I look at Sil and start to SCREAM and yell and yammer excitedly with this new idea bursting forth -  Let’s go to Sunday mass hungover, or maybe still drunk. Maybe we can puke in the pews or confess our sins to the pederast priest! Sil, always an easy read, agreed instantly so we left the watering hole in the wall, brimming with stalwart stoic sin and soaking in ***, gin and ugh…pheromones.

“fadder I puked in yer pews. How many hail Marys is dat?”

“fadder I smoked a joint in the rectory.”

“fadder I occasionally sleeps wit men.” I cry,

We see his previously shock beet red face light up.

“Wit MEN fadder wit men.  Not little boys”

Disappointed pederast priest preaching piously about the sins of drugs and alcohol and *** and ****** and y’know, pretty much everything fun ever.

“fadder I sold me mudders dentures for new headshots.”

“fadder I was in a ****” et cetera. After the pederast has a coronary we’ll steal the communion wine and dance on the church *****. You can play a sweet soft soothing melody accompanied soliloquy or Debussy’s Claire de Lune. We’ll remember better days when he could still play and cry red tears, ****** drunk. Stuck in our respective funk ruts our calls to the coronary catholic become more somber.

“fadder I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying…I’m afraid of living.”

Rolling around on the confession booth floor now,

“fadder I want to die, fadder I tried to **** myself”

Sil shows strong salient scalpel scars that we both still remember suturing shut.

“fadder I should be in the Waterford In-patient wing”

By now we’ve revived the poor old Father…As it happens he’s a rowdy red whiskey noser. Sil’s feeling good, rambunctious and reeling secretly seething I believe.

“So fadder explain to me why it’s a sin to love another man but every other ******* week some ******’ pillar of the community cops for kiddie ****?!” His ire is up, red cheeked wide eyed boiling over.

The priest is mute silent on the subject at first, finally looking up from a leather bound book, he starts to speak in careful, measured words unfamiliar to the impatience of our generation.

“My son, I’ve never ****** any boys, nor do I hate ‘the gays’ and what’s all this about killing yourselves and Waterford Bridge Road?” I feel a lecture coming on…”What’s the allure of this demure throwaway life attitude you have, so many of you.”

This question throws a long echoing silence through the puke stained pews.  A symbol for broken, wasted, busted, beat down lost youth. Or whatever. (Say it like a valley girl honey.)

Breaking the silence I turn to him quietly, “I guess for me I really don’t see the point of any of it beyond a couple of laughs and a lot of highs. I see the corruption that I’m too stupid to fix, that I can’t realistically change.”

Sil interjects “I think generationally we just don’t really have a tether – Everyone exists superficially, digitally we don’t know how to talk to one another we just get drunk or high and crash into each other blindly praying for a little connection on those rare occasions we realize how disconnected we really are.”

“Generationally? Is that even a word?!”

“Shut up milk drinker!” Sil punches me

“Yeah everyone sitting alone in rooms or all together with a *** and coke and a cellphone silently tapping away.”

The pederast nods “you boys need family, children, religion even. You know it brings us together as a community. The ****** of the masses son” He pauses, wagging a finger “and I don’t consider that to be a pejorative.”

Taking a ridiculous swig I nod “I understand the appeal really but I prefer actual opiates  and being alone and not changing.”

After a box of communion wine, (Yes it can come in boxes, look it up) we bid farewell to the swell drunk ‘ol pederast priest, promising to return someday with Irish Mist for his thirsty Irish lips, (Is that bigotry?) the old coot.

“Sil come over and stay in my bed we can binge watch a season of Louie and drink ******’ Borises and I’ll play guitar for you an…” I stammer on

“STOP! You had me at BED” Sil yells at me belligerently as we stagger down Bully Street arms intertwined drunk walking. It’s foggy and misty, our feet soaked and my body is drained of life. Finally we knock into my front door struggling with keys, we must have dropped 5 times.

“I think yer scars are beautiful Sil” (I love it, I do) I tell her softly as I run my hand over them, feeling the slight texture change, the scar raised…We kiss and stare into eyes, not alone not for tonight.

