveled simultaneously at the extinction of the shriveled crowds as they sized up the minutiae of wastrels glamorously inviting a frozen recapitulation of sorrows borrowed and wasted on minced platitudes that swindle still the votive confidence of regimented sympathy pretending empathy for soured hearts professedly defiant at their bereaved will

My pulse I clocked at 120 as I wondered where on earth the 140s and 150s have frittered their patience on with such brazen alacrity for the garish snarl of a sojourn into the ineffable effrontery of aureate mutiny against the tyrant of deaf spoon-fed indignation without the luxury of shared ignominy of memorable cadence for frippery in sparse blurbs registered in braille rather than brawn

Then I remembered my vociferous persnickety temperament and the curdled hatred of procrustean swan songs to an etiolating standard of ethical entanglement in aloof issues delivered with a decisive swoon too swift in earnestness to outfox with a quipped rebuff or a calculus of classical spoof

Then I wondered with a problematic but inherent prolixity…..
I too could adorn the adoring moon with a lyrical lampoon geared for a clockwork punchline or a winsome rebarbative tune….OR…. enchant with an incisive acerbic rant about how pasquinades outstay their welcome because of the clambered insistence of happenstance years ago in a blinkered mirror but never rehashed too soon

But where would affection heap its laurels if I dared to swindle the spotlight away from frisky poetasters who proved a renegade inspiration for fluttered triumph in a seaside tragedy only the crestfallen waves of pestilent Idiocracy could steal from my outstretched tenacity in verse and verve

Boom went a fulmination of hatred at my labored words! And then I swerved to avoid potholes of tenuous gainsay…. and other miscreants littering the world with misappropriated labels for laments belabored with publicity for displaced enmity distilled from a cauldron of mismatched ignorance….tethered to the vagrancy of gripe plucked at the ripe time for a twenty-dollar prize give or take a dime

But that dime separating 1990 from 2010 meant more than anything to a life littered with hallowed word crimes…. against the sanctimony of syncopation with cheap bleats too arrogant to be sheepish at the lavish indulgence of the marginalized wines…. brewed in a castle flickering on fiat worth rather than the simplicities of minutes of warbled time

So I currently warp minds with the proctor of a gamble too garish to finesse the quicksand of attrition but jaunty enough to bypass the limitations of a linear self-referential memorial about the circular nature of irony espoused by divorced rhymes

Now I stand ascendant….waiting for the retinues of retinas to absorb the wavy rigmarole of the serpentine pathways carved beneath the buzzwords of race and division and towards soldered unity with a human race beyond racism…. and a class divorced from socioeconomic crass division

Just then I arrived at serenity…. as I realized that the BAR exams that encage so many aspirant hearts are counterfeit in the court of the highest judiciary art that believes that insidious artifice is an embezzled venture of frolicsome guttersnipes wallowing in division can never revive a lifeless heart…. even if quick-witted credentialism rattles the slaves to vapid artforms that any humanism would never deem smart

Ditch the agitprop as a human frailty indentured to endure the curated disease without a cure to make the snollygosters in Washington ever so cocksure with their cockalorum disregard of the palatable consensus to make news real again….Finally for the fraternity of an enlightened human race in a benighted world of trendy fatuousness that infests the planet with the debauchery of glorified urchins jerking the levers with severed brevity to promote infectious foofaraw with cultural indemnity

I leave you with this

What is ornate complexity without the luxury of concerted beatific bliss that the parsecs that flummox your minds throb vehemently with cohesiveness in my internal design are not remiss

And remember the benighted standards of kitsch for the kitchens of penury bewitched don’t stand a chance against the overriding itch to vanquish mountains one after another to cross them off the list

Alone in this forest, away from all distractions
I've been trying to learn by heart the  verse, immortal
that speaks  in clear voice,on  every secret of the story we are,
But in each attempt, I found myself forgetting the  lines passed earlier,
when I reach the lake of total silence at the point of culmination.

"Where are you truth?where are you essence,light?"I cried out,
and thought that  the resultant echo has got it all wrong,
it really sounded odd.But I had crossed the point of no return.

But when I listened, intensely with my ears turned inwards
it sounded perfect"I am the verse immortal, the heart chants"

When one is merely trapped within the caverns of the mind; thoughtless, or in a raging battle with self analysis

In those moments there, arises opportunity to find complete listlessness

Provide reason to question; if any of it is worth a **** to the self or a single other

Allow contemplation of ideas concerning wasting away while we become the molded version of others

The others are the ones that we systematically seek out to assist us in the culmination of interaction needed to arrive in this place of thought

Yet somehow retain enough of the self to exist

Sometimes I think
Or feel
That this life is exactly like a dream
Like that dream that upon waking
Has you feeling mystified
With a dull aching inside
Still and small but vaster than the sum of all your parts
Left behind it closes when your eyes open
To be forgotten
When the new day's water comes rushing in

As if within your life
Is an endless spiral of other lives
Hidden so that you might feel
The culmination of their being
Leading up to you
Threading in the wakes of their rippling waves

Vanishing days
When you go down to leave your own
Ripples in the lake

(culmination)

trading closet fingers in the dark
best friends  knowing where to hide
our savored innocence
must have grinned
taking turns saying
your turn  my turn
hidden deep in smells of coats and sunless carpet
squeeze of family wardrobes
brushing fabric with my gasp or whining
itch in rapid breaths of hair on end
goosebumps pointing everywhere.

mom's vacuum caught our squealing
in a silent flick  pressed
between the wall and bed
between your russet legs my bookmark
bandaged there to get you well
your name means money
telling me you've paid me with your kiss
and worse your smile burns me
through your older sister's lipstick
like your sliding hand
i'm taking in your charcoal hair
the taste of salt i've never tasted since.

furthest from the future
single hormones savored at inception
bouldering we plant a famous kiss
pond-slick bodies slipping off each other in the sun
by ladders knocking knees
slender instant touches floating underneath
she asked me if i thought you **** laying there
your propped thigh towered vaster than the sky
me  writhing for an answer doomed
is all i salvage  time a mercy
like my father buried in his laps.

discussing copulation in a tree
we rose the bar on pleasures sought
our racing pulses lipped
to ***** our budding mores into flight
as if a dizzy kiss would lull me
off the branch to plummet at the ground
or make your belly grow.

green virgins of my youth  i hadn't known
a ****** river pours along our amethystine stair
our early blooming lucidness revealed
yet severed at our inner cry to usher in a storm.

growing older sobers what the vigor meant
despite a tripled sharpness
still i smell your sweat
as when we crept below as vagrant children hand in hand
the shutters always open  just for show
we stifle laughter in the nigh pubescent dark
watch them dine  hush
tickle after dinner play of shadows making love
through the windows we are them
blushing i will strip you as he strips his wife
widened gazes mime a sudden wincing
silent  fascinated fear commits us to the same
against the squeaky glass
exemplar bodies thrashing for the world
of flesh i want much more than most
i shatter windows just to show you that i can.

in growing i grow used to less
and as i learn of you  your troubles
i remember how i'd save you
save myself for perfect adult love
i can't save you  we just **** and wander  ****  wander  ****




.

Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul Armed to the Teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives Stayin' Alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on A Horse With No Name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist Thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from distant forbearance to nescient ultimatum and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam

Sins of the father,
Wrought perfection among the world,
In ways I feel farther,
From where the rest unfurled,
Colors are more vivid,
Life is now peak experience,
The people are livid,
But men will take chances,
Among rolling hills,
And steep cliffs,
Into the nine hells,
Just to procure these gifts,
To create the song of progress,
And sing it from their peaks,
Where parasites arrest,
But with knives and leeches the hosts will leak.
The sunlight warms our skin,
And generates life,
And blights are gems we force to glint,
The straightest of diamonds are forged in strife,
Cut in sharp language,
Originating in the furnace of others,
Whether in joy or anguish,
The culmination of lovers,
The poets of life,
The artists of death,
Photographers of honor,
And authors of theft,
The illustrators of ethics,
Profanity’s architects,
Gaia’s ventriloquists,
And the firstborn’s defects.
Formulated impressions have no need to advance,
The darkness of these times,
Warrant no more than slight glance,
If mimes have nothing to say,
We’ll burn the sky as they dance.
This is the letter home from the warrior,
And the drunken hubris of a poet,
The weathered steps of the courier,
And those he had met in his journey,
Whether or not they knew it.

Enter the vessel of 7 souls
7 Names crafted in ash
Rolling off sacred tongues
Dead languages given new life

The name of birth
Holds tightly to its catalyst
Strained in attempts to control
The ravenous hunger within

Abyss, forged in the darkness
From the whispers in my ear
The madness of childhood
Concieved in lingering shadow

Fiendish, the evolution
Insanity fueled nightmare
Manifestation of suffering
The true self of the mad king

Demise, father's reflection
Usher to the believers
Tricked by the twisted tongue
Murderer of dreams and innocence

Pantheon, the culmination of experience
Succeeding former capacaities
Far reaching to the fringes
Double-edged sword of progress

Obsidian, the lost one
Drifting into the empty spaces
The black hole of emotions
Always consuming ceaselessly

Legion, flagship of infinity
The millions within the singularity
Transcend the medium and grow
Violently, invade my madness

7 souls
At war
At peace
Slithering in my mind.

I never could've known the life we'd have
When we were young and drunk on discovery.

When you walked into my life like light flooding a room,
I never could've imagined what we'd build together.

As I hold the children you gave me in my arms,
The culmination of our intertwined hearts,
I feel so rich and full and satisfied.

I didn't know then, but I know now, just how beautiful it is to open your heart to another.

All that encompasses my survival of time
Are gloomy gray quiet nights
In this reoccurring winter of mine

As I fall upon the once trees
I relapse as I see
The solitary state of my life as I slowly freeze

Shivers slash my system as swords did once ago
While this quiet evening storm continues to grow

As I forget about my apathy
And the vacancy of tang in my life
Culmination is conceived
By the fine edge of this knife

Intro

Your voice always gets to me through
the convincing brutal honesty in verbal abuse.
From the moment I first heard you, I knew
I could never win with you,
but I didn't wanna lose,
'cause you made me high too.
I know it's not an excuse, but I choose
to stay confused and just refuse
to let it go and say goodbye to you.
What if I'll feel so empty without you?
Without the feeling I'm in now,
'cause I love being in it
forever everywhere, I swear, I mean it.
And I guess there's nothing wrong with having a little crush on you
just for a minute.
It's okay, but hey,
I'm not trying to justify a guy with a short fuse
and mean demeanor.
I mean, I know it can be meaner.
No matter how amused by you,
I kind of feel like I'm used.
Not that I accuse you, just warn you
that it's a bad habit you'd better not get used to.
Though, you're still my muse.
I wish I were your muse too
so that I could listen to your new song like I used to,
'cause it's exhausting,
but I can't help listening to your awesome anguishing agony,
your music you use to let loose,
release exhaust fumes,
your evergreen, everlasting spring in solitary, torturing you.
Much as I wouldn't dare fit in your shoes,
I'd like to rap with you, but I live in ludicrous blues.
You gave me so much pain and pleasure through your art,
that grew so deep into your soul and your body that you now embody rap.
And I want to thank you accordingly,
repay you with both sides of the same coin,
with the range of reflections from hilarious rage to evil love.
So, sweetie, sit back and relax,
while I'm performing to you my rap dance.
Enjoy.


Pipe Dream

Of course, you don't know me as a person.
By the way, it's also vice versa,
I don't know you either.
It's not like I wrote a lot of verses.
But I wish this one could make us closer.
It's a pity you'll never read it.
But if you did, it would mean the world to me,
especially if you wrote back.
It would be an event of the scale of the second advent,
'cause you are closed for me like a celestial deity,
hidden behind the veil of a subconscious dream so far,
at the same time, so close like God,
sorry, my bad, lord Satan.
As an artist, you draw attention to your life show
along with prayers, praise, and worshiping you kids’ letters,
not reaching the addressee.
Where do they go,
Santa Claus?
To the North Pole,
where it's so cold,
forty below zero?
Isn't it a bit too low for yo’ **-**-hos?
No, yeah, you're right.
What if an addresser
is a transgender ******, ******, or a crossdresser?
Still, it breaks my heart that it's just a pipe dream,
which is impossible to get satisfied with,
as appealing as it is.
Ah, what you gonna do?
An addict takes what he needs.
So I gotta try to make it come true.
I will keep writing to believe that I can get through to you.
I'm aware of how much time it may take.
But as long as magic is real, my feelings aren't fake.
I can always find time for you,
even though you never have it for me.
I don't care what your name is and where you are from
or how much money you've got in your bank account.
It only matters how you perform.
After all, you've won an Oscar,
not for being a good actor, though.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
Credit where credit’s due.
You did play your *** off
staying true to yourself, showed the world
your cold white cocky cheeky ***,
and opened up your incandescent soul
as if it's a bold, wide-open, giant *******,
inflicting your **** upon the world,
being a sassy drama-queen pain in the ***,
'cause you're an *******.
That may make me look like I'm your worst fan.
But I really didn't wanna hurt your feelings at all.
It's just, no matter what you do,
open your mouth, be sad as ****, or, God forbid, even smile,
some bunch of people that see you
somehow manage to get ******* every time.
You're **** right, it's true.
Well, I guess, of all people,
you should appreciate a rapturously sarcastic joy.
Don't take offense, I'm only kidding,
just playing with you, my favorite toy.
For what it's worth,
you are the best superhuman Rapboy
on Earth.
With this, you've been blessed and cursed, a sinner since birth.
Jesus, can you believe this?
They say you're a genius.
If it isn't love, I don't know what it is.
Except it might be some kind of addiction or a contagious disease.
And as every disease, it will increase,
then finally cease and release.
Or maybe not, then I will tragically die
and, hopefully, find my peace with ease.
Compared to tormenting life,
it must be a piece of cake,
easy as pie just to decease.
Anyway, you probably shouldn't even read this,
I have to admit.
Indeed, why would you read it,
when you got your own ****?
Well, I guess, everyone has a story nobody gives a **** about.
Anyhow, should you, however, dare read it now,
make sure you still have enough spare time
and there's no one around
to wipe your *** and polish your crown,
‘cause it's long, and you're not that young
to be disturbed or waste your time.
You know, I didn't want to post this verse at first.
Nor did I want to elaborate on many things.
Then some time has passed.
And my brain did it anyway,
‘cause it's what it does.
So I thought it's worth a shot.
What the hell? Let's see how it goes,
pens out, and grows.
It may get complicated.
But I hope you'll understand it.
You can do it. I believe in you.
It must not be that hard for a thinker of your caliber,
the caliber, intrinsic to Glocks.
Now, let's see how the magic works.
Are you ready, big fat rap star boy,
still sick, slim shady?
All right, let's go already.
Or I'll write a little bit more
by the time you have read it.
Note that I've got the same habit.
Since I was fifteen years old, I've had it.
That's about when my childhood ended,
and I happened to start listening to rap, also.
That’s right, I wrote poems.
That was my way to cope with problems.
As if constant self-digging can solve anything.
And I still write at times like it's my dope,
a slippery ***** for my word flow,
which, I hope, won't turn to be a suicide note
of a writer, who's already soaped the rope.
Don't worry, I'm fine.
Like your life is sacrificed for a reason,
all your **** is written for the sake of a rhyme.
The same is with mine.
Just make sure you don't sacrifice the reason for a rhyme
to realize in the end, that there's no rhyme or reason, in fact, in your life,
besides the one, created by your mind.
And it knows deep inside,
that there is no reason in a rhyme.
It's in your pain.
And even though you entertain,
you're definitely not a people pleaser. Right?
I know, this habit’s bad, it's wrong,
and I should stop, but no,
I keep editing and adding,
‘cause I'm an addict.
That's probably all perfectionists’ problem.
Thanks to the absence of writer’s block,
you also have it,
enjoying the process of getting inspired by your own notebook
with your code-like raps,
where you draw your sick brain’s map
to figure out or calculate the cure for you,
spill ill evil through your bleeding letters,
that can help others use ‘em as ladders
to get up above and beat their deep, bitter, sad madness,
being still angry, though, and stuck in old patterns.
By the way, I do it too.
So I’mma roast your *** in a stove
as no one else ever did before,
my tasty rabbit.
It's gonna be hotter than hell.
So hot that the devil himself
will envy you at first,
then feel so sorry for you, baby,
that he will even let you endeavor
to get into heaven.
May I have your attention, please?
Stand up for yourself, if you will.
No, wait, actually, the real question now is,
am I ready to mess with the real Slim Shady?
Wow! That's unheard of and a lil’ intimidatin’, to be honest.
So, be that as it may, we shall see.
I guess, it depends on how deep
we can take this… whatever it is.
Anyways, it won't hurt him, nope.
I promise.
I hope, you don't wanna burn this **** just yet.
After all, you haven't even read it.
If no, then let's get real. Get ready.
Shall we, Mr. Mathers-Shady?
Follow me, my dear.
Let's go already.


Obsession

I actually see that
we share the same illusion of
mutual love.
Sometimes it seems, though,
I'm a bit delusional
and stuck in appealing bluff
with my life, cut in half.
As I am torn in two between me and you,
getting the wrong impression
and making the false conclusion
of falling for you like a fool,
eager to lose myself in this confusion
and overwhelming passion,
in an instant, turning into the irrational obsession of a buff
that's stunningly never enough,
'cause it makes me feel special,
a rough fuse on the expression
of the eternal hunger for love.
Life is worthless without this feeling.
Isn't that how it's supposed to be?
I just gotta keep believing
that it's not destroying me.
I'd been living in denial for a long time, though,
lying to myself that you were not bad, not good either,
just gradually growing on me, fantasizing,
pretending that you could be my friend,
feigning that I wasn't your fan.
Unfortunately I am.
But I do my best not to be.
I do all I can.
It doesn't help.
Yeah, I know it's bad for my head.
Man, but I didn't even know
how seriously I was hooked on
your songs back then
and didn't realize
how deeply I was in love with my little, clandestine,
indecent, innocent, beautiful lies.
Yes, it's unhealthy.
Yet, I can't help it.
It just happened.
I guess it had to happen.
Dang! I don’t understand it
and hate to admit
that it's a nasty, hot pleasure and pain
to be your stan.
Still, I can't stand the idea that I can't leave ya,
no matter how hard I try.
I just can't withstand.
In my defense, I'm a petite woman,
and you're a superman.
As always, what I resist persists.
Maybe I'm trying too hard.
I guess, it's a curse of a perfectionist,
the neurosis of being too smart,
when a scull can't contain too big a brain,
which is pretty much useless for the heart.
I'd love to have faith in your words, my god,
believe the irresistible, sweet lie,
the convincing feeling
that you are extremely appealing and hot,
the attractive illusion I want to believe in.
I think I'll forgive you,
even if you hurt me, make me cry,
‘cause you are so sweet, smooth, and swift,
like a knife
for every bonnie girl to collide with.
And I don't know why
I have to live with this wound in my heart till the day I die,
this ****** hole, caused by cold steel of the blade, stealing my life.
Maybe it's because this wild fire,
being born in me, burns in me,
burning me while I'm still alive.
And I still can't understand why.
Beauty doesn't have to make sense, I guess,
unless you have the audience to impress.
Extremely explicit expression is sincere and enough to have meaningless ***
or even make love.
Man, if I've ever actually met you, I'd be like,
“Wow! How?
I mean, Hi.
My name is…
Ah, forget it.
It's nice to meet you.
But why the hell do I feel suddenly so ******* high right now?
If I died now, I wouldn't mind.”
Yeah, I do like you a lot, I like your style.
It's like I've known you all my life.
Man, are you outstanding.
I'd even wear a T-shirt with your face if I had one
to honor your eminent name and enrich your fandom.
So you see it's bad for mental health
to tell people, especially ****** poetry junkies everything about yourself.
You know, I'd love your words even more
if I were you.
I mean, if you were me, bro.
Nonetheless, I am the victim of your art now,
like in a way you are of mine.
You just don't know it yet,
being trapped by the sense of mind
in the cage of space and time.
Hard to read it, huh?
Sure, you can read it, duh.
Nothing is impossible for you, superstar.
Don't be ******* your stans. It's not fair.
Oh, you're not? You love ‘em? Okay, then.
It’s just, being your fan can be a sweet dream or a nightmare,
from which they can't wake up so far,
‘cause it's so good to not quite understand
that they all can be their own stars.
So in their souls, they really all are.


