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Julian Sep 2020
I famigerate without taciturn timidity the straits of a straightened jury-rig of nesiote narrowbacks harping the accordion zest and zeal of the plenilune consuetude of a scrivello infamy sprung into the rows of rip-tide acclaim hamstrung by the decline in fastidious upkeep of the timberlask vesicles that avoid the phenakism of prismatic reformation fundamental to transmogrified simpers of dismal saturnine darkness encroaching on the parallax of realms within the dominion of the Almighty for the omniety of the usucaption of the fruitful prune in the priggish afterglow of a noontide eclipse bereaved of whispering retreat in the hallowed wasms of stiltanimity becoming an entreaty to ecumenical barbs of propriety selected without intimacy to folksy bibliopolists but rugged in sterling tribute to the true vine of the appointed ways of sacerdotal triage among a roughshod vanity of a derelict world marveling at otiose rejoinder rather than true spasms of tragedy flickering in the recessive alleles of a careworn culture. The travesty of Beirut is the bromide of current leapfrogs of sentinel lust and malapert destruction forming an ironclad camaraderie with chocolate-box langlauf disasters wed uxoriously to the penury of the brackish version of the catadromous bailiwick of despotic nescience pregnant with sophrosyne redemption at the cusp of a plaid perfunctory quip of quisling intimations of the sketchy provenance of humdingers of comestion lurking in the plodding prowl of a ribald wiseacre of a beckoned billow of trinkochre welded into a conscientious blarney that awaits the popinjays that sculpt brittle redshort fictions into awakened carapaces of a limacine reduction of impoverished fulmination into the neatly sworn footprints of a geotaxis shuddering with magnetism only in spectacle without the overhailing zeal of vintners who specialize in curtailed wine drawn from Caiaphas and soaked with the muddy turgid Siloam as avenues toward the repentance of asunder becoming marginalized as a whimper of taciturn choleric war receding not even into an audible delope as the masterful chryselephantine assault of cryptic auditions in the theater of effete refuge sink into the pelagic oblivion of a remarkable blister festering into inconsequence as the rebarbative emoluments to tattered travesty hearken a battle-cry yet emanated in the reprehensible bulwark of the gerendum of a poised plastered humility aggrieved with such friction turgid on rollicking magpiety that even the larceny of brutish renegades of triumph sink beneath the brevity of accident rather than the fortitude of globalized turpitude weakened by the improper demarche of fuliginous homeless depredation of innocent bystanders flocking to the harvest of war found in insight rather than the perfunctory bromidrosis of the macroscian enmity of hidden maleficence spawning a credenda that is spayed on arrival in the faineant zoolatry of a spelunkers’ madcap dash to flex the filigrees of turmoil in resentment of the amicable truces of a God who never tempts and a lurking lie that never itches for trigger-happy hapless rebukes because the skittish skirmish of futilitarian repose is a scoundrel of the profligacy of errant weakness blinkered by the humdrum din of deafening semaphores of provocative thornbush on the threshing floor of cowardly imposture president of all affairs of spirit and all renegades of caitiff megalography of forgotten oblivion despite the curglaff of vindictive and never vindicated assaults on the integrity of the birthright of Lebanon to wager a presumptive gamble of trifling retribution for the alacrity of suspicions eloping with forbidden mistresses in the humdingers of flackey rather than the troudasque harbinger of a lunacy impugned by a restive triumphant fallow time seasonable for a litany of pretenses demassified for a liturgy of seances with eldritch commiseration in the saw-toothed serration of selachostomous bravado wielded by likely or unlikely culprits of ravenous ruin shepherded by the guilty cardinal sins of the complicity of explosive vanity marauding on the ruins of a fortress debased by pettifoggery of internal excuse rather than the wrath of provocative ire in the irksome cauterized wounds of the inured to deliver spectacular reticence despite such grievous diacope. Evil gilderoys of maleficence carve the sapwood of the periphery to aimless subversions miscarried by the modern atrocity of glamour memorialized as a sound-byte underminnow of a roaring