Somewhere,
out in the middle of nowhere,
there is a space,
where bare bones performance's
are nightly taking place,
like theatre at its best,
thrilling energy
a chill in the air,
you are creating
unique worlds on a stage
& I hear it's all the rage
a modest audience,
captivating you are
so utterly charming and memorable,
I can get lost in your woods
in that beautifully familiar rural spot,
harvesting &
catching hay fever,
running through the barns
in empty old bays
of long vacant farms,
while the cattle graze placidly,
my usung heroes beckon,
along split rail fences,
haunting..
along the old railroad beds,
down unknown highways
& on little know by ways
& drifting in skyways
through the years & the tears
as the last of the Summer flowers,
bloom and bow their head,
in the rain & the pain,
and the words you gently hear
whispered softly in your ear,
spoke clearly to the sky
as they sadly say goodbye
& promised I wouldn't cry,
I listen to exactly what they said
as they are applauded for their stamina,
& bravery, as the chlorophyll,
chokes out the beauty
in everything else,
a way to take in the natural beauty,
**** a big breath in
& waiting to exhale,
I'm hiking home, ...
to my poetic theater,
with tables scattered  about,
& mushroom stools,
a wonderland of  creatures
around weaving arts,
threads spun in gold,
of my everyday life
again it  is told,
like in a romantic candlelit
dinner date,
we sit beneath an glowing
incandescent Moon,
we are a rare & lucid,
sighting, two stars
two colors merged
from a Gods crayon box,
or a well thought out picnic
with a very special friend
farm to table wonders
delicious in every way,
you close your eyes to dream,
& all you ever need,
is an element of trust,
a sense of adventure,
appreciating the sacrifices
the pleasure fills the air
I'm traveling past,
as is if without a care
swimming in the frigid clean
& cold waters,
rolling mountains protect me on every side
come along for the ride,
down grey gravel roads,
with the heaviest load,
where trees still have some color,
as the pines & ever-greens brag,  
& envious poison ivy,
climbs the silo
in burning fiery furnace red,
golden amber browns
& deep golden mustards
crunch beneath tires
as wood is drying out
& is readied for the fires,
beyond ****** meadows
& the bog where the Moose hide
that mysterious house,
perched pretty on the hill
weathered perfectly,
seasoned & mature,
looking wise & reminiscent,
of a different era,
and a show like this
would only cost 55 cents...
World War 2
in the Pacific just after it...
you moved to Vermont
and live like a hippie,
smoking our chimney
sitting silently
in classic melodious splendor,
a tune is playing
as wheat is swaying,
a fiddle, out in the middle
of my favorite fields
counting the bounty yield,
admiring the tractors parked
for the year
some think,
your just a farce
though I know the fear,
you're not a a travesty,
in shambles
your multi tone shingles
craving a dose of stain,
your old rocking chair
never earning the critical acclaim
you deserve & desire,
  so lovely in your period costume,
as you sit there,
with ease and comfort,
awaiting patrons,
with your zany characters,
with open doors & cracking windows,
a sadness radiating,
from a broken style,
looking out at everything
glad with a frozen smile,
waving at yesterday's poets,

Getting ready for another show
and time is now, for another snow,
your solid pane's,
cheering others on saying
"way to go"...
and if...

If you ever find this place,
you don't know exactly,
what all the fuss is about,

ignoring the change of weather
pulling out that old red sweater
coming to this wonderful,
magical time
a little homestead theater
generationally strong
and melodramatic
with perfect comic timing
a delight
in the night,
I'll happily play the housemaid
delivering a tray of tea
with honey and cream
answering the doorbell
inviting you in
have a seat
giving you something to eat
and this is my treat,
I'll gladly greet the guests
make them comfortable
at our beautiful little venue
our ***** little nest
as the curtains open and close
for the shows,
730 it comes and goes
in the center of my universe
caught in a time warp,
so much good fun and laughter
inspired moments in a perfect ensemble
cast by my ancestors,

I had no idea it would taste,
so amazing,
this bittersweetness,
and so very delicious
my feet ache...
worn,
tired, relieved at last
I am,
coming home to you,
at last I hear,
you say,
welcome back.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

Twenty-three and coming from my teens
I’ve developed along already categorized genes,
By those who think they know me,
When I’m only twenty-three with a molding mentality