Addiction

I keep coming back to your addictive personality,
'cause it's a part of me,
my personal reality
in a childish, stupidly struggling with my own aggression mentality
that pulls me in like gravity
of the synergetic, badly needed duality.
You are my dark shade,
angry and always hungry twin
in a distorting mirror,
a meaner reflection in me.
And you complete me and keep me on track,
even though it leads to a brain wreck,
violent calamity,
causing a permanent damage
due to the lack of virtuous verbal morality,
offensive obscene insanity
that almost makes you a possessive fiend,
***** devil, pure evil, the enemy of the humanity,
having fun, making fun of everybody,
making fans of them, including me.
******* my brains, instead of making love,
******* with this ****** up reality
you tried to get distracted from
through getting addicted to drugs, though.
You would substitute your depression
with substance abuse and excessive passion,
embracing your obsession
and balancing in the range of rage and compassion,
hurting people you love
because people who were supposed to love you, hurt you too.
That, I have enough empathy to understand
for one reason.
And I'm not proud of it,
but I have to admit
that, sadly, I kinda do the same
for the same reasons.
Shame on me.
You know, even if you try all the drugs of the world,
you won't find the true meaning of existence.
Most importantly, you'll get no love.
Yeah, youth gives you tons of opportunities to check your body for resilience.
As if killing the body can make the spirit stronger.
Too strong a spirit can spare your body of the aging inconvenience
so that you would have no more doubts about your divine power any longer.
Then again, I don't wanna complain,
but I find myself in your pain,
drowned in the inane feeling I can't explain,
running away from this stupid game
to feel not so lame and remain sane,  
trying to commit to the promises I've made to myself in vain
about resolving the main issue of staying in the same habitual refrain,
even if I have to abstain from your demonic music with diabolical lyrics
or at least change my name,
claiming to have found a new aim to regain my dignity.
It’s supposed to make me feel better, but it ain’t.
I hope I'm on my way to break free from shame and blame,
the flame of emotional lability,
still restrained,
being mesmerized by the vicious samsara circle of infinity,
this magnificent ouroboros
of the endless sense of gain or loss,
stored in countless stories about yesterdays and tomorrows,
in the illusory plot, written carefully for us,
in neverending, invisible time that everyone borrows.
Now, I don't mind being a fan of someone who's already dead.
But of someone who's still alive?
That's just sick, living legend.
Don't you think?
Would you like to know the date of your dying day?
Or you're afraid?
How would it change your life?
Would foreseeing the future make you wiser?
Yeah, your life is not my business, I know.
I should be focused on my own.
See, I start realizing
that I’m a sinner, ‘cause I idolize you.
How did I end up in your satanic cult without invitation?
Boy, do I look yet like I need to be exorcized
or just meditate and exercise
in a silent harbor of a life-saving rehab
after a highly enlightening, heart-warming, emotional intervention?
As if I'm possessed by the supernatural force of obsession
that wants to be expressed with an excessive passion.
You know what I mean.
Man, you've been high so many times
that you forgot how to come down.
An addict turned into a drug,
creating literally a dope art,
even if it's ironically about recovery.
But the only difference is that now you are your own god,
while your bible is a dictionary,
which kinda looks like another addiction to me.
And once you felt it,
you just can't help it,
'cause you're an addict,
master of intellectual lust,
brain ******* graphomaniac,
skilled to cerebrally *******
till reaching an intellectual ******.
You’re trained to write till the pain in your brain.
I do get that too, yes.
But I'd rather have *** till the pain in my ***.
You don't enjoy your life.
That's why you try to hide behind your stupid rhymes,
covering your body with tattoos,
head in hood,
trying on horns and hooves.
Man, you're a ******* rapper,
'cause you're not happy.
When you are really happy,
you don't need any reason or words to heal.
Misery begets more misery.
But how come your pain brings speechless love that I feel?
It's a **** mystery.
Do you wanna be loved now or remembered forever?
You bully yourself to stay hungry.
Man, I think about you 24/7
to feed my libido, be in love,
stay inspired 100%, and
believe that I can live now and survive later,
as I'm overinspired by my love for you.
I'm not sure if I want to be always this honest.
Do you want me to?
Would you take a leap of faith in my truth
rather than inspire hope?
I ******* doubt it.
You did your best to get into my head,
my jam-tomorrow dope.
Now you can't get out and
act like you don't give a **** about it.
The first reaction is usually, "Why the **** do I need this?"
And next thing you know, you can't help inquiring,
"How am I supposed to live now without it?"
You made me fall in love with you,
popped up in my heart out of the blue.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan.
I'm high on you,
feel like I’m in heaven,
like I've never felt better,
not in this life, I haven't.
Yet, again, the best trip I'm having
turns into a massive crash of the system,
which is the side effect
of a major crush on you.
How the hell did that happen?
I wish it were just a squish,
‘cause I don't wanna be a part of your harem,
like you got no one better to do.
Oy oy oy, my bad, are you a nice, coy boy.
That's how it must feel to be the victim of a marketing ploy,
advertisement subterfuge.
But the toll we all have to pay
as consumers, trapped by an artificial but appealing rap decoy,
sometimes seems to be too huge.
You know, it's quite a toil
to use a troll as a *** toy
instead of a ***** or a *****,
‘cause sooner or later, you get annoyed
enough to turn a reader
into a writer, fighter for more freedom.
Fine by me.
It doesn't have to be a big deal, though.
Turn around, I'm here.
Boo!
I kid. Chill, it's just a joke,
and there’ll be more.
I know, to you, it's like a nice gesture.
Yeah, I'm funny like that,
such a clown, court jester.
See, the neurons, connected with you,
in my head, are so ******* fat.
I can't get rid of them just like that,
like you can't get rid of yours.
I mean those neurons,
responsible for your best singles,
favorite songs
that became your essence,
unwavering core,
ese, as endless rhyming essays
in the eternal spring of your solo soul.
So in the screaming silence of the solitude,
I lost my heart to you.
I’m wasted on yo’ bars.
You are amazing, dude.
I’m crazy about you.
It's so bizarre.
As your ambition was once to conquer the world,
mine is to conquer your heart and earn your love,
'cause you are currently my world.
My universe is you.
Well, *******!
Now, what am I supposed to do?


Fairy Tale

You can't force a person to see the world through your eyes,
nor is it possible to explain or describe
a three-dimensional feeling by means of words
unless your listener is familiar with it, of course,
‘cause while you are trying to convince an impervious fool,
there's nobody but you, as a rule,
to be receptive to the exaggerations of your word,
and at the end, you start to yell to get through as usual,
having convinced yourself even more.
But it sounds as if you are killing it like a boss,
making a mess of thoughts
I can relate to, 'cause
mine are similar, but yours are worse,
spectacular, but also ghastly, disgusting, crass, and gross.
Like grass, your **** grows and attracts flies and crows.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms,
bananas verbose neurosis,
but also awesome and so virtuoso.
Verbiage, verboseness, verbosity, verbosis
to show all the ******* who here the boss is,
rhyming circumlocution,
the freedom-of-speech revolution,
pleonasm,
the pleasant to ears associative redundancy of a word chasm.
It tastes so good,
even if it's a rhymeless wormy orange fruit
with a surreptitious core
I wouldn't risk foraging for food,
‘cause it looks suspicious, like a cute *****,
though, delicious till the very last bite
of the canned worm pie
on a golden wordish dish
with a red hot cherry on top that charms
as usual with the illusion of being in your right mind
and having the might to drop the mic
to paralyze and reward you with a cerebral ******.
And those bozos
who don't get it can **** your *****
and buzz off, morons.
Right? Just drop dead and permanently get lost.
I guess with this, you're blessed and cursed,
cursed to make crosswords out of curse words,
cursed to swear, spitting rhyming slurs,
hurting others’ feelings with your screaming street slim slam poetry about how Shady did it,
hidden in your diabolically crazy schemes,
arising from infuriating poverty,
just ‘cause that's how real this **** feels.
Well, duh. That hurts.
I didn't realize it at first.
Now I admire that you don't get tired
of trying to describe it,
Although inspiring,
it can be hard and unfulfilling,
but you're a fighter.
Rap god, living in us, you are one of us,
Houdini in a hoodie, who disappears whenever he wants,
hides under the hood, behind the bars.
It looks like we're on the same page.
I'm full of fierce rage,
balancing and cutting myself in half on a rough, iron, sharp edge
rather than in the golden middle between the extremes of the dualistic system.
You're on the rampage,
use your finesse to impress
for the sake of success.
Chasing perfection, neither can I finish writing this verse,
nor return the gift and close Pandora's box,
a perplexing, puzzling paradox.
I gave up. I can't stop
I'm in deep funky ****,
literally drowning in it,
taken, smitten. I'm ******,
apparently, permanently stuck,
and deeply, irreparably ****** up.
It seems to be as long as my life
with no dead ends and a deadline in the end of life,
a fantastic dream within a dream I'm in,
a fairy tale my soul comes in
to make love out of war
and die after ****** with an eternally grateful smile,
as if I'm sentenced to doing my time
writing sentences and lines in rhyme for life.
And I don't wanna do anything else.
What for?
Do I have to? Who cares?
The limit is the sky,
where my head stays
for a while.
Here I dwell in my fairy tale.
Why?
Why do I pursue unreachable perfection?
I don't know.
Why were we born?
Why do we live?
Why do we die?
Oh my, am I too high?
If not, am I creating a masterpiece or slowly losing my mind?
Am I like the butterfly that flies too close to the fire?
Why is it writing itself? What is this?
What the **** is this?
Can anyone explain it to me, please?
The prose of life with an empty purse
and pockets isn't my purpose.
Why the **** does it seem, then,
that the process of writing this verse is?
I'm inspired by everything at this point.
Every word is a potential trigger.
All I need is to pull it as quickly as possible.
Like literally, I hear a word,
and bam! My head is about to explode,
as if I am in God Mode.
Oh, no! Try to calm down, meditate. Doesn't work.
Should I meditate a bit more?
Yeah, sure. Why not?
Uh-oh, here we go again.
And I start to elaborate on the word that I've heard before,
turning it into the flow of rhyming thoughts
to the rhythm of my heart,
writing several verses at once
in different tongues,
both not quite civil, though.
I feel like I'm a walking poetry,
even better, a living controversy,
or an unstoppable stupid-genius oxymoron.
In fact, I've already gotten so high
that it looks like I'mma leave this planet far behind.
See, it sounds as if I was kidnapped,
taken roughly, though subliminally,
without preliminary tenderness or warnings
during napping,
unaware of what had happened,
like a precious princess
with a priceless soul of a dainty deity
and a diety, dandy, one-million-dollars-price silicone ***
by some kind of madness,
possessed by the destiny of a goddess and a demoness
in cahoots, en rapport with a rap poetess,
since I didn't start this emotional dance of the sense
from the cognitive mess
of the chaotic subconsciousness,
I think I can control more or less,
on purpose.
It was a coincidence,
like self-awareness,
for I am now the feeling,
one, alone,
at the same time, not at home.
There is, in fact, no me at all
or no meaning for all
beside the one that has found you.
It's your life, where you are free to move on.
I call it destiny.
Well, then let it be.
And who doesn't agree
can kiss the goddess’s *** for free.
You get the gist?
Please, don't resist the culmination of my made-up friendship,
I insist.
Sorry, I don't know why, but I just need this.
We are together in this sensation
that stubbornly persists to exist.
Would you care to accept the respect of a crazy fan and a frenzy friend, at least,
the affection of a hungry hunter, my rare and beautiful beast?
No? Man, all right, then, look.
I'll do all Cinderella's chores,
but I'll write a book.
It will be about you
and me,
and all people on the planet, actually,
for you to read, snuggled in a cozy nook.
I'm looking forward to
our virtual, romantic rendezvous,
where I'll leave you
with this shiny, glass shoe,
a virtual piece of me,
****** into the fairy-tale reality
you got hooked on already.
See you at the ball, my dark prince.
Face your fate on the day we meet.
Although it's blind, with no specific date,
don't be late, babe, please.
And, hey, just in case,
you may need to call for a priest.
No ****. As my first chore,
I've sewn my bootyhole,
‘cause princesses don't ****, don't ****,
and don't get old.
Or I'll just kiss a frog and see my pumpkin turn into a car.
Or even better, kiss me, and I'll wake up.


Stan’s Shadyverse

It's time to overcome my fear of you to disappear.
Your music flows already in my blood,
like a virus or a drug.
The ***** voice I hear,
your witty tongue, caressing, kissing, penetrating my ear,
touches my heart.
The devouring power
grabs my soul and drags it to the black hole of art,
the void of desire
that unavoidably draws a butterfly to the fire.
What a cruel life satire!
It's so **** beautiful
and looks as though
I'm literally about to see god,
even though I know I'm not.
I'm not that dumb,
just dumb enough
to think I am too smart for that.
I hope I won't lose my religion and not starting to write a new bible,
'cause what you sing and write,
it feels so right,
an enlightening bright ray of light at night
in your every single new album.
I love the way you tell your truth and lie.
I love the way you blow my mind,
causing something similar to euphoria,
the whole body's ******,
such a great pleasure. Oh, my!
But it sounds like you pay for this with your excruciating pain.
It comes to my head, screws my brain,
turns me on, and again,
rapes my mind.
You play me like a guitar.
In other words, I might say,
I love the way you sound,
like a little, fascinating, too loud tweety bird
in love, inspired in spring in the forest,
with a mellifluous voice,
who repeats again and again the same chorus
after a snappy verse with melodramatic words
and sings for the moment
of love that lasts as long as the bird’s song flows.
You don't want it to stop with the arousing desire to seize it, capture, shoot or record.
God, would I give it all to you,
if I were this kind of bird too.
However, the bird also yells a lot, spits, swears, *****, and mocks.
******* mockingbirds! They are the worst.
While I seem to express a meaningful feeling.
I mean, for some reason, it's very fulfilling
like a beautiful windy dance of a sense
and an emotion in energy motion
that doesn't even need to cling to words.
Still got a lot to stay severe about? So what?
There is no time.
You are now here with me, my funny, blue, serene forget-me-not.
With you, I feel no fear.
It sounds surreal, so weird, yet so astoundingly sincere.
In no way do I wanna hinder, or interfere.
But you complete me.
You brought me here.
Now I'm near you, I'm yours
in my daydream that feels so real,
so clear, so dear, so close.
Close the door, turn off your mind.
I will be soft and kind.
I give you my word.
Take off your clothes,
your flesh and bones,
expose your whole soul,
lose yourself in my world.
Come here. Calm down.
You are with me now.
I can't fake it
when I see you vulnerable and naked,
because being with you in the buff
makes me feel that I'm in love.
The ice, baby, break it.
Find yourself in the sea of my eyes, take it.
Here me out, acknowledge me, my god.
I want to be your peer without a doubt
or any intermediaries except one love,
that's free from a logical dualism between us.
I'm also standing on the stage, although behind the scenes,
clandestinely, as no one can see me.
As though I’m destined to persevere in
expressing myself in this verse.
Can I impress you like you impress me? Just curious,
reluctant to confess to a tempting attempt to sin.
I think it's innocent but serious,
the best delirious experience
I've ever felt with you within,
inside my mind, under my skin,
between reality and a 3D dramatic dream.
I mean you and me in
my strong, magnetic, parallel, shady Universe.
Or is it just a wrong, too long, pretentious pseudo-song that makes me furious?
I guess I'm not talented enough to be brief.
Not even close.
On the other hand, I prefer my ****** to never end
and to spread the ecstatic light of my love as far as possible.
My thoughts are just too concentrated into one sharp point or a sticky, thick ball.
They have to be diluted with water
to be baked as waffles.
In addition, God opened my skull
and made scrambled eggs of my brains
to be served on a silver plate with trifles.
What a savory course, delectable meal,
too enlightening, delightful, and intellectual even for me
to be cooked, gulped, and pooped into a gold bowl.
Being an amazing, captivating puzzle
and attractive word construction,
it can bewilder and bedazzle,
bamboozle, distract from the world destruction
which is pretty scary,
like a bad dream,
a realistic nightmare, worth hiding from in a daydream.
So I cling to this shady verse not to forget it
so that I don't have to feel sorry for myself later and ******* regret it.
Follow the white rabbit.
Do you get it?
Neo, take the right pill.
Be the creator of your own reality inside the matrix
you see in 2D,
because you know that in the other reality is the other you.
Switch your attitude,
shift your mood.
Paradoxically as it may sound,
to stay adequate in this reality,
you gotta get higher,
go beyond its boundaries,
zoom out,
and see it from outside for a while,
reach for the opposite extreme
and feel grateful for the opportunity
to increase the potential for further growth
and follow your dream.
Lose your mind for some time,
as if you are madly in love,
eager to give yourself to this feeling completely.
It's also fine to be in a surprised state of mind,
like when through humor or inappropriate ******,
you are freed, shocked, flashed, or mooned by someone just for fun.
Overcome the fear of leaving your comfort zone.
Lose yourself, but not for too long and too far
lest you get used to the new way of existence.
Keep the balanced distance
so that you could come back
before you forget how to be found.
You're allowed to do crazy things in your dreams as opposed to reality,
'cause you're basically unconscious,
I suppose, to get the full access to the freedom of will for your avatar,
when you are free from the system of rationality
and don't even notice being surrounded by nonsense.
When I OD on my dream, it engulfs me
and I become its slave.
But I can't bear the unbearable spirituality,
the thrill, filling my brain,
blowing my mind,
bearing me out of reality,
as if I'm inside and outside at the same time,
tripping to a new dimension,
blinded by it, like a mole on the concrete floor,
looking for salvation.
Just so you know, well, you know,
it has the power to burn, devour, and wipe you off the face of the Earth.
The mechanics is quite obvious.
When you overdose, the system registers errors
and the crash of your overwhelmed brain that can't keep pace with your thoughts.
It activates the programs of negative hormones to make you feel bad
so that you know that your good doesn't work.
So when you feel too good, it's bad,
'cause having fallen over the brink,
you may think you're still on board.
Yet, you find the opposite extreme
of life, which is the state of affect, in fact.
And you're toast. That's all.
Man, you can talk about this state of consciousness,
being in another one, as much as you want.
But all your words will stop making any sense,
as soon as you return to the first one.
So don't rock the boat.
At some point, you'll lose control.
This dope makes you, dupe, say "smart" stuff.
But every time, you, wise guy, somehow turn out to be Captain Obvious
with a perpetual motion machine, unstoppable engine in his ***.
And you present the obvious as the truth,
simply ingenious for you.
Yeah, sometimes I come up with smart things.
Well, they are not that smart, to be honest.
Also, being too smart in a stupid place can be pretty lonely.
So I find the right words to feel comfortable in this inhospitable world,
apparently, ruled by idiocracy,
pluck them right out of my dreams so I can grow
out of mundane mediocrity.
When you treat reality as a dream, though,
who enjoys all the freedom?
And what if he wakes up?
Will he remember it to read it?
Like he'd ever have any sentiments
for this epic monument to his character and his feeling.
Reality is relative, conditional.
It’s real only on condition that you take it seriously.
Are there other realities?
Do they really exist?
Any alternative reality proves that this one isn’t real.
And when you are in an alternate reality, you feel this.
Does it set you free?
There are many realities. Love is one.
Don’t forget to have fun.