rhombos rip tide as stocks wavy at the curvature of edgy demarche despoil the denuded wasteland of cultural despondency a wagtail to the impudence of famigerated affronts that deserve a sterling recompense wielded by the onerous and operose burdens of a prone decubitus of aboriginal bread seeded from Heavenly realms dissipating into the roars of blinded conflagration too meek to even exist on the ramshackle hillside of a barnstorm of aggression powerless to encapsulate the nexility of unspoken allegiance to destruction rather than the halidom of consecrated marriages balking at the caulked provisions of a slugabed monolith of craven capers on the recesses of abeyance in the interregnum of a time where famous people communicate with me. How can such a charismatic bravado of lurking presidency stoop to the denizens of usufruct in licentious latitudes on the outskirts of consideration even pretend anymore that the vacuum of effluvium (Gal 6:7) can be mocked and milked into the row of centuries blistering through the calenture of apprisal and heaved awakening as the zephyrs of the Occident meet temporal juncture with the coenesthesia of a hibernating trumpery formed by the turnverein of listless lethargy billowing through fumiducts of siphoned lavaderos of hypogeiody that the underground spasms of cacophony could marvel at the historic emergence of a magnate with the most powerful magnetism of God shepherding the true flock John 10:27 because he is willing to be the good shepherd and potentially die for his sheep John 10:11. Remember, whenever you hear a Queer Studies Radical Feminist bloviate on emasculated sardanapalian posture John 8:44 and even though personified as a masculine titan of bulwarks of immense otiose wilted inkburch shielding the world from true meaning, the maskirovka of the Devil is present in the dark trespasses of personal abandon among the wilderness of many marsupial jackals of martles wagtails to an invictive proclamation of invulnerable sappy sopanaceous filibusters against hefty sinew forged the bony fragments of the charnels lost to brief epitaphs never mourned in threnodies worthy of remembrance that the departed died with us and live again through us whether in Heaven as participant or on Earth as an acting battalion of the skullduggery of the mystique of shimmers of God acting on Man’s behalf 1 Col 1:15-16. That the firstborn of all creation obtains supremacy through the finalisms that I seek as the captain of trailblazing untrammeled roads we are reminded of the narrow and wide gates expanded by the explosion of thought that trespasses into the hidebound ratchet of a reasonable bleat becoming a harsh outcry of justice for Lebanon that they feel so powerless in implosion what could aggrieve potentate civilizations to the precipice of global maleficence in destruction. Swarming for alveolate hominid hominism as an outgrowth of alienation by design polarized spectral dangles at jaundice flamestun by the ordeal of oppositive barnacles to the chryselephantine habituation of a masked menace of Procrustean authority to muzzle the free license of armamentariums of a latent man keen to the kenspeckel visibilia that we might have punctuation in the poised primiparas of a hearkened unprecedented in modern history that the traipse of lapse is no longer the tenure of mindless calculation of authoritarian gabble sentries of a mobilized fleet of embodied human ignorance but a foisted sprite of whangams of apothegm that deserve in their gnomic respite from the phenakisms of a philogeant kumbaya assertive in its treony of radical compassion for those who dwell in tentpoles of revelry bound not to the covenant that sent us into light and sparkling in hidden obsolescence that the fulgurant words of Mount Horeb (Sinai) are both immaculate and without trace of sin because Acts 17:30 declares a powerful truth lost to the twinges of time that issued peremptory governance of my theology but through remission I admit the grievances of septiferous blockades of ponderous plodding nescience haunting the spectral aubades of paeans to a high-flown sun darting through galactic space apace of the velivolant sails of divine wind that come in the spree of recompense authored by the vines to which all roots belong rhizogenic and immutable because the demarches of time forget the marches against the cauterized grime of new-world suspicions of aleatory fickle gubernatorial proclamations that issue reverb more than sprinkle flanged atrocity in the sight of the holy ramparts of an active double-edged God who