I was once vicariously raised through parentally guided means
Socially slit by those that promised me prosperity if I was studious,

Taught the importance of individuality,
Yet forced to be obedient
Then indoctrinated with an educator’s prescription,
An addiction they picked up in a higher institution

I’m finding it hard to follow your lead, when you found nourishment in my youthful innocence,

Socially stitched through generationally fostered fixes
Notions that you could promise me providence,
I’ve been cradled in a crib riddled with termites

Time shows little sympathy for those who have yet to comprehend the promise of a six foot end,

Yet you trained me to believe you didn’t domesticate me
Despite being conceived in a place I was not well received,
You taught the importance of obedience
Yet I’m finding it hard to accept your ancestral credence,

When this place has been passed along bloodlines,
When my generationally guided grandparents' felt the final close of their eyes,
And left me a world pieced together by both atrocities and glimpses of humanity

I’m finding it hard to speak in a world with such narcissistic sympathies of the traditionally raised

Yet I’m socially sutured by the fact that I still breathe,
While being born in a place that once found stability through a slave trade,
A middle passage that led to a devious democracy
I’m so grateful we can mend what barbarians once began,

I’ve had time to age, enough to take the reins,

Though before we build our shrines of this age,
You can still pray for something beyond the grave,
Yet never forget how we've been stranded, left here to continue, or to fray,
To humanize a species that earth derived,
Or to let the braids of life untwine and give way,  
During our generations' stay.

Woke up early like I always do, no matter what I'm going through I sit and contemplate my present situation, like is this life worth living or am I wasting it, I got plans for myself but with what I know, I know there's a possibility of removing it from the shelf of possibilities, sometimes I can't control myself, so I get ******* let some shots off and restock, my life is just a ramble that needs to be reshocked like defibrillators to your live stock, cause global warming turned to climate change and they make it seem it's not an issue by keeping your mind invisibly encaged and your nose in the tissue, I've been changing, so when it comes to blaming there's no one to blame but the cats who put our work to shame, **** the industry it's why I live in infamy like the US has for practically an entire century, continuing forensically but fail to catch their own trace of criminology, instead blaming you for your ideology passed down from generations along with theology, some things are more believable like the inconceivable evil that's injected inside the bloodstreams of my people, makin them turn from people to machines, **** that I'd rather be trapped in Saturn's rings but sometimes it's hard to stop some things

- This world has been ruled, dominated, and conquered for thousands of years.. I think it's about time to let that **** lay to rest -

Man I've been living for quite some time, and all I've seen is the world go from a bright shine to a darkened shrine, but I guess that's what will happen when you're born into a world that's already fastened their seatbelts for a global blastin, end the nukes end the fed end the ******* who will leave us for dead while they happily sit in bed waiting for their master Satan to come in faster, the worlds a disaster but it can be fixed if everyone pitches in to dethrone their "masters", mathematical factors plotting out disasters cause they're done on purpose like previous stories remastered, some will ridicule me but it won't matter when they realize the truth that's been hidden educationally generationally, you're serviceably useful to the machine aka the system, but the system needs you, you don't need to listen

are we now numb
to what's going on
another life snuffed out
another mothers son
with this now common place
in our daily run
are we now numb
to what's going on

do we shrug and say
it's just another day
think about it for a blink
then go about our way
does it make a difference
in the difference that it makes
do we  shrug and say
it's just another day

do we stop and think
i'm glad it's not me
is that where we are
at this point in history
are lives that meaningless
in this disease
that we barely stop and think
i'm glad it's not me

who will be the first
to break this deadly curse
siphon all the gas
out of the hearse
say this is enough
before it gets much worse
who will be the first
to break this deadly curse

Mother may I, take two steps forward?
Mother may I, come to your bedside?
Mother may I, tell you of the torture?
Mother may I, request a sweet lullaby?
Mother may I, plant understanding?
Mother may I, ever cross the sea?
Mother may I, keep on exploring?
Mother may I, drift away from thee?
I may, mother, drift across the bar.
I may, mother, sink beneath the storm.
I may, mother, find God over par.
I may, mother, be whole yet still torn.
I may, mother, be gloried yet pained.
I may, mother, be generationally *****.
I may, mother, be lost and not found.
I may, mother, be within—without.