Baby Steps

This piece of art is full of deceptively smart,
discombobulating, bombastic aphorisms,
idiotic idioms,
Sancho Panza's *** wisdom,
mind-puzzling tongue twisters, corny metaphors,
oversatiated with the false force
of never satisfying rhyming words anyway.
I'll eventually throw it away someday.
But not now, no. I won't leave it alone.
I'm not ready to let it go.
Although I know I am being greedy,
and I agree, duh, I do need it,
I am still thrilled to read it.
I don't want to part with it,
as if it is a part of me, and I'm a part of it.
This rough, raw draft is like a flimsy raft in the sea,
that goes with the flow to stay afloat,
not to drown and dissolve,
but to swim.
Yet, simultaneously,
I definitely gotta direct it somehow to where I need it to be,
approach the destination of my destiny,
where desperation’s unknown
in the dead silent pause
before the deafening squall of applause.
But now it's still a crass lump of sugar, slowly melting,
being imminently washed away by water in raccoon's paws,
slipping through fingers words,
filled with the meaning,
leaving me with an inexplicable feeling,
the majestic, magical sense in the system of the pure mind,
filled with glow,
a precious stone, almost stolen by a crow,
I enjoy watching.
But looking closer, one may notice
it's just a useless piece of coarse glass,
dirt, scooped up from the bottom of my soul.
I literally litter literarily,
drastically sarcastically spiritually,
a poet, obsessed with my own poem,
sick freak, losing my mind for a moment,
overachieving geek, falling in love for the first time
from the first sight with the first lines.
It could be called poetic, if not intimidating.
It's unforgivable. Can I forget it?
Maybe, not to be too crude straight away,
I should consider baby steps and gently start the process,
at least, with words first, let's say…
"Will you kindly ***** up your courage and hold it together?
What is the matter with you?
Are you insane?
******* ******,
it's not funny, nor is it funky.
Bite the bullet.
Stop it, stupid. Wake up,
star-struck dumb ****,
messy, ***** missy,
*****.
Get real, naive dreamer.
Just lose it, change the ******* music,
deluded miserable loser!
It's hard to grow up. So what?
**** it up.
Face it, ******* ****.
Cope with it, stupid ****.
Just so you know, toilet poet, this mediocre ******* doesn't mean anything to me.
I don't give a ****, *****.
Toss it to the garbage.
To my mind, it's so disturbing, makes me cringe.
Stop wasting your time, acting like a system's glitch.
What, you stupid?
I'm putting my foot down, lousy clown,
******* ****** ***** *****.
Let it go or get lost in your god
and leave me alone."
"Well, if you say so…
On second thought, no, I won't.
Respectfully, I disagree.
You want a piece of me?
What, you smart?
No, you're not.
You're just an ordinary idiot.
Uh-uh, shush, do not interrupt.
It's my turn now, I'm talking. Zip it.
I have a piece of advice for you too.
How about you shut up and eat me.
Now I suppose I got beef with you.
Is that what you want? *****, please.
What is the matter with ME?
Are you for real?
So much for the champion of morality.
Good God, what's the big deal?
You have got to be kidding me.
Or are you really some kind of ******, *****, or a imbecile?
And who the **** are you to judge me?
What the hell is wrong with YOU?
What are you ******* about?
Why do you care for preaching,
when you don't even like to teach, huh?
Must be some kind of breach, though.
If you feel so estranged from me,
why don't you build a bridge and get over it?
In any case, I don't need a teacher.
I'll learn on my own.
Should you still gonna teach me,
trying to beat me with the heavy artillery of a tough rhyme,
can I have this class on advanced rap really fast?
'Cause I don't wanna lose my time.
Otherwise, if I do, I'll make you go through some tough times,
'cause this time you'll have to deal with MY really rough rhymes.
And if you absolutely need to know,
I’m not insane. I’m in love.
Yeah, I know you think it's the same, but it's not.
So knock it off, *****, enough.
Shut your stupid big mouth and *******.
***** you, tactless, unthankful, insensitive fool.
Oh, yeah, sure. Now you're so mature.
Cut me some slack, judgmental prima donna.
Without me, you'll feel empty and so lonely.
Just so you know,
I complete you, make you whole.
But I'd be cool without your concern, yeah,
and your pathetic rebuke.
I make you cringe?
You make me puke,
'cause you're getting my goat now.
And in my humble opinion, **** your opinion.
It's not even critical.
You're just being mean,
too subjective, basic, and hypocritical.
So take it back, or you'll regret,
'cause I'd be glad to shove it into your throat
to finally shut your ******* piehole.
On the other hand, thank you for your opinion.
I'll take it along with my own
and gracefully balance between them.
FYI, you can only pry this verse out of the dead grip of my corpse, dumb *****.
Throw it away?
Are you ******* insane?
Listen to yourself!
What the **** are you saying?
Bite me and thanks a bunch,
******* very much
for your ******* questionable,
supposedly encouraging, rather enraging,
arguable, pep talk,
so-called "motivational"speech.
Hogwash!
Go to hell and **** yourself,
get lost before you bite the dust,
gut-wrenching, nagging leech.
Or I'll make you put your ******* foot
in your filthy mouth
and won't let you take it out,
hold it till you swallow your own *****.
How does that sound?
I'm through with people telling me what to do.
So go take a flying **** at a rolling donut.
I'm standing my ground.
If after all this, you still think that you won,
you must be a ******, believe it or not.
Well, you may believe whatever you want.
Let me be honest with you.
I'd like to enlighten you too.
I don't even need to prove you wrong,
‘cause that's what you prolly already know on your own,
though only subliminally,
since you are the one
who still wants to say something to me.
To my mind, you are out of your mind,
'cause it's not only yours, it's also mine.
If you don't see me any longer,
so long, then.
In my god, I'm dissolving."
Ok, that's it. I'd better get over with this ironic moronic controversial converse,
steeped in speculations, exaggerations, and, possibly, false accusations.
I'm done talking to me and myself,
don't know how else it's supposed to be said.
All I know is it's not supposed to be sad.
It's supposed to be fun.


Fake Poet

So **** being normal.
I, too, want to get through the time portal to become immortal alright.
Though, be careful what you wish for, right?
I don't like to hurt people's feelings,
but I'm tired of casting pearls before swine,
like humanizing spells on those who don't even need to be humanized.
It's venial for an artist to love his ego because he loves his art,
created by his personality which he also sees as a work of art, while
an author has to love his character so that the character should be alive.
That's why you create your alter ego as your best friend in your own image.
And since the observer can't be observed,
like the feeling, owning you, can't be analyzed,
this way, through co-creation, you talk with God.
****, that's ******* high Sci-Fi,
not stupid Fan-Fi.)
Well, all artists are ****** up.
So welcome to the club,
home for talented human beings
with the divine energy inside
so you could imagine that you could see yourself from afar.
Yeah, I probly need a shrink, but I can't afford it.
And you know what? I think I actually don't even want it.
Neither do you, as your lyrics are your therapy.
I'd like to be among contented people,
people, interested in me,
loving me for who I am,
not for who they want me to be.
I try to keep people I like around me
and the light inside me.
But if I have to encounter negativity,
I know now, the best protection is to not give a **** about it.
There are no normal people on this planet anyway.
And it's okay,
'cause no one can be objective, being enthralled,
lost in an enslaving illusion, and this is normal, but at the cost
of critical thinking, common sense logic, of course.
Nor there's, unfortunately, any other mental institution, big enough for everyone.
Thus, paradoxically, it becomes normal
to lose marbles and get bonkers,
not to hear each other,
wearing space-suits of personal bodies.
At least we can have some fun
one way or another.
As verbal misunderstanding leads to endless self-expression.
So you can annoy and bore someone to death with your profound explanations.
See, there's no use of judging anyone
except for yourself, to whom you always have so much to say.
OK, I'll hold on to it for a while, let it stay
till this bunch of stupid words still makes my day, makes me smile,
also excited and even ecstatic,
because I'm probably an immature amateur and a frantic fanatic
quickly crossing the line without brakes,
'cause something's wrong with my brains,
overwhelmed with feelings spilling into words,
losing sight of the point of no return
or only pretending to be frenetic to look more charismatic,
merely playing the leading role of my own show,
at the same time, enjoying it, sitting in the front row,
covering the existential horror
of being engulfed by a disappearing feeling
with trash in my mind, waste of my animal soul,
hiding from problems, irreversible losses,
remorse, and sorrow behind my poems,
'cause, to be honest, it's frighteningly a lot to swallow.
At least, I have the strength to admit that I'm weak.
You, too, know it.
I may be a failed philosopher, artist depicting himself, if you will,
a fake, dead poet,
who, gazing in jaw-dropping amazement at the scary beauty
from the mysterious extraterrestrial tree of poetry
through spiritual ******'s eyes,
meditatively observes peacefully gliding swallows
and whizzing, gleefully squealing like little monkeys, weightless swifts,
deflecting thoughts from the constant, ruthless struggle for survival,
striving for life, fight for the right to exist.
I always notice these little joyous moments I can't let go of,
charming moments of bliss.
I try to capture them in persuasive, virtual words,
a recursive parody of fractals, shiny kaleidoscopic gems
of shattered glass, alas, to no avail,
catch the evasive, lucidly illusive, evanescent sense,
hidden behind the veil
or resurrect the piercing, genuine, ephemeral feeling,
recreate it as if I can remember it, while it always keeps saying farewell,
leaving me confusing cause with consequence,
perplexing reflexing, which coincidentally helped once survive
and became a perpetual part of a limited by it, endlessly enigmatic life.
It can make you stronger, traumatize you as well,
'cause it's as fast as pulling a trigger to exchange paradise for hell.
When I was a kid, I used to collect beautiful feathers,
as symbols of freedom,
dreaming of building wings
to fly to the star by the name of Sun
and see the world from afar one day.
Growing up, I'm collecting enchanting words,
being pretty careless about spelling, though,
in the hope that I'll create a magical spell
to conjure up anything I want,
say, a white horse or… no,
even better, a ******* unicorn,
of course,
so I could ride it to find the way out of the wrong fairy tale,
as if I'm afraid to lose the key from the lock on the door,
behind which there is a forgotten kingdom of a new world I’ve never seen before.
Any professional manifestator was an amateur dreamer in the beginning.
They say, for your spell to work,
you need to incantate and enunciate.
Well, you know.
But that's not all.
Don't forget about the feeling
that sets the course
with words for signs on the sides of the road.
So watch where you go.
Seriously, be careful what you wish for.


Love Free ****** Humor

Yeah, no ****, you don't say! I can tell.
I seem to be so wise sometimes.
Being kinda kind, I am not wise or nice,
but when people see it in my eyes,
I don't mind also being polite
and lie, as I simply like to look likewise,
hiding my passion inside.
Lie, thinking I'm telling the truth,
lie to myself and to you.
I know I'm not the brightest star in the night sky.
Ah, come on, don't try to prove me wrong.
Don't be stupid, I'm not that smart,
albeit a little offbeat.
I'm even not too smart to be a ****,
because I'm
a kindhearted person,
although a bit bothersome.
Well, how you like that?
Not bad for a horrendously cynical humorist.
And you know who a cynic really is?
As one of the greatest comedians said,
a cynic is a disappointed idealist.
At least I'm an honest hedonist
prone to fall in love with egoists,
selfishly believe false empathy.
It's so simple and obvious that it's ingenious.
With you, I have the same ironical paradox,
as you are a free-spirited misogynist according to your controversial songs.
However, in all fairness, to avoid double standards, of course,
for the sake of argument, in other words, equal rights and feminism,
it's worth mentioning that women, too, can certainly be mean.
Apparently, one of them would be me.
But since you have the same shady clown as I do,
you know I only kid now here,
deep down inside, I'm good and kind,
like we all are sometimes.
But seriously, all jokes aside,
women are not that bad as stand-up comedians,
if you don't mind a feminine kind of humor,
which is supposed to be kinda kinder.
You may call it weaker, dumber,
ladies’ witty-******* jokes for losers, suckers, soccer mamas,
which is not very nice of you.
However, in general, it might be true,
provided, of course, that there are humor kinds.
I think there are none.
How would you call a man who grabs a pen and a bar of kids soap,
replaces the letter "s" with the letter "d",
and laughs at the "kids doap"?
And this guy is, what... like 50 years old?
I mean, what's his deal?
Is he some kind of imbecile?
Well, while one may not quite understand him,
he might be still pursuing a stand-up comedian career,
for even an average amateur, be it a uncouth peasant,
has the potential to become outstanding, magnificent, and splendid,
a sophisticated *******, who at his age managed to keep the charm of being highly unpleasant.
There are many opinions about being fun,
while humor is one.
Neither does rap need to be defined
as poetry,
‘cause it is to me,
to my mind.
And for the rest of those who don't agree,
as home-grown critics and housewives,
I guess they, too, are quite all right.
Other than that, a woman is your problem one plus ninety-nine.
Yeah, women are mean, I mean. But that's fine.
And together with you, we are a humble, big god’s sneer at humankind.
Isn't it weird that made of a rib, having bitten the ****** apple, the first woman
was stupid enough to turn an ape into a fully fledged human?
Life is funny as it is.
What if God was one of us and had to deal with egoism?
Oh, yeah, I forgot.
We all live now in the era of postmodernism.
There's nothing new under the sun, dude.
Only the way to express yourself, subdued by a convincing fleeting feeling,
trying to shoot for the moon, I assume. Feel it.
It's not an invention,
just a euphoric wide-eyed eureka sensation,
out of zero and one, pile of combinations
of notional and semantic hallucinations
due to the lack of meditation
in the infinite number of unique situations,
miracle-like lyrical elevation,
limitational imitation,
metaphorical *******,
sensational manipulation,
emotional liberation,
manifestational motivation,
pang of inspiration,
another recollection in your consciousness,
the figment of god's imagination,
spiritual *******
through brain stimulation
in the verbal life simulation,
Captain Obvious.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms.
Just a verbose neurosis, of course.
If not, I need a good doctor for the right diagnosis, I suppose,
in case I was misdiagnosed.
So stay out of my head.
Well, since you are already here,
don't stay in my head for too long.
I'm afraid you'll be drained,
'cause my graphomaniacal brain is insane.
Oh well, what the hell, yours is the same,
so I guess this is how a wordy-nerdy, ironic neurotic
makes love to his narcotic.
It's so poetically ******
for an oxymoronic introvert,
trying to find the balance
between extremes
in a sparkly dance
of a whimsical weasel, hopping in front of a rabbit,
distracted by hypnotizing patterns
on boa’s skin.
I must go higher than that
from the basement,
where I muss thoughts in my messy head,
like a neurotic tousles hair.
By the way, that would be me as well.
There, I admit I write, I'm a freak,
and I don't care.
Although you might want me to wear a disarming straitjacket
so I'd become a complete wacko,
be careful and gentle with me.
I can be too free and open-minded.
Mind it.
I mean, you have no idea what depths I can get into.
But most importantly, can I get out when I'm in, or do I even need to?
Though, I don't condone a ***** brain ****
that's gonna blow up with an aggressive verbal *****,
surfeited with angry testosterone.
Come on, man, at least, please, put on a ******.
Yeah, I'm a ***** funky ******,
sympathizing with a sly Mona Lisa's condescending, stranger's smile at first,
bursting into sinister, Homeric, hysterical laughter of an old friend after,
snaring you with a snarling, daring smile,
the product of a cynical life satire,
making you lose yourself without a trace.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, exactly like that.
I gotta be sick in the head.
Boy, I wish I could bear this unpunishable feeling
of wearing the grim, evil grin of a villain on my face.
I hope I'm allowed to laugh out loud
at everything, especially at myself.
Isn't that what humor is for?
Not just for laughing at others to feel better about yourself.
That's too shallow.
Life makes you get up to the next level,
cuz it ain’t getting any sweeter or fairer.
I feel in this self-irony, there is always real, iron me,
like real chocolate is bitter.
Yeah, I hate this fake sweet, milk, sugar ****.
The more bitter, the better.
In truth, humor is always dark, without sweetener
so that you can be free as a word
that may be harsh and sharp as a sword,
but also kind and soft as unconditional love of a strict mother,
which is the best reward for being hurt,
as if it's an award for being heard.
You know, this kind of love
when you give your all,
including your life,
to save your child
and do your best
to take care of your pet
because you love it.
It's not the same with women, I guess.
Sorry about that.
But I don't care if you were surrounded by seductive witches,
bloodsucking *******, and other supernatural creatures
you have no love left for.
It's not an excuse to give up on love, bro.
She will never give up on you,
as long as you believe in her.
To love and be loved by your woman,
you both just need to have the same sense of humor.
That's all.
See? The formula is simple,
like everything genial is.
And what do you do, genius?
Man, look at you.
You wallow in your philophobia and hate love you can't get rid of
for your ex to see
that you, too, are capable of misery,
trapped in your own house,
a prisoner of your fortune,
tortured by fears,
head over heels
in evil love.
Experienced as you might be,
you can't just **** it off.
It chases your graphomaniacal, necrophilic, cannibalic, diabolic kamikaze’s dead ***, regardless of your sins.
You can't get rid of your empathy.
I get it. You don't like to look like a fool.
And love does make you feel stupid and look pretty foolish, for sure.
It turns you into a silly, paranoid idiot,
who smiles but can't let go of the thought
that he might need an antidote.
You feel dumbfounded, stupefied, surprised, and at the same time stressed,
as if you have a finger in your ***.
“Am I having a panic attack?
*******! What the ****?”
In addition, you get immediately addicted,
dependent, vulnerable, and sick, bro.
And this addiction causes a cognitive contradiction,
when you lose marbles behind your head's cogs.
How does it make you feel weak,
when it's supposed to make you strong?
Maybe the angle from which you look at it
is wrong?
Being single, like a god, you are potentially with everyone.
Love doesn't have to weaken you
or necessarily be a disaster or a collision.
You can sound perfectly good in unison,
albeit not for long,
if you again prefer the game to love.
I, on the other hand, can't help following this awesome feeling.
I love being in love despite the fear of falling out and being left sore.
And I love you for the same thing I hate you for.
Adorned with gloating goat's horns,
a morose sulky-faced great poet and a grim rapper I adore
turns into the great Grim Reaper
that equalizes all divided by different gods people,
who are stuck in the holy ****** trinity of evil ill stupidity,
living on behalf of the golden calf,
dying in the name of love,
awaiting miracle from nowhere to nowhere
for the sake of Jesus ******* Christ
or some other god. Right?
Whoopsie-daisy!
This is egregious, insulting, and crazy.
I'll be ****** or crucified by medieval evil people
if you don't shut me up fast!
Yeah, y’all throw your stones and torches,
pitchfork me and scorch me.
Burn the witch, dying for love and your sins,
who deserves your tortures.
The weaker *** is strong through love
and through its nature, makes its fortune.
Wait…
a minute.
Hold the horses, *******!
Are you really gonna burn me?
****, **** this planet!
Do I look like a strong, confident, **** woman,
who knows what she's doing?
I guess, it's best to be famous without showing your face,
‘cause as soon as people see your face,
they start chasing your ***
for multiple reasons,
such as:
for some people, for instance, some of my words may sound disgusting.
They just fear believing they're flabbergasted.
You don't wanna be one of them fools, trust me.
These things might be not simple
for understanding by the majority of people,
‘cause it's sorta absurd.
A judgmental Christian is an oxymoron.
Saint hypocrites.
What, am I too straightforward for ‘em?
Can pigs fly, though?
Are aristocrats poor?
Yeah, it sounds insolent, but it's true.
Sorry, I tend to be rude,
when you are being mean to me too.
I know that I know nothing
and no one can know everything.
But everyone can go **** themselves
and be self-sufficient.
Of that I'm sure.
Maybe we should shift the perspective,
find the right or better point of view,
and change the attitude?
The world is full of idiots. So what?
The world is full of idiots, old farts.
You don't want to be inside this farce.
But just in case, get ready to go nuts.
Even a guru can become a doddering fool, though.
Why is it like this? I don't know.
Because life is a joke?
And to laugh at it, you need to suffer first?
So be grateful for this humorous energy, even when it's aimed at you.
Try not to be too indecently arrogant a genius
who has nothing else left to do
than to shoot himself,
'cause he's surrounded by ******* idiots and degenerates.
Thanks for support, your painful honesty of a bulldog,
the way you bogart the way to the fame you hate,
your boundless kindness, Your Highness
or Majesty, or should I say,
incredible, phenomenal, omnipotent, iconic rap god.
Why do you love to laugh at people's vices,
like a big fat hungry troll,
sitting with his smart ***
on the fence of a deep defense,
which is the best as a good offense.
Why can't you be as nice as, for instance, Jesus Christ, though, bro?
It's not that hard, after all
with your free mind, open wide so.
Aren't you tired of your own satire,
trying to satisfy your always hungry mind,
and being a king, constantly proving the right to the crown?
Now, look what you've done.
Why would you need to spoil all the fun, sad clown?
Because you are the smartest one?
Does Slim’s rest in peace deep under the ground make you less depressed
or serious as a cardiac arrest?
So smart that no one understands you.
Man, you might be writing stupid thoughts
due to the intelligence overdose.
No one can cancel your show or fit in your shoes.
Maybe you are too smart even for rap.
**** it. Perhaps you could put your brain to good use
by locking yourself in a rocket scientist's lab.
But even there, you'll have a pen with a notebook in your pocket
for ideas, pushed out of a fat ***,
rather than pulled out of thin air, I'm sure.
***** this, I guess, this disease has no cure.
Oh my God!
Does it have to be this hard?
Why is making a point for you like doing a stunt?
I would make it easier,
if I were that smart.
I get that. It's a self-defense mechanism.
If you absolutely must, I'm all ears.
So you do your own stunts, huh?
All right.
Does it make you feel satisfied
or a little better than an ordinary grumpy grandpa, old ****?
No, yeah, you're right.
You're not that old.
That's why you snipe with snarks as a snide snipe,
but, like Wesley, still precise,
till your enemy runs out of ammo, or it backfires
so hard that you wish you carried a gun,
like you used to.
That's a shame, you now have none.
A fire marshal without a firearm.
Good thing I got one.
Lucky me, I'm not you.
Thank God, I can't fill your shoes.
What are you still doing here, old man?
Dreaming of being a digital avatar,
while even the paper you use to write on is not digital?
If you were older, I'd call you an ancient dinosaur,
and, instead of a Blackberry phone,
you'd prolly own a typing machine gun.
Aren't you a bit too old to troll solo?
Troll-lo-lo, it seems so trollop-like low,
bitter, pathetic, and shallow.
You troll when you feel bad.
And so you share,
trying to hurt someone to feel a bit better.
Instead, you're unaware of how it gets even deeper
and makes you feel weaker,
if it's not the trolling as art
that makes sense
and gives you satisfaction and profit,
like ***
for a ******* if she were your occasional girlfriend.
You'd sing her your songs.
She'd sing you her own,
filled with ecstatic moans
so you could spread her legs
along with your peacock's tail
ahead of the rainbow, to run,
as everyone here has no brain.
To the very last one, all are dumb.
However, just for your information,
on the way of looking for fools,
don't forget that you might be the one,
‘cause trolling, like humor, is often an unpleasant truth
you should be able to laugh at without judgment or justification.
And you may say you don't give a **** as much as you want.
But all ******* sooner or later
end up being torn to pieces by alligators,
as you already know.
Don't get me wrong.
I hope you don't think I envy you.
With my bird-watching skills,
I coulda been an ornithologist by now,
for your information.
If you don't wanna be miserable and alone,
baby, get down from your throne.
Or should you be higher than that,
well, then stay the **** god.
I wish I could help you, but you don't really want it,
and I cannot.
I'm not your saviour.
You need a real doctor.
I'm not qualified for that.
Nor am I a loser enough to be a hero
and unsolicitedly give you all I've got,
since, despite being overwhelmed with compassion,
I'm also full of ****, a spoiled, bad girl,
so empathetically selfish and special.
My body doesn't grow up anymore.
It can only grow old
until it's finally cold,
while my soul still keeps growing, though.
I feel my soul is already too big and too old for this world,
'cause it just doesn't fit into this *******,
man gets in through a ****.
Oh dear Lord, Holy Mother of good God,
how the **** can I say that?
So what?
I believe I can say whatever the hell I want.
Isn't that what we're supposed to have the freedom of speech for?
We need virtual evil
to keep the virtuous Utopia ideal
and find the balance between ‘em.
Boy, you, too, must be that impudent, testy, despicably obnoxious, squalid and perverse
to be worthy of your own words!
God almighty, have mercy on us, sinners.
See? We can be good.
Well, then, I guess, Jesus will just have to forgive us
providing, of course, we are truly sorry and are true believers.
Since we halfway to be saved,
let's play, I'm bored.
Not board games, though.
My self-esteem now is so low,
going down below the floor,
sometimes it's subzero,
maybe because I am too high
so I could see how my self-esteem started to grow.
So don't worry about me, man. I'll be fine.
**** me, my friend. I'll survive.
Rap, as in do or die,
like it's the last day of your life.
Roast me.
Promise it will be awesome.
Torture me till I'm toast, or I find the way to blossom
through concrete like a stubborn ****.
No need to go easy on me.
C’mon, man, once again, one more time.
**** me, my friend,
like Kurt Cobain sang.
**** me with your words and tear me apart.
Go ahead, do your thang.
Play me hard.
Poke a ******, sacrifice her.
Blow out her teeny-tiny brain.
Bake me, burn me in hell for my sins, god
I'm not the only one,
one of the victims of your art,
lyrical serial killer, *****, shady maniac.
Set me on fire, lord of the words
that you learned from comics
to enhance your performance,
ignite my mind and heart,
with your satisfying, piercing voice,
nail me, impale me,
make me, be my ******* boss.
Hey, **!
Not with a pitchfork, though.
What the ****, bro?
Easy. Yo, chill, man, will ya?
Why did you bring that thing, huh?
What, you're Aquaman,
******* Poseidon?
For real? Ha-ha.
Seriously, what for?
Does it make you drown faster
or give you the superpower of niceness?
No?
Well, feel the kick and fly, then.
Ah, self-defense.
Oh, yeah, I forgot.
Your superpower is anger.
Okay, then, let's dance.
But what if I take the superpower of love?
Come on, man, all jokes aside,
I could expect anything from you,
like a rifle, knife, or a sword.
Yet, you brought that?
I thought, most of all, you preferred a chainsaw.
****, so I guess now I can't expect you to be nice
to my wise ***. I'm ****** anywise.
And yo’ **** will be engulfed by all my holes.
Sorry for the pornographic ***** metaphor.
There's no harm in a little bit of ***** poetry, though, I guess.
I'm straightforward like that,
pierce with a pen, mercilessly gore,
write honestly, like a *****.
Oh, well, as well as you, so
don't mind my cussing,
'cause I like to sound beautifully disgusting.
Well, you know.
I just love this lingo vocabulary, vernacular architecture of slang,
cuz I was raised among gangsters and thieves
in the country of sorrow and tears.
It probly sounds worse than it actually was
because the past is in the past,
and now it is what it is.
I believe all words are good and equal like us, people by default.
Yet, it's hard to be hot,
when the context is hostile and cold,
when you are surrounded by cretins, criticizing everyone except themselves.
Wrong again, critics?
It’s not like the so-called “good” words are true,
and the “bad” ones are false,
as if it’s a war
of the words that you like
against those that you don’t.
So are they now a lie? Why?
Just because you think so?
But the truth is that often the truth is unpleasant to hear and to know.
See, these are the words you don’t like, though.
Everyone thinks according to the level of his sins.
Well, I don't give a **** what you think
regardless of whether it's right or wrong.
How can you, fools and hypocrites, limit art?
It's endlessly boundless in its variety, like God.
And there is no human mortality for God,
as the main art is life.
While your free will is limited by his plot,
it has no boundaries inside your mind.
I love each and every word I wrote,
like an ornithologist loves all the birds.
I love them all
equally in the context of my flow.
Word.
I'll show you why.
Check this out.
Here is the concept for y’all to trip on.
If the words are used, they are needed,
like the spectrum of all the feelings.
And if the words are needed, they are all equal.
Or you can pretend to be a xenophobic god
in your own fairy-tale sequel,
verbal Utopia, perfect world.
Well, I don't give a **** about censorship,
not gonna put up with some censurer's ****, God forbid.
I find censoring insensitive,
truth be told.
I wonder if there are utopias in any of the worlds,
and why everyone tries to drag you into their own.
I guess this **** is universal.
As for me, I think, Utopia might be possible
if everyone could eat their own ****.
Oh, if only everyone shat manna from heaven
and were happy with themselves forever.
So I use “bad” words in the right context and call it a joke.
I attire profanity in rhyme to refine the bad with the beauty of my mind.
And you can criticize it as much as you like, *******.
Guess what? I also don't give a **** about what you want,
especially if your sense of humor is at the level of an old ****.
What's the matter?
Too “kind” to notice the context behind the fence of the holy rightness,
‘cause, apparently, you are the best representatives of the whole humankind,
albeit a bit biased and blinded by righteous wrath towards “bad” words,
but always ready to save the rest of humanity with your perfect morality?
Go nuts. Be my guest.
Should you take offense instead of a joke,
it's your problem and your fault
if you don't dare to be free and bold,
having got used to doing as you're told.
If all you can is mumble, stutter, and choke,
I'll only help you with pushing your *** down the stairs
and stare at you stumble over your throat and fall.
And I don't care if you're scared or hurt.
Who said life was fair?
You'll always be its *****, fool, and a scapegoat.
So whatcha gonna do about it?
Fight it, pen in hand for a pistol to release pent-up bile
(epistula non erubescit, right?)
or suppress your pain until it subsides
in the convenient, cozy kindness of self-justifying lies,
being frightened?
Go ahead, man.
It must be exhausting to bear the burden of tears and fears
kept inside of you all those years.
**** ‘em. What's the worst that can happen?
Will your world have to endure the Armageddon
without deranged truth seekers, unhinged fairy tale believers?
Are you afraid of being burned in hell
or expelled from the league of imbeciles?
Drop the heavy load of guilt towards hypocritical sinners.
But if you can't face the apocalypse or find an argument,
don't start to argue, man,
lest you be trying to justify yourself again.
The devil lives in the details,
god in conceptual fairy tales
so that your life would look more meaningful and believable,
like a stand-up joke.
And if it's lethally funny, I'll laugh my *** off
till I have a heart attack or a stroke,
regardless of what you think, so no offense.
Take it easy before the converse stops making sense.
That's my truth.
It doesn't need to be proved
and doesn't have to be approved.
It's just my mindset, my worldview.
You can't be me. I can't be you.
Life is very funny if you have the ability to notice it.
Even after I die, my killing sense of humor will stay alive.
That's why we have immortal souls to laugh at our mortal bodies.
Yo, how come all the bad stuff is mostly fun?
'Cause humor is dark as death equally for everyone?
And without evil, good is hard to understand?
It's actually the essence of humor to laugh at fools from afar
instead of getting stuck with them in a joke, duh.
By taking offense at something clever,
you look stupid and deprive yourself of the chance to learn from it and reach a new level.
But the truth is, no one among even the smartest people
is smart enough to outsmart the deadly, evilly funny Grim Reaper.
So I don't have to be a saint anymore.
Let me be your slave of love, so to speak,
your insanely in love, queen Margot.
Set me free from the fear of being lost, come along.
You will be my Woland and my Master.
Seize the moment as if you can hold it,
like it's a masterpiece manuscript and you can't burn it.
Stop time, just grasp it faster
as though you are a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat
to let it jump into nowhere,
turning into a crazy kamikaze kangaroo.
Like a reused ****** out of a rabbit hole, you pull off another last trick.
There's no magic in that.
Don't wanna be judgmental, but you're just a boastful monster and a slim slick,
good for nothing but a fling,
seen in a flick
on a big screen
in one hot, short love scene,
jerking me off as always, bag of *****.
*******, I feel the terminal stage of love still lasts, though.
Do you feel me?
I think you do.
I would sell my soul to you
if it weren't priceless.
Oh, man, not again!
Yo, this ****** up love is a ******* disaster!