reminds us of our many witnesses but provides not a single latchkey of escapism resident to many hapless homes of the drunken sing-song rhapsody nullifying the psychotaxis of the motatory miserly Draconian charades of Leviathan grasping the tridents of warp-speed revisionism in a benighted world overrun by mandarist fictions that fumigate a pasteurized control of cultural malcontent in situations of dearth infested by the concentration camps of China that remain unheralded in brumal and brutish indoctrination spared from worldwide outrage by the tribunes that are complicit more in malfeasance than they are celebrated for the herald of heinous bletcherous crimes of abecedarian abligurition anointed in waste rather than refined like unquenched slakes of eternal water so that no man can thirst hungry for the daily bread without returning to the providence of God awakened. Recalcitrant by the impudent quislings of repugnasket flarmeys of advenient flummoxed besieged clairvoyance I bask and beaze on the light that never fades because of the brackish whisk of a barnstorm of allegiance that is contumely to a bromide society listless in inferiority of intellect to my former streaks beyond jejune reiteration of the Jehu mentality against the canine fate of Jezebel and her faltered ministry of ewnastique waged as battalion gore of a trifling musket of an aboriginal swim through the oceanic gaze of peerless eternity squirming because of flagging resolution among the spandrels of incommunicable largesse lolloped extravagantly not just for the spoils of hyped pedigree but also a chamade to Heaven to enlist the purblind vestiges of a crambazzled Earth rejuvenated in adolescent esprit rather than callow eclat against the outrecuidance of whimpered miserly conscientiousness that exists in a shorter frame of reference than the provident dashes through a furlough of time and ancestry to cobble together a lapidary bristling excoriation of the tumescent squabbles of mystique brave enough to rarefy the humid pasteurization of a mannequin kenspeckel still-frame jilt of jostled infamy brusque in its curt envies borne of still-born promenades of a whasper between the youthful ligony and the intrepid soul of a collective warrior debased by the adscititious participant to elegant effronteries of the newfangled intellectual vogue that is the grombang of the tralleyripped hamshackle of ostentation meeting mirrored paralysis in sheepish ewnastique creations meddlesome in their ironic frizz of recursion as I lounge on the habits of creation by intelligent lurches of design that appointed the demarcations of all creatures and the mysterious bridge between the missing links that remain elusive to the flombricks of the misery of epigenetic rhizogenic imparlance of desuetude cringing at foresight littered with the disaster of ravished hindsight blushing at the limpid degeneration of the vapid varnish of benighted ligony rather than heroic strides of stoic-epicurean compromise in the apolaustic pursuit of the one eternal God present in rebellion but never the temptress of mendacity and mendaciloquence because the tug I have on speed is ratifying a cauterized casualty in the spumid betrothed wicked snuffs of extinguished furor for a time beyond barnstormed racloir rugged origination and faulty phenogenesis that escorts mythos into actionable litanies of the awakened breed scoffing at the inkburch of “Electrolytes”-wernaggle that besets the queer fascinations of a warped generation. The pytherian swank of artrench embodied in the recocted rendevation of hypetrophy in hubris swaddled by the reductive dranger polluting the realm of compliant complicant complaints of the ashowel of albatross astroud in the hibernaculum of langlauf rather than the ultramontane fiduciary tether to the estrockentch rather than the laureates of plevisable courage found in truest shades of vinsky not the subhastation of a gaslighted galvanization of purebred classy swivels of opportunism nor the ravenous incubus appetite for usufruct in subversion belongs to the behest of an insular nesiote flexing the flux of subversion as the candid posies of saccharine immodesty become relegated figments of the everlasting age of promised propriety rather than rigid stultimathy of hackencrude virtues of virtuosos that marvel at troudasque wonders occluded by the girlcott of Team Biden and his militarized soldiers of desiccation of trumpery and the faucets unbounded by swanky concealed epithets of regaled rentgourge by a hapless objection of the runic destruction of apothecary