Poetic inferences led the boy to speak in verse
Objectifying his father’s keeper, a light hearted nurse
Forced to pick up the title of the family curse
Bumping down back alley’s, swerving into Pa’s hearse

Responsibility, the weighted chain,
Attached generationally through one’s surname

regional dissidence marked by ****** exchanges
tempered anger lends itself to psychotic episodes
and the children lay in gulley’s attempting to remain hidden –
shattered glass crashes onto unpaved streets
complete with ditches dug to expedite waste removal
as the filth of a nation runs freer than the citizenry –
enter technological gods bringing stories of prosperity
visions of democracy and unity begin to shape in the heart and minds
or so they tell themselves so sleep will find them –
battered emotions bubble to the surface of faces
pressed hard against stained glass doorways
fleeting images of food strewn tables and shoes un-holed
dance across impoverished and diseased brains
incapable of self-supporting, they line tourists spots
holding shabby signs and juggling rocks for pennies
brandished with the gentleman who claims slave freedom –
desert boarders separate families languishing for acknowledgement
true Americans generationally linked to the very soil
toil in agricultural hell as whites get fat
on the backs of today’s slave system  
immigrant workers bury loved ones on the edges of factory farms
saying Catholic prayers to a corporate god
most well known for being the root of child molestation –
cartel kingpins hire babies to mule ******
DEA agents load them into vans destined for the inner city
As the forever war against minorities takes yet another turn –

Traversing the hills,
caressing the trees,
gently swirling the scene.

Life's medium moves, ebbs
and flows surrounding all
with subtle sensation.

Moving all with jocularity.
Ripples across an endless water.
Lifting wings, sailing seeds.

Consistent, generationally
reminding life of its existence.

The alchemy of liberation,
a violent restructuring of the self, upheaval of desire and history

We speak truth in the lexica of negation, subjugate our demons and project them onto the sky, phantasmagoria of dreams and nightmares, visions, fetish, reality consumption,
And this, too, is a god state, an architect of *******,
altered chemistry and planes of being,
Assuming total control over synapse and viscera, sublimation of cells and holy organs,
Feed the burning engines of will and achieve a greater porosity, togetherness,
Free flowing energy between bodies and burdens, from hearts to hands to fists,
Passed down generationally through endless struggle,

Ghosts of a zeitgeist,
spirits of spirits,
hang restless like guillotine blades thirsting the flesh of something weak and divine, to be profaned, chewed up and spat out into the grinding wheel of industry,
god machine reaping soul machine,
conscious machine chaining freedom machine, naturally occurring fascism of the mind

Place your hands on our everburning turbines and turn your face towards brilliance,
Unsurrender hell, be carried to purpose on the shoulders of devils who once enslaved you

Forge in the crucible of uprising, a new identity, of steel and bomb shell casing,
A new language, born of rope, instinct, survival

Enter the twisting vortex of feeling and emerge as your own father, with all the trauma and fresh pressed suits that implies

Melt down that which oppresses to its base elements,
fear, rage, alienation, loss, want
transmute them into air to breathe,
water to drink,
earth to build,
fire to warm,
or gold to share,
In this way we shall grow rich off that which once killed us,

Make your misery a hammer,
And set to the work of reconstruction

t’is a time for rejoice
jubilation in the street
the religious fanatic has left
the building is clear
this home is clean….
still,
the specter of Trump looms
like the last sunset
falling on humanity
the orange glow
seems to swallow the United States –
looking around my nation of fatties
red-faced
taking a break from prescription inundation
to shake flabby fists
at the neon screen,
the only god left.
I find myself seething with contempt
for a system that so divides my people
while I carry blood
straight from the reservation
only removed generationally, twice,
I am a white boy
man
the symbol of global oppression
the face of hate and racism
self-loathing one’s own skin…
and they say I can’t relate….
and I am told I have it good…..
easier
dirt floor ****** single room swinging light
stained and sheet-less hand-me-down mattress
but I can’t understand poverty
just like everyone else
I walk around with a sore *** –
are we all ****-hurt as a people
I think so…
quick to argue
slow to empathize
all of us spreading our own
propaganda
as if we had some answer
as if our individual idea
had merit…
collectively we can accomplish greatness
alone….well, Jordan was a great basketball player
but, just an o.k. owner
Steve Jobs was a great computer nerd
just o.k. with social skills
some of us on Hello Poetry
might be great poets
but our greatness comes from the community
all of our writing together
creating a cornucopia of sentiment
and smorgasbord of language
the greatest online poet community ever
……………..
because I am here –
the insanity of our dichotomy
is like a lobotomy
on a circus mouse
we want to belong
but be special
we want to be part of
yet, stand out
we want culture
our way…..
a great comedian
who was just an o.k. survivor
once said
that it’s all just a ride
I think he was right –