Goodbye kiss joke

I gotta turn the page before it's too late,
and unrequited love inevitably turns into savage hate,
before I'm ****** into rage and end up in the stage of a vicious rampage.
I don't want to stay in the cage of a malicious fake fate.
It's not like I will shout about my feelings at the top of my lungs,
"Oh, I'm gonna cry right now.
Listen to me, everyone!
That's it, I don't give a **** or even a spit
at your tombstone.
I'm through with you! We're ******* done!"
**** your petty pity! I don't need it.
I should have gone away a long time ago before the **** hit the fan
and I got the loaded gun demanding more
from you than I think you can think
of who you really are,
word master.
Cut the crap.
Don't give me that horsecrap rap trap *******,
priggish, perverted, impertinent *******.
I'm full of it.
Half of your art is about showing off your art,
you arrogant, swaggering braggart,
wacky soul-’n’-mind-******* ******,
self-absorbed wanksta-poet, superstar, demure poser
composing your mind,
careless about mine,
soul-exhibitionistic imposer.
If I may ask,
are you comfortable with your ******* in your ***?
I think, I'mma just bust a cap
and **** the King Kong with a big ****
who claims to be the god of rap,
destroy the crazy dopest goat,
the best representative of hip-hop,
my dreary Moby-*******-****.
You're just a mythical ghost,
uncatchable Bigfoot,
deserted mirage,
stupid moon on a stick.
You don't own me,
'cause you don't know me,
you're not my homie,
and I don't owe you ****.
I'm not a part of your entourage,
not your groupie,
hanging on your huge, impossible-to-swallow ****,
who's so ******* lucky just to **** it.
Stop being so stupid,
big-headed, twisted ******* *****.
Sorry for being rude again.
But you don't expect me to be happy about letting you drag me into your retinue, do you, my man?
I'm not afraid to be ashamed
of something that I don't understand,
'cause when I finally realize that I'm not a fan or a stan,
I'll only get better.
You don't deserve me. *******!
I don't wanna be your fan.
Sure thang.
You may think there can't be ex-fans of yours, like there are no ex-drug addicts.
Yeah, right. You wish. Why don't you write a song about it
to convince me again that you still can?
Can you, really?
I don't believe you.
I think you're lying. Are you?
As if people still require
your daring dire satire
with vile iron ire
and want to keep their eye on
your iron ginormous *****
too big for your pants.
Do they still write your words on the walls
and watch your wars
full of spite and wrath
till your last breath,
till life ***** you to death?
And the best part is, being ***** by it,
you have to take pleasure in it.
Real legends don't get old.
They burn fast like shooting stars.
You've had your chance and missed it, though,
having tried to compensate for it later
with the magnificent rehearsal.
Since no one was good enough to ****** you, so to speak,
**** you lyrically,
you did it yourself,
albeit just for fun.
What a shame.
Jesus died once again,
as a cartoon character.
Or is it another, shady Jesus Christ
as in, antichrist?
Or has Jesus Christ actually been killed twice?
Well, luckily, now I'm armed with a gun,
loaded with a shitload of rap crap
and ready to do some serious harm.
Even though it’s not a nuke or bazooka,
it’s still dangerously good-looking
a lot like a hot rod from God
or a bad, damaged ******.
Boy, are you stern and cold.
Thank God, not dead yet, though.
Seriously, man, can I offer my help,
immortalize and save your art
before it gets ugly, and you get cancelled
by some stupid cancer
so you could stay forever young?
Most people can't do it, pathetic peasants,
but you can, sir.
Let me set you free.
‘Course, I know, you're not that old,
though old enough to write a memoir
or shoot an autobiographic documentary,
and definitely old enough to wear a beard
to show the whole **** world
that half of you has disappeared.
"A beard is a symbol of wisdom," I heard today from a passer-by.
And here you are again,
a dreamy boy with a beard, trimmed slim,
resembling a promiscuous, shady lady, wild jade, luscious *****, succulent vamp, **** *****
with a wise *** and an unshaved ******
with the price tag of an arm and a leg,
mooning and flashing noble knights in shining armor,
lascivious transgenders, grafs ****-you-offs,
all kinds of ****, ******* midgets and ***** dwarves.
They are just looking for some nookie with a ******, for sure,
a ***** they can treat like ****,
**** a hot dame for a dime.
And now that your dream came true,
and you are the ****,
they all can eat you and die.
Oh, well, it’s so **** nice.
To minx or not to minx?
I guess, it's not for you to decide.
Boy, you must be such a wise guy.
Why?
‘Cause your self-esteem is extremely high,
and you lack the code
that could make you get slow,
as in a chip, built in hardware of an old smartphone?
No limits, huh?
What, you a god?
Duh.
Big deal, *****, so am I.
Ha-ha. See how you crack me up?
God, are you so funny and smart,
just walk and emit laughing but lethally poisonous gas,
cracking out of your cranky wise ***.
Dude, you are hilarious
and obviously wise enough to improvise with the smartest smart-*** rhymes in yo' freestyle,
the best emcee so everyone can see
the master of controversy,
the main character and the actor in one,
a white-trash intellectual rapper,
illiterate genius, pain in the *** wiseacre,
American dream *******,
who can use rap as a gun.
But that's not all.
The tip of the iceberg,
though enough for Titanic to go down.
I'm just saying it to you in case you didn't know, lord of ******.
Yeah, all women like to laugh at men's stupid, obscene jokes, spiced with ******* slurs
till they don't even notice how they're being laid already and treated as they all deserve, as ******* ******* hos.
By the way, grandpa, how's your sight, sugar level, and blood pressure?
Must be not that bad, since you eat beets.
Sure, you’re still the greatest of old time, my precious.
Are you still young enough
for a one-night stand with your female fan
or at least for a kiss with your stan in love
right from the stage
to prove that the devil doesn't age?
Or have you changed and grown up
to not give a **** about getting old, my love?
You are getting darker than the eclipse
and brighter than the sun.
Don't burn me, falling in agony, please.
You look so lonely, 'cause you are the only one.
Wow, are you on fire
not only when you are on tour,
always worth the coin of the admiring rich and poor.
Be careful, don't burn off entirely, mon amour.
My tirelessly singing paradise bird,
my dear dark sire, saint lord,
I don't really wanna lose you too soon,
my king and my god.
Shoot! Sweet rap messiah, you're not dying, are ya?
Unless maybe just the hair
that used to be blond, now brunette.
What’s up with that?
At least you are not bald or gray-haired.
Man, even your abdomen's still impressive
for someone who used to be obese,
which is, in fact, quite an achievement, considering you were a scrawny kid.
Ah, come on now, you know I only kid.
So you got a little bit fat,
when you meditated and self-medicated your body with mom's spaghetti,
while being a depressed mess.
Compared to your super abs,
mine are fluffy love handles.
So you must have done hundreds of sets of fifty press reps,
reciting yo' baddest raps
mind-blowingly fast,
pretending to be a badass
so you could overcome thousands of eighth miles
in his shoes, literally running away from your demons
to look like you look now,
handsome evil genius.
See? It did work out,
as you still do.
By the way, I make stuff up and work out too.
Sorry for my straightforward poetry.
But that's what I love to do the most,
although sometimes I can't control it,
the mean, itchy urge to troll someone.
I know, I act like an immature clown.
What you gonna do?
You gotta slay the dragon once in a while.
I believe I can **** the heckling troll in me,
occasionally controlling me,
like a manipulative ventriloquist or a puppeteer,
pretending to me my consciousness without a guilty conscience,
hurting people's feelings without shedding a tear,
one for all, two in one, slaying enemies, fearless musketeer
with the self-esteem of a glorious pioneer.
Unfortunately, the irony with killing a troll is that after you **** it, you become one.
So lest you be trapped in this endless vicious circus,
it's best not to even start saying anything to him in the first place
if you don't want this outcome,
because all your words, projected onto someone who can use ‘em against you,
will be not just spat into your face
but poured as projectile vomiting on you.
Instead of answering to someone's evil with your own evil in return to balance it up,
it may be a better idea to not open the door to a controversial, truth-sicking dispute of fools.
Do not let it in to keep the balance you've already got.
This **** usually escalates
like the snowball effect, which, by the way,
also happens with your fandom.
Does it have to be this big a deal?
Now, I can see that you have succeeded,
but your expectations have been exceeded.
Still, only you are to blame,
‘cause you make too much fuss about yourself.
Then you complain about your fame.
What for? Oh, yeah I forgot.
You're a rap god.
Oh, please. Come on, man. Now you're also a responsible grown-up,
who mustn't forget
that you get what you think,
manifest what you sing,
nothing more than that.
So let's not play victim, playing God.
How many times do you have to explain
and scream as if no one can hear you?
How to not give a **** about emotions that seize you?
I wish I could.
The case is, you can't.
Otherwise, you'd be a lifeless robot.
You can only shorten a pre-self-reflection span
to patch things up after they have been broken
and become a survival perfectionist,
professional emotional equilibrist.
And why should I sympathize with prima donna's pain anyway?
Now what?
Today is your birthday?
And again you look
like you're sitting all alone in your mansion on a bidet
that, like your elevator, got broken too?
Are you ******* kidding me or yanking my chain?
Well, to figure this out, I think I do have half a brain.
It depends on the context. I see, man, okay.
You may say in a movie, you're gay,
guess the taste of ***** of your spray,
while in a song, you state you're straight.
Ha-ha. Hey, it's funny, like a gay-looking boy with a beard on a straight face.
How can anyone consider your way of exorcising demons through a joke to be not funny but mean?
It's beyond me.
Okay, then. Tease me again, please.
I'll indulge myself in one last princess's caprice
before I give you a goodbye kiss.
Besides, words are often useless.
If a troll is too annoying, just kick him in the nuts.
They’ll blow up, and he's gone.
And even if a snowman would happen to be the biggest troll of all trolls,
kick him with his own big yeti’s foot in his snowballs.
Well, what you know?
I guess, Shady is in everyone,
like God lives in us
along with our angels and demons,
a lost soul of a prodigal son,
created and forsaken by the Father
in the name of the Holy Spirit
for him to be found and saved by himself in the idea,
made up for believing,
banished from heaven,
abandoned forever,
deprived of his dead god’s love
to find his own.
Thus, two become one,
I mean two in one,
one, embedded into the other one,
forming a holy *******
in a dualistic system,
dualism in a trinity
with the central singularity -
the single moment of infinity.
Amen.
And I'm in it as well.
Wait a minute.
Why am I in it?
Love the game?
Why are we doing this, again?
Right, 'cause we have no choice.
Or I just like to think so.
Anyway, it's all your fault, my friend.
Yes, it is.
I cannot blame myself for your sins.
But I don't mind forgiving me mine.
Since the sinner is you, I am a sinner too.
So **** this! As you are one of a kind,
here is one last goodbye kiss on your soft lips.
Now, baby, please, get down on your knees,
beg for mercy, pray to spare your life
or kiss your *** goodbye.
But say it with passion, like you mean it,
so I believe you.
Say it, or I will **** you.
And I won't even miss you, reminisce about you,
feel guilty for this innocent crime inside my criminal mind.
And in case of being arrested and indicted,
I'll plead the fifth and be just fine.
So, have a nice rest (spoiler: five minutes left) of your life,
then say hello to my poetry,
and rest in peace in the hell of poetry, rappers’ paradise.
Man, I don't wanna dis you,
but since you kinda want this, I think,
I promise the last thing you'll see
will be me, writing here my thoughts of you, spitting a rhyme.
How can I possibly be responsible for a person I don't even know?
I don't believe I'm supposed to be. Why should I?
Nor do I have to care for taking his problems as my own to solve, after all.
Also, call me a ******,
but I'd rather decide for myself once and for all
that I don't have any problems at all
not to solve non-existent ones anymore.
Calm down, diddums.
What's the matter?
You don't like to be dissed?
Well, then, I hope you didn't read
about this ugly thing I just did.
But if you did, do tell me more about this.
And try not to be mad at me, please.
You know I don't really jeer, just cheerfully tease.
Consider it my dissertation on the dark shady matter,
not sophisticated enough, maybe
to be philosophically labelled.
Will it stop you from spitting out your truth?
I'm sure you'll say no, won't you?
I thought so. I know it. I want you to be brutally true.
That's what I love about you.
I get that, I do.
You noodle, scribble and doodle, complain, skedaddle from your pain
to replace it with people's wheedling fondles, cuddles, canoodles
to feel worthy of their love again,
being just a crying for help, desperate for love *****,
sharing with them your diseases.
Hey, **, everybody wants ya.
And this drug is stronger, niggler.
It's worse 'cause it works without words.
Too much?
Yeah, well, I'm a natural. Thanks a bunch.
Calm down.
Will you relax, please? Jesus!
Even though you're a ******* **,
pregnant with yourself and your precious thoughts,
there is nothing to be ashamed of.
Yo, ** ** **!
There's nothing wrong
in being a holy-mother-of-god-ly horrifying *****,
immoral *******' horror.
But why the **** do you still need this?
When will you be finally satisfied?
When you have all the words rhymed?
Can't grow up?
Aw, poor thing.
The more approval from people and awards you get,
the more you want,
'cause it doesn't really give you anything,
can't fill your eternally hungry black hole,
greedy *****,
full of yourself, but still hungry.
Yeah, you go and hate that *****, fight it.
Make it right, causing mayhem, poetic justice riot,
'cause you can't satisfy it.
Now, I know it's not yo' fault
that you were born in this horrible world
with initial talents and sins in your genes, inherited from your parents,
as you know, the **** just can't fall far from the *** according to the physics laws.
Life treats you like you're a naughty, crying child,
and your mother doesn't give a **** about you,
'cause she's got used to.
Then you learn to appreciate it when you grow up
and feel evil love in a laughing child's suffocating hug
on kitten's neck that now belongs to you,
while you are still a whining sinner,
smart mocking monkey, offended by life,
pretending to be a winner,
drowning in the sea of guilty conscience,
justifying yourself with words,
cuz you can't swim in it,
going down on a sinking boat.
So now all that's left for you is to stand up for yourself and become your own god
who was so depressed because of being alone
that he created the whole world to feel love.
You have so many stories to say back to this world now,
‘cause it's you against the world,
with yourself, at war.
And you may call yourself a serial killer,
but you are not even a real sinner
if you still cannot
nail or crucify your god.
Dang!
See ya in hell.
Bang!
Booyaka! The *******'s killed by his ******* nuts stalker.
The Grim Reaper's buried under the tree of poetry,
which has grown right through this poem, his tombstone.
We'll see what I can reap out of this rap goats’ cemetery,
except for what I've already been bestowed upon
and, in fact, have sown.
Life's a short road from your mother's womb to the graveyard tomb anyway.
*******, I’ll prob’ly just end up lis’ning to yo’ hip-hop again.
Ah, whatever.
I've already sewn the whole reality out of trivialities
and wove the underwear out of clichés for you to wear on the stage.
Don't wanna wear it?
Really? All right.
What's the matter?
Stage fright?
Just kidding.
I know you can make a fool of yourself
and (smile) laugh your *** off on the inside.
Shoot!
Here comes the lunatic’s cadaver.
Don't worry, I'll resurrect you
after you've got dissected.
Abracadabra.
See? It wasn't that bad.
You're not really dead,
like your mom or your dad.
You’ve just grown up to be free from them now completely,
unlike me.
I kid. Come on.
Nor are you really resurrected.
Ok, I won't dramatize, or I may get traumatized.
I gotta stop, lest I be found dead in bed in my own house,
stabbed to death with your **** in my mouth
in a ****, unsuccessful attempt to shut me up.
My bad. I apologize.
Let's call it even
or love, even if it's evil.
I can sound not very nice at times.
I'm sorry if I was too honest,
sorry for all I've said before
and in advance,
for everything I'll say after.
You know I'll make it up to you. I promise.
My words will make you craftier and tougher
so that again I can unpurposely be *******
for stupidly not noticing when I am crude.
I'm not afraid of mistakes and difficulties.
At least, I'd like to think so.
What did you expect, though?
You are a rapper.
Every your fan is your potential hater,
hungry, greedy, disrespectful,
tired of waiting,
starting to love you, ready to hate you,
hatin’ lovin’ you.
Or am I wrong again?
Does it make me a fake fan?
Let's end it, step aside for a moment,
pretend that we can be normal
for some time,
that we are fine for now,
'cause it's pretty stressful to be obsessed.
So just in case, let's make it at least less intense
lest we get tired of too much offense.
We'd better go back to tender love
instead of rough, outrageous, brain-******-and-breaking ***.
Relax, I'm joking, not trynna shoot ya, **** ya, or choke ya.
Not really killing anyone here.
Just kidding, having some fun with you, dear.