leniency becoming of the betokened emblazonry of scrimshank in every perfuncturation but embodiment of character shouldered by every chasm of power erected in demolition of the warped egintoch radicalism of the submerged wernaggles of the hopeless minority swimming with autodimplage few have to bear but the truest flock of God heeds my voice and has the sapience to spare themselves of contumely and invective to hearsay of invictive triumph beyond radioglare swirk to renege the musical providence of the chamades to the asterongue I often take for granted by immunifacient degrees of the foretold encroaching upon the crux of a pivotal and pivoted destiny not distant from cordial providence. The sweedle of epigones for the risctender of obligation to subvert the coryphaeus with the rigmarole of gentincture borrowed from the Gates’ formulaic effleck of perverse warbles of collectivized contrition for abetted cultural pederasty limpid in its achieved objective of the crudenzy borrowed from a lacking impediment to arentrum belonging to the knowledgeable happenstance of the glorified dengonin is a denostram that forestalls the agelasts behind porsters of culture rather than legitimate mainlined contamination of wellsprings of fliction of paranoiac enthusiasm might swim in kinkativy blinkered blind piebald girouettism but never dauntless in sematic entrenchment of robust dilettantism as the swaddled corrugation of time into centripetal ****** against centrifugal modernism that alienates propriety while estranging by vacuous vacuums the outspoken progeny of the surviving age beyond the Jay and Silent Bob travesty that manifests as a glower of menacing Bushian invention to tarnish with ****** mythos the drapes of a defenestrated realism of the flinkers of sheepish indignation against many drakstings of intonorous sclerotic mandibles of crackjaw chockablock annihilation of core precepts and institutions indelible from the face of a quixotic entreaty of a ragged intrusion of ageotropic monoideism above the secular-clerical fidelity of honest witness borne of triumph and tribulation festooning the nativist hyperbole into a useless effigy of mountebank imposture silly in precision and purblind to gallantry. Yet I must kisswonk rather than truckle under such ponderous pretense because of a sertivine certainty in the thickets of prudence rather than the tomfoolery of humgruffin impudence scaffolds me to a post-modern ****** that shanks through prisons of guilt and burrows an interrogation of reality supreme over all complaint that the virtuosity of the Gifted (the elect flock that comprehends my volcanic diatribes against mandarism and stomachs them without sardonic pastorauling insults of passerby vicissitude) will spare many nations of awakened perjury against human instinct in the fitness of nations to denigrate the populist squalor of lurid and livid ewnastique wernaggles of the listless buttress against my formal modesty encouraged in all affairs even in aggrieved humility belonging to intimidation rather than spawned jostles through the rumpus of shunamitism that might rankle a later age.  Yentrified morality is a personal flapdoon against the promiscuous pederasty of freewheeling ophelimity and the lurking narquiddity of the traindeque of donnist hedonism to hijack my psychedelic tolerance into an unwarranted and inadvisable sanction into the netherworld of the frinterans of cultural modality that curdact religion into a cosmetic cosmogony rather than a soldiered infamy becoming a beacon on a towering hill growing in solidarity with the pleonasm of existence itself which surpasses crude formulas that already abide by the riches of decorum too much to be admired as trigger-happy fools run the asylum of domesticated irony and the librettos to downfall rather than the wassails of “The Man” becoming more masculine in featured charisma rather than defiled against Leviticus among others who preach belonging to nuclear creed without fission but for true rapprochement to the fusion of the treony with legitimate gripes of unsung complaint among the masculine minority. The traindeque of a baseline complaint aggrieved by the kilmarge carapace of stiltanimity for the hackencrude resentment of the inkburch of illiteracy is a profligate degeneracy lurid in hyped enmity that the envied entreaty becomes the despotic shadow masquerading in shadows blossoming into the full wisdom of the mature sophrosyne heart eager to pour out blessings upon a conservation of recycled epitaphs becoming hearsay in a rebarbative convolution