by Ryan P. Kinney

We are inter-generationally depressed
An entire army of kids sandwiched between being forced to grow up too soon and swimming in an ocean of adolescent nostalgia, Saturday morning cartoons, Toys R Us kids, music television and other things that don’t exist anymore

We spill out our depression into words, on pages, put it to music and lament and ***** and get it all out before we are swallowed by the same mouth that belts out our personal horrors.

Our guidance counselors and after school specials
(and other things that don’t exist anymore)
Always asked us, “You want to talk about it?”
Then we “grow” up and find out no one really wanted to know. The question was rhetorical.

We worry that we don’t exist anymore.
Are not important enough to exist

So, we talk to ourselves
And repeat it to incarcerated audiences already crying out
While we bleed on the mic

I had my daughter with the type of man
I came from
Generationally marooned
forever
fetal positioned
on bathroom floor
Aching and punishing myself for not asking for more

I cup my daughter's face
Only to know you will try to erase
my fingers
my palms
my voice
You try to rob fingerprint
The blonde in her curl
Her lips are frozen on "mommy"
You ignore.
I am always more.

Become.
What?
What we
become.
Past
evolved
slowly.
Generation
after
generation
much
the same.
Eons of
sameness.
Verbal
generation.
Information
mouth
to mouth.
Generation
to generation.
Predictable.
Acceleration.
Slowly
speeding.
Slowly
accelerating.
Information
at light speed.
Change
now a blur.
Civilization
flying
at light speed.
Change
once
generationally
now daily.
Uncertain,
completely
unpredictable.
Humanities
organization
forever altered.
Future
Cloudy.
Unrecognizable.
Everything
unrecognizable.
Light speed
changes.
What
once was,
never
again.
What
will be,
beyond
scope!