Evil Love

‘Course, I know you’ll always be my master, but it’s okay,
‘cause masters also depend on their slaves.
I think you understand that there would be no you as you are now
without me and your fans.
When you make jokes to yourself in your songs,
aren't you glad when someone believes you and sings along?
Gods exist as long as we believe in 'em.
And God is your witness, stans can believe,
as they feel love, no one can live without.
So they listen to your albums to and fro,
like it's your **** in their heads, moving in and out, bro
as if for foretasting and delaying ******.
By the way, what's up with your fanatical bots?
Man, you know, I don't ******* like it
when your butthead bot-like fans, cooking up their idol
out of themselves, insane impostors,
stupid rookies, a bunch of clowns with clone accounts,
pathetic imitators,
******* fakers,
******* impersonators,
poor sick dumb *******,
millions of ******* minions,
limitless hordes of tedious idiots,
boring unstoppable morons
seek for my attention and approval,
**** me off, and
at the same time make me laugh, 'cause
they keep mistaking me for one of them, your AA support group,
godforsaken flock, your army of lovers,
wrapped around your *******,
breathtaking, irresistible humdinger.
Be careful what you wish for, bro.
Now that you found your flock,
it will never let you go.
This phenomenon is called a personality cult.
You can't love everyone equally like a god.
Being everywhere, you are nowhere,
engulfed by Love,
like your rhymes in your notebook,
scattered around the globe.
The power you've got is too strong.
It holds you too and loves you back.
You could be something more
than someone who wants to rap
till 100 years old.
And now we'll never know.
Oh, well, to hell with that.
Indeed, why be somebody else,
when you can give 100% of your essence to rap
and be a god,
tragicomic hero of a comic book,
iconic, unadulterated perfectness of hip-hop?
I guess, this power and fame,
like a drug, are bound to drive you insane.
Thanks to the freedom of speech in your brain’s fat neurons' tyranny,
resembling a small dictator with a tiny pecker,
bossy ***** of his posse,
who married a country,
you married a game.
I know to leave is hard as ****,
‘cause the game’s as appealing as hard rock.
Besides, bad habits, as you know, die hard.
Still, do yourself a favor, will ya?
Be a man of your word, finally,
kidnap yourself and just leave
if you want to live long and happily.
Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee,
but don't be as cocky as Muhammad Ali,
leave as a champion, while you're still on top.
High five, queen of the hive,
leave your pain alone in the sky,
or die and rest in peace
if a kamikaze is all you can be,
sacrifice yourself for the sake of hip-hop.
I think the only person that can save you from yourself is you.
Suppose I left you for good.
Can I really forget about you?
If only I could
dump devilishly evil love that's tough but feels so good,
so **** good that even bad.
A burning pleasure that hurts
with the sweetest pain I've ever felt.
So should you hurt me, do it gently,
as you still can do it,
I mean, are naturally good in bed, I bet.
Wait, man, not again!
Forget what I said.
That's not what I meant.
Sorry, my bad.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.
It's just a silly relapse.
It's not like I'm gonna sit on your face
or your lap
even in the context of rap.
I guess when you click with someone,
you can have this kind of fun.
That's okay.
But hey, let's not get carried away.
I'll keep doing my best to stay sober and sane till I collapse.
I’m so sorry for the innuendo.
Next time I'd better be more circumspect,
'cause it's probably inappropriate, like for a Christian, oral ***.
Should I take you for a friend, though?
Or will you offer me your ballsy ****?
And why is ******* a **** is considered to be the worst form of disrespect?
You know, I prefer to believe I could pull that off
and refer to you as a friend
even if you were a ******* ****** or a ******.
Let's pretend that I'm your friend.
Would it be enough?
If not, disrespect me, then,
with your evil love.
Anyhoo, it wasn't my intention
to make you feel any tension or unwanted passion.
It has nothing to do with you, man.
Don't take it to heart.
I'm crossing the line again,
take it too far.
You can't be that bad.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan
or at least a demon,
sizzling people on a frying pan.
You combine cockiness with humility,
quality with stupidity.
It doesn't matter even if you say that
it feels so good to be bad.
I'm sure whatever you wish you could do should be said.
And it's not your job to solve other people's problems or suit
the expectations of a stranger you've never met.
Not to mention that you don't have to pay too much attention
to every nonsense and stupid ****
that comes from my sick *** head.
I reckon, while looking like a bad boy on the surface, you're a good guy inside
or at least a good-looking bad guy.
Neither can I lie like that.
C'mon, of course, I don't really want to sit on your face.
In my defense, I lie to myself and justify my words by saying I'm just a good writer.
So I'd rather sit on the fence,
fooling around and trying to find balance with my ***.
Yeah, I don't really want ya.
You realize I'm just ******* with you, doncha?
Oh dear, but I'm afraid you'll notice that I'm a bad liar.
What the **** did you expect, man?
Every your hater is your latent, negative fan,
accepting the rules of the game,
trying to change them later
except for one: the love of hatin’ you.
They dis you but have to respect you,
‘cause deep down they are afraid of you.
They know they can't harm you more than you do.
No one can hit you harder than life already did
at the harshest spitter’s speed.
And you love your haters too,
'cause you feed on your enemies' energy.
A feud with your foes you treat like hoes with irreparable flaws is the fiery fuel for you.
They made you too.
But when you're already dead,
they can't **** you.
And now all you do is breathe out words, wrapped around your feelings,
wrapped around your *******
so they linger for those who realize they can't be faux.
I'm sure they have been true before
and will stay real and raw forevermore
to slam yo’ foes with speedy rhymes,
hit ‘em with your spitting bars
about slaughtering ‘em with a chainsaw and the whole range of guns.
You love them masochistic ******* hard,
like you've been loved by God.
What the hell were you thinking
when you wanted to become a rapper,
starting as a rising star of your future fans' local newspapers?
As if you don't know what's going on in the heads of your fans.
All they want is to be you, like you or with you, *******.
But you don’t even give a ****, do you?
Well, whad'ya know! I guess **** happens.
Sometimes you think you recognized someone
when, in fact, you took 'em for somebody else,
dissolved in the gray mass of unrealized rappers,
lost in the illusion of greatness
due to the brain mess and oblivious madness.
Even though, I ain't deny it,
I am a terrible liar, god awful at this.
Still, it was worth trying.
Now, go ahead, go nuts, disrespect me.
I deserve it, as the worst sin is cowardice
according to the master’s manuscript.
What choice do I have? I can't help it.
It's like a bad habit.
And you know they die hard,
because you get used to something that doesn't even exist.
So what?
Any habit is bad.
It's just a hospitable habitat
for a bunch of big fat neurons,
very large and hungry worms,
******* dopamine,
in some cases, also spitting useless rhymes
in your little, stupid head,
like you're a war veteran with PTSD
and a drug-addict, who's about to OD,
trained, highly qualified,
good for nothing but fights for his beliefs.
That's why there are no selfless good deeds.
Should you prove me wrong, I'll eat my hat.
Until then, in order to look more decent and less rude,
I'mma… keep lying
till it becomes true,
the dream of the reality reboot.
When I convincingly lie to myself,
I believe it, then in myself too.
I've got the power and always had.
I just need to figure out how to use it,
put dead words to living music.
Yes, words are virtual.
The feeling is real, animal, material,
hence spiritual.
While my mind screams, "Oh, hell no! I don't think so,"
my heart says,"**** yeah! I'm almost there."
Yeah, right, I know.
Again, I write like a *****,
incapable of controlling the ****** energy,
trolling her own insatiable libido.
That's just how I feel, though.
Oh, Gee! **** this **** destructive love,
******* me over again,
demolishing everything on her way.
I can't feed her
or him, them.
I don't know anymore.
As if the absence of a name for a gender
can be compensated by a number.
In no way did I mean to be mean and delve into the devil dancing, dude.
I just like dancing.
And I don't wanna use my words as a weapon.
I'm not rapping.
Baby, I'm telling the truth!
I ******* love you.
I love ******* with you.
Too bad, this love is evil.
I feel like I fell in love
just for my heart to fall apart.
Besides, it sounds too good to be true
for an oxymoron,
a beautiful masochistic figure of speech for morons.
I'd better ditch this queening *****,
'cause it seems that all I do is try to forget you.
But do I really have to?
Even if I do, I'm not sure I can get over you.
****, you don't give a ****, though,
and still have no clue.
And I will never matter to you.
Well, all this beauty is for me, then, not for you.
If only you knew, my man,
how tired of you I am.
It's not that I want to bust a cap, rhyme, or a myth.
But how many women have you really been with?
I hate to admit that it must feel good to eat a forbidden fruit.
What if I ate this ******* apple?
Why an apple, by the way?
It could be a banana, for ****'s sake.
Whatever, it doesn't matter.
The point is it's a metaphor
for liberation from the paradise prison for apes,
who painfully grow up
to find out how to become a free from human morality god.
But if you can't handle your sins,
maybe, you don't deserve that.
After all, I am too responsible for adultery,
for I'm not only an animal, but also a self-aware adult human being.
What I can do
is pretend
that I should understand
how to push through
and move on till it seems I can finally forget you
to change, evolve, create and grow,
'cause I can't take it anymore.
I gotta dig in my feet
till I start digging it,
throw you out of my system,
lest you become too real, way too persistent,
get control over the hideous, insidious monster,
hiding inside my aching soul,
get rid of the bad habit of diving into the gaping hole
of ferocious fears of love turning destructive, feral, and fierce
when life is atrociously real,
feel free to recover from the past,
buried in time at last,
leave the weird, love, solipsistic symbiosis behind,
say goodbye to the human neurosis of being alive,
realize that I should open my eyes,
wake up and smell the roses
in a terrifyingly lucid dream I live in,
in the elusive present moment,
find life balance, hormonal harmony,
learn to turn suffering into pleasure while surviving,
go through the metamorphosis
from the cocoon of verbose neurosis
to a beautiful butterfly,
the free poetry that can fly
into the unborn future where it can thrive and die.
And if I need to escape reality again,
I hope I still will be able to find the way.
Despite all the **** happening in this world,
all these wars, travesty of life,
lurid farce, insane asylum,
senseless grotesque circus,
the theater of the absurd,
where things are not what they're called,
please, Love, don't let me go!
Even though I keep saying no,
I know you won't let me go.
And I'll give it all to you
lest I be lost like a wretched wreck, sad sack of ****
and disappear in my own misery.
I hope that won't be necessary,
but to live without you is kinda scary.
So I guess I have no choice.
Born capricious, man must learn to die grateful.
You don't understand anything in this world.
That's why you try to explain it.
And you fail every time.
That's all right.
Laughter is a normal reaction to being overwhelmed with awe.
The thinking process is like ***,
and the ****** is like laughter
that happens after
you discover for the kabillionth time
that you are just a *******.
What a relief.
Again, Universe, thanks a lot for your support.
Now the pleasure is all mine.
When you look at yourself from afar
and laugh at your stupidity,
you free yourself from it,
release your ego,
and become a self-sufficient god,
who doesn't look for the meaning,
for he's already been found.
This world is magical, and you are magic and a magician.
To see it, just open your mind.
You must know by now,
as various fairy tales, like life and comics, show,
that while there's always a reason for evil,
the true power is love.