of redacted rigmarole incendiary to whittled henpecks of political engineering but never vapid in their flagging insistence upon an ecumenical toleration of the brooks of modernity and compromise upon which much felicity is aggrandized and permuted against the spoilsport frinterans who encage a dodgy moralism in wilted etiolated jaunty pedigree that espouses the maudlin grievous and ghastly ghouls and sprites that haunt the fictional hobgoblins of the Potemkin Village that finds usury convenient and perjury even more facile for the glib facetious engineers of modalities of hatred unsung by the ribald witwanton “I got a Solution...You’re a ****…South Carolina What’s Up” crowd that never marvels at ingenuity or rarely attempts it in the summit of the climacteric jaundice of hidebound whemmles of ridicule sparring against spartan flagitious wiseacres of genocide of ideation for the revelry of armed missives denatured by raw promotion of the questionable ethics of a flavork of needed slakes of unquenchable desire swarming us with daily temptresses not of wayward women but the disarmed pretense of a lapidary rejoinder to a long expatiation or harangue against hackencrude curdles of rowboat injustice masquerading as sentinel savory destruction of the towering edifice of proclamation. There is great menace in the casuistry of sophist philogeant philocubists dicey with destiny for mincemeat puppetry against sciamachy for the gallionic rise of gammadions in the craven lore of baseline pasquinade rallied to the insuperable causes of tribal shibboleth anointed by secular totemisms of fracture and fricative hisses of lineage that amount to pleonasms of brassage rather than mystagogical mystique of the prestige of human fraternity that shatters paradigms of creed and invites an honest vestige of Noble Savages to roam the Earth yet again unencumbered by lugubrious welters of misnomer and malapropism wagered by artifices of guileless supremacy that is cursory prima facie neglect of even the sororal duties not of sophomoric glib facetious cowardice of backbited backlash of venom militarized for the desuetude of entertained visagists sculpting *****-nilly their version or verdict of decisive apartheid when we should all rally behind the united frontier of the chosen flock in the chosen generation to truckle beneath the pews not of ignorance aggravated by the polluted kilmarge egintoch puritan barbs against publicity choices I now regret (as an emolument to an incredibly euphoric track with a poor miserly message to the enchanted flock inoculated from such diversions) because alighted upon the quenched thirst of salvation I will be judged more harshly as a teacher James 3:1 than the rest of my flock but gifted with the gratuitous salvation carved from the chiselers of ribald infamy capering around with dacoitage and ladronism of the bomans of unsuspecting quixotic caprice I must reckon with the burden of ghoulish shadows on the spectral imprint of my eternal soul relishing in vicarious splendor yet bereaved of quintessential love 1 Cor 13:4 that is necessary for the nuclear conclamation of vibrant hues of resplendent and refulgent providence necessary not from a dynastic perspective but from an aimed providence that alerts dynamism rather than chides with mimes of useless schadenfreude carved from the prestidigitation of the wicked condemned in Galatians 6:7 for the mockers of sanctanimity accorded upon me as gratuity that no man can boast my elite ears and my astute wonderworks of imagination qualified me for prophecy and among the most mesmerizing prophecies registered to fulfillment that the world has ever yet witnessed because the watershed isn’t a bridgewater for the chavish of ignoramus hatred congealed into thrombosis but the narrowed gate enlarges to encompass the swath of man amenable to the flocks that escort me into permanence rather than regale the tridents of a hedonism that elected me clairvoyant at a cost of immaculate splendor registered to the holy clergy of the Sacred Catholic Church and the broader Ecumenical Endeavor that tries to be a seamstress and bridge elemental divides inherent to divided approaches to liturgy which flex their strengths in times of robust fortitude rather than become a subhastation to the vestiges of the pilgrimage to false tabernacles erected by people cozened into charlatan endeavors by the pernicious and persnickety whiplash of Least Common Denominator subversion of widely heralded sentience and sapience enriching the lot of human ambition rather than stoking useless