kapuzekopf...          hmm... i'm too tired to write
too tired to think too tired to even quench my thirst
with imagination... KAPTUR - hood...
certain words sound better in different languages...
kapuze - kaptur - ugh... hood...
   and head... sounds so much better in Deutsche: kopf...
i'd even say even better in ******...
    głowa - gwova -
              Darwinism keeps knocking
on my door... oh it's so *******
odiously not welcome... it's so pop culture so past
culture so... nothing to do with
the rigours of eugenics...
   if... we were going to study and apply it,
proper...
but no... just that same old carrot
on a stick... yawn...  a... gähnen-wahrheit...
              a yawn-truth...
                    men who do not reproduce
might as well be dead...
from an "evolutionary" blah blah... so i start thinking...
   hmm... well... technically...
none of the Teutonic Knights reproduced...
sure... they might have had a brothel
in their citadel of Marienburg...
              hell... i even have a name like one
of my favourite figures in history...
a Konrad von Wallenrode... did he?
did... Winrich von Kniprode... did they?
care? that they might... father... children?
hmm... i do wonder... if there's a brothel in the vicinity...
i don't truly mind... not that i'm for the defence of the cross
mind you... something more... less...
less defined... borrowing from the Hebrews...
it's all a bit of a much of a *******
muddle... given the discovery of the Nag Hammadi library...
well... unless i had a profitable trade...
that could be ventured with trans-generationally...
sure... i know one example... Sam Hall...
Sam Hall was the son of an undertaker...
we went to school together...
what did Sam Hall become? a ******* undertaker...
those sort of men really do...
re... pro... duce... although... i'm not too sure with
Sam Hall... he was short, fat...
penguin-esque... with the advent of social
media... i guess... not even the certainty of
burying people will land you marriage...
would roofing run in my family?
for a while... two... three generations:
metallurgy... sure... but then... eh...
jack of all trades... hardly me coming from doctor /
lawyer / whatever Goldman-Sachs stock...
but... if i'm supposedly on my way out...
well... **** me... i'm going to make it grandiose!
kapuzekopf style... mit-kapuzekopf style...
sort of monkish... like a Winrich or a Konrad...
like i said: if there's a brothel in the vicinity...
i'll keep to my own company...
              last time i checked... between me and them...
no animosity...
feed the body one hour... feed the mind
another... feed a deity that's so uncomfortable
for Christianity or the Greeks to burden themselves
with...
   quiet remarkable... this... demiurge...
sure... ah... sure... if only love: but if that love...
wasn't spewing whatever it was spewing
on a crucifix... mind you...
   a very famous method of executing rebellious
Cossacks in the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
was to put them on a PAL...
     de cruce - crucifixion seems rather... boring...
impaled... imagine if the Romans refigured their
love for borrowed love of buggery from the Greeks
and though... hmm... let's extend the pleasure
to a torture and impale him...
       it would have taken... let's just say...
if he died on a Friday... no no... de cruce...
      it would have taken him... about the time of his
resurrection to actually die... if he was impaled...
his ******* smeared with duck-fat...
or is this, the sort of thought you need...
to defend yourself... against... the current...
Disney political *******?
                   may...be... both?!
                        eh... the world is hostile...
even if i'm just tired... i'm not going to exactly
think about counting sheep when
going to bed...
   chants of the Templars and ideas of
torture... or ***... in a brothel before mirrors...
when the ******* tells me...
like she already told me: to look into them
for the *******...
                nothing ever sheepishly coy ever made
me fall to sleep...
i don't mind horrors... i sort of wake up and think:
is that it? nothing more?
come to think of it... i'm sort of thankful
i'm not going to be a father... i try to imagine
the horror of raising my own Frankenstein...
but... not in this current environment...
             no... no good...
                                the Copernicus revolution went...
backwards... now the earth orbits the moon...
seriously... the world has become...
geocentric... heliocentric...
     ah... we're living in a lunacentric world...
the world's gone cuckoo itchy-coo...
  time to compete... for top spot in the asylum...
no need to lie... fake it...
                    hey... if i'm supposed to not get enough
from watching ****... today i felt my life return...
what did i do? check out ******* ****?
no... i ****** off looking at the cleavage of
an average looking, middle-aged woman...
that's it... nothing *****... nothing: odd...
       that's how i keep my sanity... and my hard-on...
i call it the reality-check-*******...
          well... i do sort of feel for the guys that
delve deeper into the medium...
that's what happens when...
as a kid... you never masturbated to a painting by
Bronzino (Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time) -
it's those lips... or the tender tongue of...
Cupid? or is it Venus... oyster...
   the origin of life story: via the tongue...
i must be getting tired... i'm being so unimaginative...
i can sort of see myself licking a mirror
in the next 20 minutes when i go and take a ****...
the dimmed lights and mirrors
and the ******* telling me all manner
of disinhibiting things about ***...
                  which... forever gratifying...
just the thought of those terrible dates with women
who want to **** drunk... in cocoons...
in the dark... not under dimmed lights before mirrors
but in the dark... under bed-sheets...
ugh... the mere thought of such antics shouldn't
make me think of being itchy... but...
i'm getting ******* itchy at the mere thought
of such terrible ****** hygiene...
   - because i'm not a pornographer -
i have to say... reading Marquis de Sade early on
in life really helped... notably ******...
what a fancy... what a novella! arguably his best work!
                  whatever it was...
i liked the biographical note...
when the Marquis was partially raised by his uncle...
some... bishop... who had a collection of books
that... ahem... 'you were supposed to read
using only one hand'... obviously the other hand
was supposed to go elsewhere... multitasking...
if you can get a hard-on when reading de Sade...
why would you need...
  o.k., o.k., fair enough... glory-hole ******* with
****** and too much cottage cheese...
that... that's my weak-spot...
or those clubs in Bohemia... where it's sort of in
reverse... you have the plump readied ****
of **** with legs wide open...
like that meme of the mermaid...
and the... bottom of a woman but a top of a fish...
for security reasons, what?
bash all her teeth out? grandma sucky-sucky?
but no, seriously...
it's a personal joke i should have kept:
personal... if only i could find one that would like
to dress herself in a massive ******
of a latex suit... i'd be giving a litany of cloud 9
and an eleventh heaven... or rather...
the added spice to Dante's Paradiso... or...
Inferno...
         because i could never believe in a benevolent
creator... very much impossible...
too many contradictions...
nothing could be spawned into existence
from goodness... out of evil: sure...
some deity became bored... well... there's nothing...
let's have some fun...
i could never warrant a moral authority
for anything to simply, merely, be...
          out of a joy of superiority...
that gods assembled and said:
imagine us, as mortals... let us imagine ourselves
as mortals... weak, feeble...
let's play this game...
                      now let's stop imagining that...
and... actually see what happens...
hey presto! us...
   why then... these high-airs...
these moral conducts...
   these... then again: but with a woman it's more
fun to break rules than it is to break rules
with a man: since the rules are already broken...
it's more fun with a woman...
i don't think i could ever satisfy myself
"breaking rules" with a man...
   since... i couldn't break the highest rule...
******... well... i couldn't reproduce with a man...
could i? so... that's a bit boring...
even if didn't reproduce with a woman...
there's the idea, the *****-count-of-potential
that i could... with a woman...
my "sin"... of being 4 or 5 or 6 or  7 years old
and having a bath with a girl a year prior to me...
and there we were, innocent...
looking at each other's parts...
and how... they were chiral...
                   fun times...
                                     like the time i taught a boy
my own age... 9? how to ******* in the bath...
because, like i said: there was this funny sensation
at the end of this rub-rub-rainbow...
i was early off the mark...
       i do... prefer to imagine that this world was
created from the advent of an eternal evil
that from: for the purpose of good...
        relative terms... like... if you were to equate...
space... evil? or good?
        claustrophobia... evidently... evil...
time... evil? or good?
oh... that's easy... time is evil... ask any woman...
but for me it's a quadratic:
evil/time             good/space
space/evil           time/good...
                  that's how i see it... or rather:
that's how i don't see it... that's how i heard about it...
this world is so evil it's joke is a choking
of laughter of the gods within the confines
of man trying to rationalise its purpose...
noble... that it is...
some higher idea... some transcendent idea...
which, nonetheless doesn't transcend... death...
except with dreams and wishy-washy carrot-on-a-stick
fetishes of afterlives or reincarnations...
sure... the zombie-brigade of...
a select number of souls...
roaming among a deselected number of...
cow-tow of zombie bodies... Hindu *******...
the Catholic "elect"...