****** Fan

Though, I don't wanna be attached to you
or infatuated about you,
being afraid to admit that I crave
but am scared of being touched by you,
as you also deliver top-notch romance in your lyrics.
It turns me on and turns into limerence,
the obsessive incessant necessity to be loved,
‘cause I lacked it as a child,
forsaken by God.
Perhaps I'm just being infantile,
while not too childish and cowardly to laugh at misery for real.
To laugh at the theater of the absurd from your soul,
you have to watch it, not play the role, after all.
I gotta get outta here,
forget this foolish nightmare,
pretending to be a sweet dream,
coming true for real,
from which I can't hide,
where my tearing and bleeding,
restless and curious mind
inside a decaying corpse,
oozes rapper’s bile,
loses time on rotten thoughts,
my ****** words versus yours,
empty, precious, mighty loud, diverse,
especially those that hurt the most.
It's just a preposterous verse
you can't stop reading,
artificial reality, imaginary multiverse
where I can feel real raw metaphors.
Nevertheless, it unfortunately deserves
to be called careless, embarrassing, and gross.
It drives me off the deep end course.
But it's also challenging, provocative, and bold,
though must be too controversial to be sold,
too deep, so deep that it’ll stay in me,
‘cause I'm writing my ******* bible
with the main character being the word god.
I have already written it, actually.
Although the Bible is free,
I prefer mine,
‘cause I'm done with reading, I write.
Besides, I don't like to read about others’ victimized, martyrized sacrifices
and catch various contagious interpretations
of other sick strangers' interpretations,
except maybe innocent potential sinner's associations.
I hope one day, I won't lie when I say,
"That's it. I'm done.
I don't read. I don't write.
I don't need this ****. All right?
Unless I can push out a real word out of my mind."
****, what a ****** fan I am!
Man, we don't have that much in common.
I'm not even a sports fan,
wearing Eminem's Jordans or jersey and boxing shorts as pajamas.
Being a shorty, I didn't make it to professional swimmers.
No biggie, neither are you a pro in basketball.
You chose a different career.
And while you now want to make it disappear,
like hopefully one day will North Korea,
I don't have one.
Thank God, nor do I have children.
What for?
So there'd be someone to bury you, but before,
they'd have helped you grow up into something more
than you are,
as you are being continued?
But they say, everything I see
is the extension of me.
So why would you need more,
when the whole world is within you?
See, I don't need to be a parent, apparently.
Nothing to lose, everything to win.
If I ever make it to Michigan,
I'll probly just get lost amongst street artists and enlightened bums
to be saved by your alternative to MacDonald's,
which, of course, is not a real restaurant.
As I'm prone to dicking around,
my head in the sky,
for instance, taking pictures of dumpster squirrels,
fat like hamsters,
black and mean like ghetto gangsters,
fast like Detroit Tigers and Lions
who, thanks to you, beat the Yankees and Falcons.
Well, I can see that you're in love with your city.
So as a patriot of Detroit you must prefer Michigan motors, such as Dodge or Ford,
provided, of course, that it's not four-door
to be worthy of the immense, impressive car collection that hardly anyone can afford,
except the best rap nerd,
who represents the Olympus of successful rap legends,
according to his stans,
and still prefers Ford
to the most expensive Mercedes-Benz,
even though this brand’s vehicle has been in his ownership before.
And here comes the harsh truth.
I'm almost sure I'm number two
because I obviously come after you,
let alone there's always someone
claiming to be your number one fan.
Besides, I don't even listen to your old songs anymore,
even the iconic “Stan”,
because first of all, I don't like them all.
Secondly, I'm too lazy to relisten to the songs I've already heard before,
when I'm busy with my own thoughts or get bored,
especially that I wasn't a ******* fan of an earlier version of you,
when you were yet immature.
You know, since your life is Truman Show,
and all your **** is personal,
the recent material shows a clearer picture of the current, real you.
So why should I care for your earlier songs or rewatch your previous interviews
if they are now old news?
To laugh at a funny bunny, ghost from the past,
like when you were the Tonight Show host's, Briefcase Joe's guest?
I enjoyed it once, yes.
Would I watch it again?
No, but thanks.
If only briefly, barely, very rarely.
I don't wanna OD.
It wouldn't hurt to watch it one last time, though, I guess.
I actually haven't even listened to all your songs.
Unfortunately, I don't have enough time,
‘cause there are too many of them, and I am one. Also,
I've bought only one of your disks,
not even vinyl
with a special edition cassette in addition
or a souvenir from your official store with your handwritten initials,
though it's mp3.
As for the rest, I downloaded them for free.
So no use of me.
I hope it won't make you poor, my dear.
Neither do I have my basement covered in your posters.
And I have never been to any of your concerts
to prove that I've been your superfan since day one.
Cinderella man, sorry for the worst form of disrespect
that an artist can expect from a fan,
for being broke enough to steal from you.
Of course, it's not an excuse.
If any consolation, at least I'm honest with you.
The truth is I became your stan in 2012
after I'd stumbled upon your album Recovery,
which was released in 2010.
Now I'm the age that you were back then.
But my fanaticism hardly would have happened,
hadn't I smoked **** and started writing again,
which proves that it's best not to mix drugs.
I even tasted your language,
which I liked so much
that my brain turned into a bilingual sandwich.
And then, twelve years later, the same **** happened again.
Relapse.
Well, you know how it goes, man.
I've been writing this thing since then.
I guess it's a middle age crisis.
So I'm digging a soul-searching hole in my brain
to find out what my life is.
It turns out, what draw me to you
was the combination of poetry and drugs,
hot mess of thoughts,
served with a hot psychedelic sauce,
explosive mixture that sooner or later
would inevitably detonate, ‘cause it wants to be exposed.
Double dope doping causes extreme acceleration of dopamine levels.
But I tell you what,
when your brain melts, seethes, and starts dripping out of your ringing ears due to parallel processing flows, it *****.
I mean, when it produces more dopamine than you really need,
it tricks you into feeling even more happy than you already are but unaware of it
and burns you, turns you into an obsessive drug-addict,
who gets what he deserves.
You know it because you are just like me,
though not quite me.
And rap is your drug aside of being your therapy,
a side effect and consequence of being a rap king,
your reward and punishment, blessing and curse
so you could decompose a **** dung of thoughts in your head for something beautiful to compose,
like a crimson thorny rose
that has already risen to unbelievable heights in this verse
for no apparent reason besides arousing feelings that unexpectedly arose.
Well, the whole **** world is manure,
and the most beautiful flower is you.
I mean, me.
And this is my ****.
This is just the way I am.
No offense, no grudge.
I am not whatever you say I am.
You are.
So don't judge
not to be judged.
The thing is everybody's nothing
until they run into something to believe in.
I'm only human,
even worse, a weak woman.
But, you know what?
I believe, like you and me,
even Jesus was just a human being.
Yet, look what he’s become.
Story of your life, huh?
Sorry I haven't been with you since day one,
and got to know you better after you’d almost died
and been reborn.
Has the near-death experience made you appreciate the second chance you'd been given
to realize that every day is the first day of the rest of your life?
Then again hit the big echo
as the death of your alter ego.
But I'm glad that it happened
while you're still alive,
unlike some other legends that were less lucky,
as I discovered them post-mortem.
I'm sure your fandom will continue growing as well, even without me.
Although I won't put your tattoo,
devil's mark, stan-stamp art on my body
or your picture on my wall,
there's always a place for you
in my heart and my soul.
As I am honored to be your idle admirer,
you're honored to take your place in my rap bible as my idol.
Of course, it's not like an iconic collab with Dido.
But it’d be cool if you did check this out before you really died, though.
Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,
if you love someone, you should be able to let them go.
Don't worry. One day I will be your ex-fan
and (how do I put this? Ahem!)
you will be a fan of your own fan,
yeah, big time,
my number one fan,
the only one,
even though I don't belong with veteran rappers,
vetted in relentless battles.
Meanwhile, I'll procrastinate, manifest, and meditate,
unable to end this ******* poem
or rather a rap novel
till I reach my aim,
my fantastic goal,
even if it's too big for a small girl like me.
After all, the fact that I own a smartphone only to write all day long
has been already frowned upon.
I've even been warned and given a word
that, if I weren't stealth enough and were dumb enough to be caught
with the phone in hand again, next time,
it'd be taken by force without a warrant and smashed against the wall
for stealing my time.
Although I'm simply playing with words,
I know this kind of games can be dangerous.
I wouldn't exaggerate and imagine
that life was comic, if it weren't tragic,
unless you can prove that it's not true.
Well, I guess that is impossible to do.
It's not that I don't realize that my words are fraught with consequences.
Even so, I almost feel like nothing can hurt me now, and I'm gon’ live forever.
It sounds like sheer nonsense, nonetheless I do,
because at the most you will read this verse
when it’s perfect, or when you’re ready, I assume,
which will happen maybe…
uh, yeah, most definitely never,
or at least, you won't read all this any time soon
and won't say anything whatsoever.
So I'll keep playing my silent game either way,
pondering about pointless stuff to forever elaborate
on some stupid **** simultaneously,
making it look poignant and clever,
'cause even though I might be not good at, let's say, baking cakes or pies,
I do have a black belt in piling up rhymes.
In case you, however, deign to teach me some manners and whoop my ***,
spank me with your hard and heavy raps,
like I'm your bad girl, and you're my dad,
do it fast, if you must,
'cause my level by now is supposed to be advanced.
So good luck with that,
break a leg.
Oh, what the heck,
break the whole ******' neck.
Make me repent the sins of my pen
that inks more now about the future
than I think about the past.
Give me your masterpiece, please.
Show me your master class.
Okay, okay, I give up.
I kid, I kid, don't get up, kiddo.
Calm down.
It's not like I know aikido.
But it sounds good, ain't it?
Feels good too, *******,
‘cause this kinda martial art matters,
especially when you know what to do with all this talent.
It should have become a cakewalk at some point, anyways.
Otherwise, what's the point, though, right?
I gotta raise the bar, writing catchphrases,
fire a metaphorical gun, shooting punch lines in your face
right between the eyes
blow your brains out,
scatter ‘em all over the place
and expand your mind,
entering outer space.
Now feel the silence in the gaps
between thoughts,
where you meet god,
read between the lines,
tune into the magic Shut-up land
you need to be eventually
without raps and rhymes.
Everyone does.
Find your blissful peace there
for no more war
with yourself, please.
RIP so I could reap what I sow.
Master peace to become a true masterpiece.
And don't even try to rise from the dead, bruh, like eva.
You're no more of a phoenix, than I'm an ornithologist, just so you know.
Yeah, no, I'm not,
but I'm pretty sure, there is no such thing as a self-combustible bird,
dying on the pyre
of satanically hot satire.
You're not gonna arise from the ashes.
That's it.
So stop burning yourself in the fire of your own ****.
Burn in mine for a change.
Who knows? You may even like it.
After all, it was your idea to trade shoes
and look at life through each other’s eyes
to find out what we can see inside each other's minds,
sharing the illusion of feeling each other's pain,
transforming it into love,
a dark evil night into a bright sunny day.
Although, it actually sounds a bit too dashing and smug,
because, like a "normal person",
I've written the whole poem behind your back,
sharing opinions with others rather than
having my life at stake
risking insulting you face to face,
which, I hate to break it to you,
I'm never gonna do.
Boy, that would be a big mistake to make,
like ordering a beefsteak instead of a birthday cake.
Who would have thought I could create something for you that's hard to take?
What can I say?
Never say never.
I’d love to make people laugh
until they cry at the same time,
breaking their stereotypes.
Can't help it.
It is what it is.
I like to write about funny, enlightening things.
And it is funny when you are here now.
Then just like that,
****, you're gone.
A divine supernova bursts stark into a black-hole devil.


This Verse Is Alive

This ****** verse grows like a red, hot rose
from a stinky dark mess that smells mighty bad, so gross.
Thorny, aggressive, *****.
Take a look. It's already bloomed.
One touch, It will sting your skin and nerves
as if it's poisonous.
As if the venom can spread to your brain,
while the sweet aroma crawls through your nose.
You inhale, you inspire.
Goat, you wanna devour the whole ******* flower,
‘cause it gives you the illusion of power.
You stand beside it, staring,
like a hungry cat at a sparrow,
hearing your soul sing and flood,
you think that you see yourself sink in the sea of blood.
In fact, you merely bleed into spring muddy streams and puddles.
Playing my heartstrings, you scream and squeeze the crimson rose even harder
and want some more than your usual dose,
‘cause it's outrageously beautiful and shamelessly pure,
as you can feel your blood dripping from its thorns.
Don't be so cruel,
fill me up with some more fuel.
You will be my first, I will be your last
to come from intellectual lust.
What more do you need?
You’ve had your chance to be a husband twice,
an insanely loving but resentful, extremely spicy spouse,
though, only for one woman.
And then you ****** it up. You blew it.
Man, sorry if it sounds personal,
but being a good father and a bad husband at the same time
is kinda controversial, if not impossible.
On the other hand,
marriage is a dual wholeness, paradoxical collab
of two lab rats, members of the nuptial club
for two idiots in love, engaged in the life event,
promising, at first, to consist of good stuff
for two participants, capable of turning it into a matrimonial war
of two morons, equally bad,
proving each other wrong,
hoping for a miracle,
when a made-up problem
somehow will solve itself tomorrow.
So ***** it. Let's just do it,
push each other's buttons,
strip each other to the bones,
blow our minds,
impress, undress to the very souls,
and turn our bodies into fluid
to unite in one immense, mercilessly immersive flow.
It's chaotic, but makes sense.
After all, it's inevitable, I know
and always knew it.
Do you feel my words make you mine?
Do you wanna know why?
That's because this verse is alive.
It eats you all and frees your mind.
In this moment is your entire life for you to sublime
and see your soul's growth.
There's a place for everyone
on the planet Earth
except for those who are being eaten.
So beat it not to be beaten,
if you are a little kitten.
The show must go on.
So be it.
One life has to end for the other one to be continued.
Or stay, 'cause I want you to feel me in ya
the way I think I see god in ya
and wanna feel you IN me.
The encounter with a predator makes you feel alive.
If you are lucky not to be dissolved in its gut,
you will be forever grateful for the reason why
you now remember it as meeting God.
While you choose what to eat,
nature digests us all into ****
to keep the balance in its account,
harmony in and out.
Or you'd rather it chews you and spits you out,
‘cause you are a bit too bitter for a candy bar,
wrapped in too sweet a beet
that tastes like Jesus Christ’s feet so far?
Like you and I, this shady verse constantly changes and grows,
expands like the universe,
as if it wants to consume the whole world,
including me,
and destroy the cosmos
where it came from,
drowning in self, unfolds
to reveal its true form.
Inexorable entropy relentlessly dissolves
in nonsensical chaos
of nauseous word *****,
lyric verbal diarrhea,
disintegrating into syllables,
letters, stream of consciousness,
being caught by a flight of the thought of the flight of a thought,
hilarious convulsions of ridiculous subconscious mind flow.
It grows when I grow,
literally becoming a virtual version of me.
Can I control it, if I can't outgrow it, though?
When it stops, it will eventually die.
Should one get too big,
there may be no place for ‘em left,
like for a neuron that got too heavy and fat
and had to fall off under the gravity of other thoughts
and die from boredom,
this way, ripping a band-aid off the soul at the same time,
an old, wise worm,
tired of looking for a reason in a rhyme,
illusive lightning-like truth at the bottom of the bottle,
that ain't there,
‘cause he's blind to see happiness in life.
Eat the world.
Digest it along with regrets.
Let it through.
Let it go.
Goodbye.
So if you read this,
it probably seems that
Schrödinger's cat is trapped in your head,
neither alive nor dead.
Although it's actually highly unlikely,
the fact that I might still be writing it
is, frankly speaking, quite frightening.
But also, in the process of growing, I'm enjoying my poem,
being obsessed with the idea of the illusion that I'm obsessed with the image of you,
the fantasy that embodies itself in the form of this verse in the virtual world,
searching for perfection in the night sky, lit by dead stars, reaching for the moon,
in time, to leave the space where I am now for the real one, and then one more.
This may actually become a masterpiece, after the death of the author.
Clearly, she's an addict and an idiot or a genius,
depending on the angle from which you see this bunch of words and feelings,
simple and mysterious.
But at the same time, it's possibly
one of the most narcissistic verses,
written by a presumably the most modest person,
that has ever existed in this world
and will stay in the history
as the distinctive but illusive evidence,
based on evasive traces,
a pale shadow,
the echo of the stars long gone.
It's a constant self-improvement work in progress,
tiresome sometimes, yes,
but a very interesting working process
I'm engrossed in.


Sophie’s Choice

Whatever it is, it's for you to decide.
It's your choice, of course.
Is it, though?
For some reason, it always seems to be Sophie's choice.
So I guess it is what it is.
(By the way, it really is a masterpiece
already, as it is,
like life,
one long aphorism.)
But why on earth does it always have to be like this?
I don't know.
It isn't easy, is it?
It's easier to be decapitated by a mind-breaking wizard
than to choose between two ideally evil ideas or thoughts.
As if I'm a little girl,
born during a war,
and while hiding from the Soviet Union among the Vietcong,
killed by the American bomb.
Or should I pick a side
find a lesser evil? Why?
Not to die today? Escape endless wars
between heaven and earth?
Why two evils?
Do you have to always be
between the devil and the deep blue sea?
Why not funny and spiritual?
‘Cause I'd rather not pick either of two evils.
On the other hand, when I can't choose between two good things,
I tend to take both,
like two ***** in one hole.
**** sure happens,
even when you mean well
and try to be good
or at least pretend.
Well, what you know?
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Hell, even cold but golden Alaska was once sold for a *** of gold.
What a funny way for fund-raising to build oligarchs’ mansions.
I guess, you never know where you lose and find.
You may appear in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And you can't do anything about it at first.
But then… Bam!
The bomb drops,
and you're gone. You die.
On the bright side, you are now free,
put out of your misery,
as if killed out of mercy.
So thank you, Universe, merci.
See? Your freedom of choice is in your attitude,
and you can always find something to be grateful for, of course.
To get enlightened, you have to go through darkness, after all,
to see that there is no good or bad,
only happy and miserable.
Don't make it worse.
Think about it.
Who do you think you are,
and where do you think you go,
while you grow, evolve, improve your soul?
Apparently, you move from a bad place to a better one.
That's probably why after you finally, really die,
as a reward for your pain,
you naturally get into a better world,
where you meet its creator, god,
or merely a different you.
So you have a choice,
to stay where you are
or be somebody else, free to choose
and believe that what he has created is yours,
and you got nothing to lose,
because you are already gone.


The Word Owns You

Anyhow, it's almost dead already, too bad, too old,
too big, too bold,
still straightforward, piercing, and bitter
like one **** with two *****
that ****** you off
and makes you wanna **** it so hard
that it could finally die and go off.
Yeah, it's so sick.
I gotta put it out of its misery with a rusty shovel,
**** it out of mercy at some point.
I mean, no one can heal something so ill.
And what can't be healed,
has to be killed.
I hope you feel me, silly,
understand what I wrote.
It's not that difficult and obscure,
really,
still alive, while yet not cured.
Are you following my thought?
If you're not sure,
I assure you, you do.
You're just unsure if it's the right direction for you.
Well, what do I know? I'm not you.
I only look at you.
Don't take my art too literally.
You can break my heart if you want.
I don't care,
'cause it's pretty much virtual,
supposed to be in my chest,
but not there.
Don't get me wrong.
It's not a big fat flattering love letter, you know.
I'm merely studying you under the microscope,
like a calm, unbiased, meticulous scientist,
doing research in silence,
slicing and dicing a frog.
And the more he analyzes this fandom madness,
the more stuck in the shady mania and ****** up he becomes,
anatomizing your black soul's dark guardian angel
you have such a desperate craving for.
He is capable of quenching your thirst
for the only language a dark angel knows,
which is a wild evil love.
Love and evil.
God and the devil, combined.
He's behind you all the way
in the hall of fame on the wall of shame.
Well, I suppose, two heads are better than one
because you can perform an experiment on one of them.
Stop being a hostage of your own role.
You're on your own from now on,
not lonely, alone only, though.
You were a good, slim fellow.
But now you've become even better.
Keep using your flaws,
rotten pieces of the mind of your future corpse
to hone your skills and master your soul.
And when you're deeply alone and unknown,
you'll gain your total freedom.
I'm sure you've already started to write a song about it,
(have you, really? Can I hear it?)
and, of course, your new album will be double platinum
‘cause you are the king.
Totally, totally. I agree.
I mean, the most beautiful drama queen.
To be actually free,
you must just adjust and really need to see
through the prism of your soul
that your self-important beloved self-torture
you are so deeply engrossed in,
thinking it's motivating,
yet instead, it's instigating,
self-indulgent suffering rapture,
absorbing you, is worthless.
Don't feed yourself to your pain.
It will obliterate your brain,
devastate your heart and burn you in its flame.
You're more significant than this.
The contents of your shape are more important than the context of the game.
You became too big for your frame
and keep growing, because you can.
I didn't suffer too much, just enough to be what I am.
You are not broken completely, just enough to be what you are,
to transform the weakness of man
into the power of god.
And I wanna evolve with you,
because I’m in love with you.
For this, I zoom in, dive deep into me
to see how much you mean to me.
But the process of healing is painful.
What you gonna do?
You need pain to appreciate love,
fear of death to cherish life
so you can feel when it correlates
with the nature's grace in many ways
and shapes your soul, your gestalt.
I love to see my body change and my consciousness grow.
I love life because it's temporary.
It's my favorite show.
There's not much to say. You've been through a lot.
We've all been. So what?
And we all still have this hurt, scared, sullen, depressed, enraged, silent teenager deep inside
we want to protect by creating a strong dark guardian angel
for our inner child to grow up.
So don't act like your sorrow is wider than the universe.
You're not the only one of your kind.
You know, it's not that entertaining
to see the vivid pictures you paint with your pain and
listen to your heart-breaking complainings.
As if your cathartic torments and problems are worth my emotional resources.
Like I didn't suffer from my own PTSD, unexpected traumas,
emotional scars, bruises, unwanted dramas,
devastating losses,
or wait for the right response
as a sufficient answer from the wrong person.
So you see, your pain would be superfluous.
Unlike all miserable people,
I don't want to be miserable like you.
But I do want you to be happy,
like I am right now,
even though I'm not good enough
in finding the right words to show you how.
I mean, you think you own the word,
when, in fact, the word owns you.
You don't come up with words,
they come up to you,
get into your mouth in the form of a ****,
and come into your brain
with mind-blowing-ceilings ideas,
breaking your head’s virginal membrane.
It ******* so deep that it makes you addicted to this game.
It comes into you
till it engulfs you on the inside
with your inner hungry for pleasure, greedy child
and becomes you.
Out of your subconscious mind,
words come to you, swift and alive.
You put them down to die.
I think, most of the time,
you feel like a ****,
coming with words through your mouth,
embodying your power of spirit
till it becomes licorice-like sweet and thick,
and you actually start to feel it.
You play this game again and again
in the point of singularity inside the circle of limited abilities
but with the point of view
of an intentionally infinite creative potential
to elaborate on undeliberate liberation,
ready to unfold into a universe
and become broad-minded too.
But how can I know my potential if I can't reach the unreachable thresholds?
Feelings are precious because of being captivating and transient.
This is how this world works.
You have been owing yourself survival since birth.
Even in your dreams, you keep solving problems,
not noticing that it's nonsense
that can be interpreted as the repentance of your guilty conscience,
while your destiny seems to consist of the sequence of coincidences,
arising more controversy and cognitive dissonance.
It's not that bad, considering you look at it from a distance.
That's why I prefer practice to theory,
the feeling to words,
which are the consequence that follows the cause.
A described feeling dies in words.
They become its tombstone.
In dead words, for yourself in the future,
you describe the condition you feel as a god,
who chose love,
in the present moment to remember it by,
‘cause you are afraid to forget it as a human being,
capable of being defeated by fear.
So I guess, it's best not to open the box
you won't be able to close
and say goodbye,
unless you use words as a means
to achieve certain goals,
such as creating a universe,
where after art chaos has systematized
with the feeling embodied,
creative energy has formed,
dark matter has become tactile,
it's bound to realize itself and die,
then again to be born
with no end, God knows why.
Can you get out of the world of words by means of words,
through which you try to understand something that can't be understood?
No, YodaBuddha, but you could use ‘em as the beginner’s course.
Then shoot for the moon and go on.
Yeah, I coulda, to have something to move on from.
But when your viewpoint is perceived as a holler in a hollow,
a shout out of the empty void into nowhere,
that can be replaced with a song,
someone's mightless anger will always try to shut it up, break it, causing pain,
that's supposed to help you stop feeding your anxiety nonsense.
Instead, it makes inner voices louder, creating monsters.
They give you power and become too big and strong.
When you use wrong tools,
play the wrong instrument,
you lose your favorite game.
Reality interpretation through the symbol manipulation means
getting distracted by the process of expressing yourself,
while hunting your aim.
You don't let the creative energy go through,
misunderstand.
Missing a lot of things,
you miss the point, don't feel
your full potential.
Then you manifest, reflect
the interpreted reality back
to the universe.
It brings your manifestation to life and back to you,
still unfulfilled.
Why don't you reflect it directly
without being its witness?
Stop drawing.
You are the painting,
a masterpiece, even.
You are already in.
Just see
Well, apparently, life is not only a paradise
but also a hell sometimes.
Still, it's not just black and white,
you know.
Between them is a rainbow.
In search of the magic formula,
you try to describe the state of your consciousness with words
in the hope of keeping it timeless.
You cling to them as to juts,
keep climbing the mountain
or resist the volcanic flow of emotional energy
just to find a new painful extreme
and justify the way you follow your dream,
trying to overcome the feeling by means of words,
channeling it to the desired course
of training your willpower.
Don't worry, just spit it.
Nourish and bring up your power of spirit.
Grow up and become a god
who can help himself and inspire others.
Good luck and take care,
But hey, remember, scared little fellow,
don't miss the rainbow,
hiding from the rain under the umbrella.
**** happens.
Let it go, just go with the flow.
But steer the ship where you need to go.
Life smacks and *****.
You snap and grow.
Should you hit rock bottom,
push off and break through the ceiling.
Keep pushing the limits
till you rocket through the roof of the Empire State Building,
where now only sky's the limit
in the endless space of your heavy mind,
filled with heavenly, godly light
I know you like this feeling
of being godlike dynamite.
You've really got the power when you hold a mic.
On the other hand, as long as there's a deeper floor,
you're all right.
Never give in, toy soldier, fighting monsters.
Keep rapping, cracking nuts and silly jokes.
Ah, God, have mercy, not again.
"Somebody, help me!
I'm drowning in my ****."
Why don't you write a song that pulls you out of it
instead of drinking it in, lapping, enwrapping it with a colorful covering
as if you're some kind of saint martyr?
Oh, yeah, I forgot. You already did.
So what?
What makes you stop?
Don't be too melodramatic.
You're not a lonely Captain Obvious
on a sinking ship.
You're a switchman for a locomotive,
not a lost cause.
Please, don't say that.
I'm sure it's not that bad.
At least it's better than it was
if you don't concentrate on what you've lost,
'cause there is always pros and cons,
which is characteristic of controversial, dualistic worlds.
You can walk on water after all, when the time comes
and see the reflection of the mightiest of all gods.


Morfreeda

There are no mistakes or coincidences in your serendipitous destiny,
nor one rhyme or reason, or justice for all.
Even poetical.
It's just this one sole moment we're kept in,
like in prison for the soul.
So the question is not, to be or not to be,
but can I or am I compelled by the belief that it's impossible?
It just happened to be this way
so that now it can only be called fate.
Enjoy the path that you chose.
Have a nice ride along the road
to the timeless nowhere and nevermore.
Suffice to say that it's a beautiful and terrible world
where we can't tame a feeling by describing it,
not even with sophisticated phrases.
We only follow it, always behind
like a famished wolf, chasing its prey,
softly, with an untiresome determination,
stepping on its traces,
left here with prayers
in deafening silence to the higher self
who's free from ambiguity and hypocrisy,
'cause it's content, self-sufficient, wordless, selfless.
It always knows better what to do
so you could again experience déjàh vu.
If your mind resembles mine,
you must know what I'm talking about.
The divine power I feel is the source of
my undying force of vicious words
and a spark that can start a revolution fire
in the hearts of a passionate throng,
inspired by just one strong song,
capable of dethroning tyrants
and destroying empires.
This Che-Guevara-spirited power feels like you can bend space and time,
starting with yourself, change the world.
And for this, I use you as an instrument or a tool
to love myself by means of you.
I've climbed up even higher than you.
And now I'm not just enlightened.
I'm burned through,
becoming a distant star,
so far and high
that it hides in the sky
and stays invisible to your eye.
Well, what can I say?
I have been using you.
I did need it. So I did it.
Not to humiliate you, but to annihilate you,
I made you a part of my immortal, immaterial, nonexistent speculative art,
the deceiving art of a self-believing word god
in the body of a biological robot,
programmed to behave like a rap-bot.
Good thing if you're also a coder
aside from being merely a human being,
for if you become old and ugly,
then you have to learn how to appreciate the beauty inside you,
else you're either a lame coder
or you go further, do not give up.
I think, in this case, you switch to become a god.
Otherwise, what's the point, though?
So use your brain as a processor
to get access to the database of your soul.
Yeah, good thinking. Why not?
Do I have time?
Tick-tock, overclock your brain
till you reach the point where you don't,
as you go so fast that you get out of the illusion.
And now there is no time,
and the eternity is you.
Sure, it may sound insane, messy, and depressing,
but also interesting and impressive,
'cause when I start writing,
it seems like I stop living and start dying,
putting my heart and soul into words,
which is, in fact, a destructive sin,
as if the virus of life died in me.
The thing is, when I write,
I don't have time for a normal life.
It's a pity I don't have the vaccine against the disease called obscene poetry.
Therefore, I can't get rid of my poetical mortido,
doomed to be in love with searching for more freedom.
It makes me think I have enough power of spirit
in the fragile flesh to admit that
I don't live but gradually die
and that I'm worthy of the brave and honorable name Morfreeda.
You know what I'm saying, dawg?
If you don't get it, then I wonder
whether I'm a bad writer
or you're a bad reader.
Regardless of the author’s character,
once you get to know her,
I think she's actually kinda sorta nice,
quite nice, yeah,
(right, wait what? Nice?
You call that nice?
Morfreeda?
Shh! Are you insane?
Jesus ******* Christ!
Don't say this name in vain.)
as long as she doesn't disturb others,
duh,
describing her thoughts,
when she's out of sorts,
‘cause thoughts being spoken are a lie
despite the theoretical ability to be materialized.
You don't get them if you don't feel them to survive.
And even if you do,
it is still not quite true
as it just seems I understand you.
What would you do if an impudent fool
with the confidence of a bull came up to you
and acted like an uncouth animal?
Play hide-and-seek or peekaboo?
How would you make this pickle laughable?
I'd try to avoid making eye contact and the following dialogue.
"Leave me alone, illiterate idiot."
"What if I don't? What you gonna do about it, boo?
"Get away from me, please.
M… *******, don't touch me, I'm serious!"
"You wanna hook up?"
"What? No, thanks. I'd rather not."
"No ***? Why not?
Why so hostile and furious?
Aren't you at least a bit curious?"
"I am, but curiosity killed a cat.
So it's still alive but potentially dead."
"Well, **** with that **** cat.
You're not that good a philosopher,
just a unnecessary poet."
Here is how, after flying around high in the space sky,
I'm falling down to the ground
and even lower, deeper and darker
straight towards the hell underground.
So how come I fell and felt like I'm in hell, dead,
but turned out to be in paradise, more than alive instead?
And now the immanent god Jahsdoit is I
with the consciousness level sky-*******-rocketing,
sitting on the rainbow cloud of love
spitting down from above.
You get it, right? You become immortal too,
sharing your growing soul with your aspiring admirer
through your inspiring art that will never expire.
It becomes a part of us,
united by one everlasting love that turns us into gods.
Why not?
With you, I'm free and wild,
can say whatever I want, smile,
and be not afraid or shy
to look like a child,
be whatever I wanna be,
go as far as I can,
do whatever it takes,
maybe even trip abroad,
wander around the world,
and see as far as it's possible for a god.
But I accept the fact that I'm not here forevermore,
at the same time,
can't comprehend that I'll disappear completely.
I guess my ego just needs to think so,
hopefully, to complete me,
but I'm afraid, for it to live, it needs to eat me
to become whole,
get the complete self-sufficiency of an egocentric god.
Sounds familiar?
Thought so.
You are a hell of an artist.
And I love this about you.
While slowly dying,
you entertain and enjoy yourself by making up your plot,
writing.
Although I know I've created the character of you
in the image of an attentive god in my mind,
while in reality he's oblivious, you don't care, and I talk to myself about me,
created in the image of my soul, the sense,
materialized in the body,
learning to realize itself in its life,
(for what?)
considering it's hard and time-and-energy-consuming
for a tiny, puny, stupid woman,
I am being absorbed by a mind-boggling thought
and can be anything from a crushed roach
to a convincingly invincible, imperishable, really superhuman god.
****, that's some spiritual, awakening, dopest ****. Enjoy it.
Never hesitate, though, to tell me I make a mistake, word slave,
so that I wouldn't feel all too high and mighty.
But don't underestimate me. Okay?
Kindly bite me.
Even if I think it's worth being called high-quality literature,
written by a highly spiritual creature,
every time I say I'm a god,
keep convincing me that I'm not.
Humiliate and humble me with your immodest art,
try to bring me back to my rut,
because I'm nobody, as a matter of fact.
Even if I am brilliant,
treat me accordingly,
but don't you ******* ever tell me I'm one in a million.
I don't wanna hear it.
Let me silently rot in my quiet, tranquil, transcendent oblivion.
See, every time I open my mouth
some quite stupid **** may come out.
So don't be shy to shut me up.
I obvi can't hold a candle to you, duh.
But I'm tired of holding it for you.
And I'm not sure if I can handle the mental state of my “brilliant brain”
with the willpower melting and getting soft like cotton wool.
I will never be good enough,
because even though I may feel I deserve to hold
all the platinum and gold of the whole world,
I'm afraid I would trade it for your love.
Yeah, I may sound too controversial.
Well, I guess, still waters run deep,
and the king of controversy
is doomed to deal with fans like me.
You know that people can be deep like oceans
so we could drown in each other, discovering ourselves through our dope emotions,
hearing voices from the depth of our cosmic consciousness,
reflecting as the starlight off water of a mirror-like sea.


Universal Love

As I’ve already told ya,
I want you to be happy.
I kid you not.
Even though your brain wasn't designed for happiness,
being busy surviving in God Mode,
looking for solutions,
making up problems, if all have been found,
chasing pleasurable, satisfying happiness,
cozy, warm, and kind,
saving you from death and pain.
Keep pushing Sisyphus’s stone.
That's all right.
Just tune into a new attitude to the way of your particular wave.
We’ll go together through your highs and lows.
Although we all are one in this world, but alone in our lives,
you don't have to be alone this time.
You don't have to be strong all the time.
I'll be with you till the day I die,
or you die.
I stand behind you as though behind the brick wall.
I am your shadow, you are my hero.
Till death do us part,
I will be by your side
with your music in my heart.
But listen, life is more than just a struggle or a competition
with achieving endless goals,
overcoming challenges and troubles,
solving puzzling problems,
accomplishing impossible missions,
be it outstanding, award-winning songs,
best-selling, platinum albums, books, or movies for your stans.
It could be a journey or a lesson,
as long as you remember it.
So start to count your ******* blessings, man.
Your dream aim is not as important as the way to it.
It's important to love the way as if the dream already came true, ain't it?
Live it. There's no need to explain it
or wait for anybody’s permission.
To love yourself, you don't need public recognition.
Would it **** ya to smile once in a while?
Or would it turn you into a slime?
I'm sure you can do it, when nobody's looking at you.
Just let go of your paranoid paradigm.
Any time now, any smile goes,
even if it's tragicomically crooked and spooky,
like a Fortune Teller Cookie.
Life's not a contest in who suffers more
or whose **** is the biggest.
**** a lemon, dude,
enjoy and feast on your shitburger with gratitude,
don't give up, but embrace bad luck,
put your hands in the air like you don't give a ****,
for your only freedom is in your attitude,
which comes from your enlightenment,
which, in its turn, depends on your body's alignment,
mental and logical,
instrumental and physiological,
that is the state of your health,
expressed in your mood.
Even though you're just a jester and a fool,
be grateful for endless opportunities to get enlightened that life gives you.
We've all been given the power of co-creation as a gift.
Unfortunately, not all of us notice and can use it for our benefit.
People often treat life as a waiting line
for tickets to paradise,
praying for enough money to justify the offer of their price,
before they wake up on the other side,
not knowing that they can awaken now,
having forgotten how.
Although being awfully unlawful,
I know you know about this paradox -
the universal law of the universal love
that when you long for love,
you fall in desperation.
But as soon as you let go,
as if you are already loved
by yourself in the first place,
it comes to you, and you accept her,
become love.
You give in, surrender, win
without the fight within
through relaxation.
Sit still in silence, see it approach.
Feel how the Universe embraces you.
Hence the old you are being naturally, gradually replaced with the new you.
All you need is time and space for baby steps.
Too much knowledge blows up your mind
and breaks your brain,
if it even gets to your head,
when you're not ready yet.
But over time, your consciousness grows, expands
to form your invisible core,
filling your inner black hole,
bottomless emptiness,
making you whole,
lest you get caught by undesirable feelings right away.
Unfortunately or fortunately, your past won't disappear completely.
It'll stay as a code in the archives of your soul’s DNA.
Now you reminisce about your past,
like about your old house,
‘cause you were young back then,
spending idly time with your best friend,
dreaming together about your future.
But, hey, you wouldn't relive it all over again, now, would ya?
As PTSD attracts the vicious circle of familiar infinity.
You know, I lost my best friend too.
Do I wanna see her again?
Of course I do.
As soon as you lose your best friend,
he becomes forever irreplaceable for you.
Yes, you are your worst enemy, man.
But you can also be your best friend,
whom no one understands
better than you do.
No matter if you remember or forget,
the universe won't give you the result you want for your attempts.
It reflects your mind's state.
Your wish is its command.
It works kinda like social media algorithms
that have the offer to satisfy the demand,
the virtual network, digital Solaris
in the world of materializing dreams.
Read the reality. Let it go through.
Sense it, even when your mind doesn't see any sense.
You don't believe or know. You feel.
Go nuts. Be my guest.
Here is the moment with no plot,
the moment with nothing at all.
Fill it with something that will last forever.
Feel it to remember your future that has passed,
that you no longer control,
recreating your past.
Guide your sight into your inner emptiness,
where you will find beauty in silence
only for a moment.
Feel it. Don't try to control it,
'cause you can't.
Then let go of it.
You can't change anyone or the world,
only yourself.
I am grateful for the reality I'm in.
And the creator is glad
‘cause he feels it as well and thanks me back.
Call it a divine empathy in reciprocated universal love,
cosmic emotional energy ocean, chaotic element.
I am its particle, a part of her, she’s an extension of me.
The truth is, I’m so ******* lucky to be alive.
God is my witness, I'll be ****** if it's a lie.
Besides, life is a gift,
for which he doesn't need anything in return.
My idol is not my world.
My world is my idol.
And even if he's unaware of my gratitude,
there's always me to be grateful to.
See, you help the universe to thrive
when you enjoy your life.
You hear its music in your blood
when you sound right.
For this, your body must be well attuned
in accordance with the balance of your mind.
There is always enough time for this now, in this moment,
that can turn into eternity.
So don't forget to celebrate your life.
Take the first step and appreciate the way to your aim.
Go for it.
May the power stay forever with you
and your spiritual poetry.
Be grateful for the greatest party,
where you're connected with everything and everybody.
Yo, bro, I hope you know that we've evolved into something more
than we had been before.
Keep going and growing.
Be the light. Go forward.
You're not lonely on your journey.
You can join me if you like.
I don't mind, and I don't bite.
We are all alone,
but we are all one
love.
Like we are the cells of one big organism in one big ******,
and through the music in our blood,
we get out and become gods.
Then we meet in the new reality
to grow into each other again
to find God inside of us.
To enjoy life directly, without words,
don't hide from love behind your jokes.
Feel your soul through the temple of your body with open doors.
You are the mightiest god only for yourself in this world,
where there is, in fact, no competition,
only the illusion, which keeps being tirelessly debunked by a free mind for your higher self recognition.
Connect to the source,
take the energy generously, feel it in your very core,
the singularity,
from which the whole universe appears,
and direct it to where you want to be
to improve your greatest power -
your love ability.
When you give your all to love,
you receive even more -
your own infinity.
The key to feeling abundant is generosity.
It's easy to lose yourself when you want more stuff,
search for more ways to make yourself complete.
Being eaten by greed,
you dissolve in it.
If you absolutely need to be engulfed,
isn't it better to be engulfed by love?
Let's go already. Shall we?
The width of your potential is not as important as the direction you choose for its expansion.
What you pay your attention to happens to you,
when you channel your feeling
to something you want to believe in.
This is the essence of your manifestation,
your dream coming true.
Focus on the love of the god inside you,
breathe in deeply,
sense him in silence,
open new dimensions of the one endlessly diverse feeling
simply by saying to yourself, "I love you."
This magical ritual will make you richer and more spiritual.