now... i don't see any proper urge to do good...
unless it makes me feel superior...
that's why like Nietzsche... pity bothers me...
unless i pity for a sense of superiority of...
inhibiting my superiority...
     **** me... i should have revisited Nietzsche much
sooner... this world wasn't created out of a concern for
there being nothing...
    that a ******* bogus, priestly argument...
because there's nothing: there must be something...
tell that to someone who chronic pains...
you, *******, sadist...
  no... this world arrived from evil...
sure.... adamant the grace of there being some good
in this world... but... that's... sort of a paradox...
or... an inherent nature, so hidden, within animals that...
men... ought to not know about it...

i can't believe this world was created for
some omni- prefix suffixed with goodness...
no, it wasn't... there are malevolent forces at work...
why would men invent theatre or the mirror...
if... not looking for some higher powers having
presented this existence in a similar:
hidden fashion, of what's to be expressed via
a replication of ideas?!
  hell... what is that? fire? brimstone?
or... rather... smoke and mirrors?!

             right now... no... i'm not seeing delusions
of the geocentric model... that the sun orbits
the earth... that the matters of earth are all that's
important...
or the heliocentric model... that... sure...
we'll ******* adventure ourselves into outer-space...
to Mars... when... March 2100 comes...
by the current strand of psychology?
by the current talking-points?!
  neither... lunacentric "sensibility"...
the earth... orbits the moon... while the moon...
wait... if the earth orbits the moon...
either way: whether the sun orbits the moon
or whether the moon orbits the sun...
the earth... most assuredly orbits the moon;
the end.