Solitude

Didn't want to make it too complicated,
but I did indeed overcontemplate it.
One more thing to wrap it up
before I hopefully make myself shut up.
I wonder if we could be real friends.
Well, I guess it depends
on many things.
And I know it's superfluous, let alone too good to be true,
considering the fact that I can't be a good friend to you
till I feel I so much depend on you.
I ain't saying that I do know you.
I'm just saying it seems to be true.
While in reality, I actually don't give a **** about you,
just like you pretend not to.
Though, a part of me will always be a little curious about you
and wouldn't mind if you got to know me too.
But it's probly best if you stay my pie in the sky,
my pure platonic love,
unreachable idol, perfect guy
I made up in my mind,
'cause the cake is a lie,
like your best song will always be the one you've already forgotten,
hasn't written yet, or will never write,
the unattainable ideal on a pedestal,
like the first love,
'cause your fantasy is bigger
than the world you live in.
And what's ideal
in reality, is not real.
So, I guess, we’d better be apart,
even though it breaks my heart,
keep our interests at a distance
lest we be, at best, disappointed in each other
and, at worst, start to ******* hate one another,
or even if we, however, meet,
immediately die
to keep Romeo and Juliet's love alive
and forever young in the land of evergreen spring, exciting, ramancy.
There should be balance to be, at least, less depressed
or, at most, even happy, more or less.
The farther you are,
the lesser the harm,
the better I will become,
for the bigger my ego,
the lesser I am.
Otherwise, it may swell,
rise to a monstrous size,
get too rad, lit, and wet.
Well, sir Raps-a-lot,
you taught me well
how to reach new heights.
I appreciate that,
thanks a lot.
People love to be in love with their idols,
‘cause they see them in themselves.
You know about it more than I do,
unfortunately, far too well.
No need to tell you the story of your life that sells.
So I like you because I'm like you.
Yeah, I know, it's another cliché,
but it's true.
We must have identically damaged brain cells,
broken in the exact same way.
But it’s okay.
We're no longer covered in eggshells.
Your energy matters.
I can be anything now, except the inception.
The faith in you of like-minded people, your fans
strengthens your faith in yourself.
You believe them and grow as an independent, self-sufficient god,
who's not lonely in the solitude of his art.
In other words, as much as you love what you do,
your stans love you as a god,
and you become their art, too.
They are united in one herd,
programmed to belong with a family
by means of oxytocin and enslaving empathy,
one big, uncontrollably frightening crowd,
chasing you,
because they love the way you sound,
albeit a bit too loud,
lost and dissolved in one love,
praying for being heard and saved by their lord Shepherd.
Although they can't fit in your shoes,
they don't feel alone and afraid anymore,
as long as they walk along the same roads as you do.
They have the same problems, the same issues,
trying to resolve ‘em, overcoming weakness, getting stronger together, with you.
They want to save you
and thus save themselves too,
as well as you do.
And even if no one believes in you,
you always got the guts to believe in yourself anywise.
That’s what makes you the greatest of all time.
I'm just trying to be as candid as I can.
You don't want me to lie to you, do you?
If so, I promise to be always honest.
And to be frank, I couldn't have lied even if I tried.
I can't hide what I got on my mind
because the feeling is I.
Believe me, your life will be just fine
as long as you don't interfere with mine.
The farther we are from each other,
the closer to me, you are,
as well as to you, I am.
Let's keep this agonizingly screaming secret
about a childish curiosity, growing into an adult lust,
getting wilder and sicker, between us,
disguising it with passionate patience
characteristic of mentally unstable patients
with unrealistic expectations,
deeply hidden in the **** sculpture,
the virtual statue of forever frozen hot feelings
in my mind, embodied in my body.
I'll be your pipe dream too.
I don't wanna be your fan anymore.
You gotta let me go.
I can't live in two realities at the same time,
when my body is in one reality,
and my mind is augmented with another, love-like addictive one.
Though, I must say, sometimes I'd like to think of myself as a multitask woman.
I just need more than this. I choose love,
even if it's not with you, man.
You can hug me if you want.
I do surrender to my last love.
It frees me and enslaves me
till my death comes.
At least now, I'd like to think so.
While my hobby is you,
my hubby and you are actually alike.
He's also got father issues.
He's also a poet and a musician,
who no longer wants to be auditioned.
In addition, he happens to be my critic, muse, and my mission.
That's a shame, I'm a bad student,
rather his little, loyal, angry dog,
set on the right path to true happiness by the god,
‘cause apparently nothing brings you happiness and peace
except your desire to be happy.
It manifests the feeling that says, "Here it is."
Ah, so needy, clingy, and scrappy.
Still, **** happens.
See, he managed somehow to figure out his zen way out of the world of words.
So writing this book,
I feel guilty,
as if I'm cheating on him with you.
He's trying to improve me,
forcing me to change,
because he cares,
because he loves me,
being scarcely capable of ridding himself of his own bad habits right away,
Adam sculpting his rib out of Eve
so that my life would make sense.
Actually, he said he wanted to love me without my flaws,
which means he doesn't accept me the way I am
and doesn't love me anymore.
I feel rejected, as he neglects a part of me.
Well, duh, it's dumb and so dark that he can't stand seeing it.
But does that give him the right to disrespect me?
Is this his excuse for being a stubborn fool with a swinging mood,
goofy child playing a stupid game,
having switched to be a totally different dude,
ignoring me, as if he's the boss,
who wants me fired without saying a word?
If conditional love is based on empathy,
I must be feeling the same.
What you gonna do?
Empathy is clearly not enough for never dying love.
He's trying too hard, obviously,
as if he's in despair.
It depresses, ****** me off,
and simultaneously scares,
'cause I don’t wanna know when eternity comes to an end.
What am I supposed to do now,
after 20 years of marriage,
get a divorce,
find courage to embrace my loss,
set myself free, and move on,
or realize that he's the love of my life,
my soulmate, my one and only real friend,
the best I can have, and I can't live without him?
Why do the only options have to be extremes?
Is it impossible to balance this **** somehow?
But when I try, why does it always seem
that I'm looking for another compromise,
a beautiful disguise for the disgusting, ugly lie
about almighty love that never dies
only for more uncertainties to multiply?
How about “in sickness and health"
to keep heaven in hell
“till death do us part"?
Yeah, being rejected *****
regardless of the previous breaking up experience.
But what a stupid and ridiculous fear it is for a goddess,
who's supposed to be independent, strong, and fearless.
Or am I just a little person saying big words?
‘Cause scared of pain and death, programmed to survive,
the animal in me screams,
“I can't believe it.
That can't be happening.
Are you for real?
Oh, my God!
Please, don't leave me! Love me!
Don't you need me anymore?”
I want him to be happy too.
So if that makes him happy, then fine, okay,
I will let go. I'll walk away
if I have to.
After all, a human being can become strong only by getting over his weakness.
I guess, it's always best to feel your own feeling, whatever it is,
than to entertain yourself by being someone else's witness,
unless it doesn't pertain to a robot-hedonist
or someone who pretends to be an electronic robot, showing no emotion,
but, in fact, is a greedy, depressed perfectionist,
in one powerful motion, pushing off of something that he can't stand seeing,
something that disgusts him
to become a god-egoist.
I'm grateful for what we've had, though,
and forgive for what we don't.
It might be still love,
‘cause it's not the first time
when I had to say, “Goodbye.
But don't let me forget you."
Turns out, it's not that hard to say, "I love you,”
while "sorry” seems to be the hardest word for him,
as if admitting that you were wrong is a sin,
and if you say it, the whole world will fall down to hell, and the devil will win.
Indeed, why care for forgiveness if you can't let go of the grudge and forgive?
Well, I'm not gonna say it again either.
I'm done. The limit of begging for forgiveness is exceeded.
I'm ******* sick and tired of dealing with the disease, called paranoid paradigm,
when we go through the same patterns, the same routine every ******* time,
and again, it seems like I'm losing my mind.
I can't take it anymore.
Why do we take each other for granted,
being sensitive children at the same time, healing each other?
Why not just live, enjoy our life together,
and be relatively normal, as we once were?
Were we, though?
I don't wanna fight with him.
I want him to fight for me, for our love
so we could start to feel more like lovers,
like we used to be,
and not the victims of a meaningless war.
Why would I dream of unreachable, perfect, mythical, permanent happiness with someone else if I were happy with him?
Maybe I should be happy with myself first.
The question is, do I wanna be happy?
The answer to the rhetorical question is obvious.
Really? That's it?
That's so simple and stupid.
The worst thing is, I don't even have anyone to talk about it,
and, honestly, it's terrifying.
So now I'm torn in half between two fires,
the devil's anvil and the hammer of Thor,
where, breaking the triangle of madness,
bad meets evil in the middle of love,
lighting painful sparks of inspiration,
sometimes mixed up with desperation.
Even so, I want you, too, to be inspired,
be always capable of more
despite your being fed up with love.
Also, my friend, please, don't deny it.
You love the image of a *****.
Hey, what ya know?
Even Jesus's female apostle
is gossiped to be a lady of light virtue according to the Gospels, after all.
So she's been called.
So what?
Despite the rumor,
she's also considered to be a faithful fan,
devoted follower, and a loyal woman, kinda like a groupie, though.
What a great potential for a saint sinner, biblical *****,
for a human soul to grow into a god.
Yo, does it offend you
that I don't wanna be your fan, dude?
'Cause I think I understand you.
I don't wanna have a crowd of fans either,
just one reader.
Nor do I wanna like you as a fan,
'cause I like you as a human
with a very peculiar sense of humor, man,
and as a humble, simple, easy-going person,
genius of controversy.
Yet, I still feel like I am but the best,
meanest queen of yo' fans
in your shady, big fat ******' fan club,
the evilest ***** in your devilish church
or, as you call it, the satanic cult,
where you are the ******* king and the supreme god,
kinda like Jesus, the protector of ******,
poor, weak, bad girls,
who were so delighted to be near someone so enlightened
and so perfectly good,
that it looked as if God himself came on to them and ****** all over their faces,
glowing with the golden light of God's dew.
And they would be endlessly grateful,
kiss him, embrace him,
'cause that's how great, obviously, God's grace is.
(Geez! I think I might be at risk
of being put into jail for this
too free-speech a piece
or, at worst, burned in hell.
Oh, well… some people are just impossible to appease,
like those ******* never flying pigs.
Pardon my French. I meant the police.
I'm not an asskisser-politician for everyone to please, anyways.)
Well, well, well, look at that.
Apparently, my hobby’s obvi also rap.
Yep… yeppity, yep, yep, yep.
Rhyming pun for fun,
virtuoso word play crap.
I know you won't be able to write anything better.
But you know you will be better than yourself.
Should you refuse to be my friend,
that's alright.
I'm not mad and don't mind.
I'll understand.
Hopefully, I won't be banned
because you're afraid of becoming my friend,
like you are in need of another fan.
What for?
To be together in this, like we are married?
You've already got millions of them.
Why would you want one more?
Especially if he’s as miserable as you are.
There are too many of them.
I clearly can't be the biggest one.
I can never be your woman
and gotta admit
you can't be in love with me.
Even if you ban me, hiding behind your fame
knock yourself out. I won't blame you, really.
Man, I'd probably do the same.
So no hard feelings.
Tell me you don't need me,
give me just one reason,
and I'll leave ya,
won't bother you again.
Or keep silent,
‘cause I learned to appreciate solitude as well,
forging my fortitude,
having become whole alone
without the need to complete me
now that I complete myself.
Even though you are me, I am my all.
A universe, burst out of singularity.
Well, I don't have to tell you this.
Life brought you there too.
And now it's your reality,
where you are a character with a bad attitude.
It's time to change mine, though.
I don't need to chase love anymore.
It's already here.
I let it in. Now it's in me,
and it's more than enough.
I love myself from abundance,
for I am love.
And I'm grateful for that.
Now I can share it with others.
I know that, getting even greater, it always comes back,
and I can't be offended,
‘cause I just don't give a ****.

Free Will

I think, to stop being a fan,
one should be worthy of their idol.
Otherwise, it looks pathologically pathetic and suicidal.
It sounds anarchistic and utopian,
but I believe that everyone
is supposed to be their own god,
a creator of their own art.
Most people just don't know that.
You're designed this way,
it's in the spiral of your DNA, your blood,
undulates like a wave around the golden middle way.
You're a miserable and dissolving in God part
if you do not create your god.
After all, you are allowed to imagine whatever you want
since you've been given a virtual free will
to select your reality version.
It's your only freedom to choose what you want to feel,
which feeling you prefer to be thrilled with or drown in.
You know, you and I,
we don’t even have to die.
I mean, we have been given the whole palette of feelings
not just to disappear.
You can choose your reality now
and stay here forever, if you will.
You live, balancing between two extremes
in the spectrum of diversity in dualism
to choose one of them when you die, anyhow.
Is it the truth or a lie?
You don't have to decide now.
But when the time comes, you'll make up your mind
to be or not to be.
I hope I'm self-aware enough to be free
to choose a better version of me.
Do you think neuro-linguistic repeating
is capable of creating a feeling,
or it will turn into white noise in time?
If I'm a robot, I have no choice, do I?
Well, if I still have a little bit of free will,
can I at least choose to be a robot-hedonist, please,
aside from a boring neuro-linguist?
We have an endless number of abilities in our limited imagination
longing for getting over the boundaries of reality to meet our expectations
for being surprised
and break free from stereotypes.
Reality scares us, it's always unknown.
That's why we run from it by creating our own.
For this, we have art
to interpret it somehow and hopefully find out why
and how to overcome our sense of mind.
We'll see how I can handle my sins.
If I can separate myself from at least one,
that will appear to be nearly a miracle I've hardly ever seen
or will see before I'm gone.
You know, back in the day,
I thought I wanted to stop writing this.
Now it turns out I don't,
'cause if I did really want,
I would have done it a long time ago.
I believe I'm about to let it go
but still ready for more.
Déjà vu
or just a flashback.
I’ve been here with you.
It all had happened already before.
How many times? I lost track.
I don't mind if it dies with me,
don't care what it does to me anymore,
even if it erases me into dust.
Let it be.
Let it burn in me
for me forever to be free.
The rhapsody, annoying, like ******, spread with the speed of a viral infection or a rumor,
vile perseverance of an early bloomer,
exhilaration of the generation of baby boomers,
then outgrew me like a tumor.
I'm not afraid to take it to my grave
or to yours.
But I wish you could tell me it's all not in vain,
that it's not lost on you.
I want you to see my pain
so that you want me to be your friend too.
The most important thing seems to be art,
'cause while I'm mortal, it's not.
It's bigger than you and me,
or any human being, actually.
Manuscripts don't burn. They break free
and stay in their authors' souls for eternity,
as an undying legacy
and the light of dead stars in the memory of celestial gods.
And nothing else matters,
if it's destined to be,
like your fandom madness.
For this, artists sacrifice their lives on the altar of art.
It's a drug that most likely will **** me.
Art engulfs you like dope bliss or ******
and takes you to Shangri-La,
from where you don't wanna come back,
like a ******* sexaholic, hopeless romantic, or a ******* ******,
drowning on his feeble craft in the rough sea of evil love.
Yeah, I know that my poem is a drug,
cruising in your vessels,
with verses, soaked in dope
so you could get off.
And me too.
I've already written enough
to get high on my own stuff.
I literally wrote a literary dope.
Sorry, I can't give you more of my personal info.
What for?
So you could use it against me and turn my life into a living hell?
Oh, hell no?
You think I'm stupid?
Hello?
I'm not what you think I am.
You are.
Got it?
Thank God.
Hallelujah!
And, yeah, I get the irony. Ha-ha.
Jokes on me, duh.
I am just talking to myself, ain't I?
Uh… yeah, Morfreeda.
But an author is supposed to be objective and indifferent, playing with word patterns, like AI.
The truth is you get used to a bad habit
when you learn to turn evil into love
and earn the right to tell people to *******.
A real artist is not interested in his fans' opinions,
especially when they act like his enemies or minions.
As soon as someone gets offended or touched by his art,
it becomes their problem.
A self-sufficient artist doesn't perform for 'em.
He does it for himself to go further
and leave the past behind,
to be an example for someone
who still needs to distinguish good from bad,
not because it's what the artist wants.
Although I love you as a fan,
I feel I'm more to you than that.
And you are more to me than just a god.
You'd always been more like my rap guide, mentor, brother, and a friend,
apparently the closest one so far,
so good, in fact,
the best friend I have never had.
Even if I don't see how my magic actually worked,
and you read what I wrote,
should you not get to read this before you die,
or I finally lose my mind,
too big for the cell of the scull,
my love will find you in your next life.
I believe I have enough free will for that.
I'm at the same point of the same circle again
to realize that I have free will to change my fate.
How much freedom of will do you need, or you think you have?
50/50? At least you've got yourself.
Sounds fair, not too shabby.
Isn't that enough?
Don't be afraid to love.
When are you really happy?
Tell me, answer, guy.
When you got nothing to lose in your life except your life?
The older I get, the more vividly I realize that.
Don't be a wuss.
You have nothing to lose,
as you are already self-sufficient.
Be happy if you want, trust me.
You've got the power,
just unleash it.
When you believe in yourself,
you are the master,
the master of the Universe,
made of indestructible star-dust love.
Your free will is in your destiny,
which is directed by your higher self.
Being caught by something bigger than you are,
you find your place as a co-creator,
which means that you are the one
who still holds on to the painful phantom.
But the feeling everyone wants
is one for all,
described by different words.
Yet, it can't be explained.
Your thought-free will can only show you the right way.
I wanna evolve with you,
as though I am in love with you.
Yo, dawg, you are the goat.
But I gotta go further.
I'll dive deeper into the flow of my thoughts and see how it goes.
While my mind is the figment of the imagination of the creator
and, as a character, I say his words,
the character's free will comes from the subconsciousness of the author.
So my fate is God's plot.
But what if I am the god?
Then I'll fly up the stairs of my destiny,
overcoming the amazing maze Pattern.
For if I have the guts to believe in myself when no one does,
that makes me the greatest of all the gods.
There's no me in this world, that appears to be a dream,
because I am the sleeping creator of it
with me within.


Farewell*

I hope you don't see me as an impeding, annoying, rude intruder.
If I could say it more delicately and subtly, I would've.
I started this verse as your worst fan
and ended it as your best imaginary friend.
Even though I recognize you in me, man,
I don't actually intend to be your real friend,
unless maybe a penfriend.
Besides, compared to my fantasy, the real you are most likely worse
because my imagination is closer to me than yours, of course.
I know that it all is just in my head.
So I guess it's farewell, then.
I can't believe it's finally happening.
Is this the happy end?
Do you need a hug?
Oh, yeah, I forgot. You don't give a ****.
Although for someone who doesn't give a ****, you rap awfully a lot.
Sorry you had to be involved.
It's not your fault.
I have to let you go.
Please, don't get mad or upset about anything I have said.
I think you can say anything to your friend
because he has the ability to understand and forgive.
Besides, this poem is mostly addressed to myself, so no offense, bro.
I just needed to clean out my closet,
close it and try to forget,
write now, then read and get rid of it.
Well, you know more than me about that.
The garbage quantity in your closet
is usually equivalent to the garbage quantity in your head.
Thoughts are like habits, worn out clothes,
that you put on your mind into a plot
to look at it from afar
and get some more freedom.
Obviously, I'm trying too hard.
I gotta let it go,
burn it all,
everything I've written and read.
You, too, need it.
With an empty head, your heart gets filled with love.
I thought it mattered what I said and why I said it.
Turns out, it does not.
You know things may look different from what they really are.
Forgive me if I hurt your feelings.
I thought I was telling the truth.
While I was just fighting my demons,
it looked like I was in love with you.
Although I enjoyed playing with a toy,
I had to pay with my time for the marketing ploy,
the successful American dream embodiment
I've put on a pedestal as a monument
to my shady hero and the old me,
buried with him.
And all the legacy that's left is this eulogy, requiem to M.
I needed to feel and believe in my fantasy
to realize it and create this reality,
wake up in a dream within a dream.
Now I wanna evolve alone, without you,
‘cause I’m not really in love with you.
And I don't wanna be like you.
Indeed, why did I even want you to read it?
I gotta admit,
why would I need you, when I got me
so I can be whatever I wanna be,
become a better version of me?
I know I've said a lot of batshit crazy things
(in my defense, I was high most of the time,
so high on ***, also highly *****,
oh my God, too ******* hot),
but the only important and sane one is this.
Dude, it's my “ode”, a tribute of my gratitude and respect to you.
Talking to you is a pleasure of making love brutally true.
So in the end, this **** is not that bad, I assume.
However, you perhaps shouldn't even have read about this castle in the air,
evoked by the seizure of inspiration,
a theatrically emotional spasm.
All I really wanted to say is that my imagination with you is a limitless chasm.
I co-create with you.
Anticipation is more desirable than a big-bang ******.
The conversation, spiced up with wicked humor and brilliant sarcasm,
fires up the burning sensation of passion
to always find something new in you
thanks to your enormous confidence,
eminent will power, high self-esteem and IQ.
I mean, to succeed, you didn't even need to finish school.
All you needed was to express yourself.
I don't know any other evil rap genius like you,
so eloquent, elegant, but also angry, and rude,
stupefyingly cool and cute,
free beauty and a hungry beast,
who feels eternal spring in the cell of solitude.
For this, I'm forever grateful,
a hopeless romantic, lost in love fool.
Don't ever let me forget you!

Don't let me forget you.

P.S. With all that said, I realized
I appeared to be merely a fan, losing my time,
'cause if I wanna be a peer to a god,
apparently, I gotta have my own art.
Well, maybe not the whole time.
At least I had fun.
You'll live forever in my memory,
even after you die.
I'll resurrect you, for you're my favorite,
concrete matter, indeed divine.
See you. I promise, you won't get lost,
just in case you forgot.
I'll create a new you without words
in the best of my worlds, my god,
or not.
Whatever. The point is,
don't worry, be happy.
Have a nice life.
Find your peace.
Goodbye.

If you’re reading this its already too late
Your already standing over my dead body
Over my dead body
Over my dead body

How do I look?
Do I look at ease?
Do I look scared?
I knew it was either me or you
Do you remember what I said?
"I'll let you have it over my dead body"
Now you've got it, over my dead body
Don't I always keep my word?

Tell my parents I'm sorry
I wouldn't have thought it'd end like this either
Tell this world there's some thing I'll miss
Like nature, and a steady simple beat

So this my note
That suicide note we're all so scared to write (even if we want to)
But I didn't write this just this night
No, this is just the culmination
Of over 7 years of hopelessness
This is my childhood innocence and joy
Finally reduced to nothing
This is the hope in humanity
Finally allowed to disappear
This is that paranoia of myself
Finally taking control

This is when I said
"You'll get me to give up over my dead body"
This is it
Over my dead body
Over my dead body
You're standing over my dead body

In search of wisdom, feeling the pain
My answer, revealed, and met with distain,
Feelings of animosity.
This answer made plain
Free to see what I see
This cycle is sustained.

Parade like a superstar,
This façade, brings the praises of all,
High and mighty as you are,
Knowing, the proximity of your imminent fall.
Bright and shining, gain another scar
Falling again, getting up, trying still, to walk tall.

This pride you hold, weighs on you like lead.
These illusions –grandeur! To end in shame,
The culmination of the actions, coming to a head
While you, who still remain
Though hurt, is not completely dead.

I know this feeling, I too feel the sting.
If you only knew, what I have in store
For you, the song you would sing
If only for a second, you would face,
A joy, you have not seen since
I put you in your perfect place.