conflagrations of refracturism accorded to the swallock of primposition of the hackneyed hackencrude that swivels with the odious ornery pretense of overtures not to apertures and lychgates of the true abiding Heaven felt on Earth by many Christians whether in sobriety or not without the evil maleficence of a misguided donnism of narquiddity for the grambazzles of aged recklessness aborning on vacant responsibility that is rickety in its magnanimity of absolution because of the ulterior chase for bottom-line top-dollar oligochrome foisted by the cartels that blind true spiritual insight from ever reaching the magnitude of ambition required to shape mountains of revolution among the tertiary squabbles of a conversant Earth open to the troudasque gallop into yield and cloveryield for repcrevel reforms the paludism of the swamp remains skittish about conforming to because objectivism is a renegade of perspicuous light blinkering in hubris and gourmandizing the hinderbaggle of cosmetic pollutions aggravated by the plevisable articles of envy and TLDR politics to “Electrolyte” logic that is a sad recursive wernaggle of the useless buffoonery of humgruffins of tatterdemalion spate rollicking in the magpiety of a timid consentient faltering myth of unanimity among the beleaguered rainbows of many lugubrious tears showering bickering blasphemy upon the mockery of God for the pleasantry of self-aware sheepish resignation that professes only that any form of meritocracy is existentially unfounded only because the beehive elected its progeny the scepter of the ironclad kingdom that wages war against idolatry and serenades heaven with luxury simultaneously. We are all shepherds of providence and there is power enough in collective prayer that we don’t fiddle around with bodewash in mistaken identity but riddle the persnickety blemish of the fastidious critiques of biting sarcasm as a tantamount blasphemy and a criminal repartee of sardonic cloys of inanity foisted above truth. The peevish breedbates who scour my evidentiary pillar of chiseled vertebrae of unbroken bones of solidarity with oikonisus will be sorely disappointed in their truthful audits of my true perception because in every single case it exonerates me from the pulpit of menacing idiots who scrawl random gabble in attempts to sound smart while reeking of iniquity wrought by the gavels of predevoted inferiority of complexion and attitude that gravitates them to an insensate benumbed transmogrified bailiwick of an appalling atrocity of mythomaniacal myths spurned by consensus among those who prize my grandeur above the superstitions of the illiteracy of the rancid rankle of otiose stupidity writhing its own sheepish envy of arbitrary dislike motivated by feminist aggressors waging warfare on turf I already conquered by swaying the intelligentsia to beckon my cause rather than pillory me on a false scaffold of frinteran abuses of the nyejays of bernacle that junediggle in the taradiddle of the nanciful excoriation of my leaden corpse weighed down by the witchcraft of connivance trayning its own delicate myths while avoiding scrutiny for appalling contumely that deserves an audience more suited for fracklings of treony belonging to the trinkochre of the rising alienation and suicides among perverted gay indoctrination that is a scourge on the planet because it willfully denies with its portentous hibbles the regaled wisdom of the culminated age against renegades of apostasy and for the behemoths of true monumental change that sizzles in savory circles among the vanguard only to alarm the Status Quo hijack of my entire endeavors as a covert crusade to use wrecking-ball fashion tactics to cosmetically incisively and insidiously perform a harprick of surgery upon a blameless countenance only for being a thorn to wragatek wragapole slavery which wages war against universal salvation because it gripes with inkburch and circular pleonasms about the most obvious glaring lies and feasts upon the serrated edge of the capers of hatred that frolic in meadows too skittish to enter the barbarian fortress of my forested residence robust in fortitude and glowering with a menacing contempt for runaround psychobabble that obganiates the obelisk of the moribund crusade to make normative ethics effeminate and to enthrone inviolable women’s speech as supreme to any male objections like the Cristiano Ronaldo accuser that came forth 8 months after #MeToo one of the most dishonest campaigns in modern history enthroned by Hollywood elites in gammerstang insurrection against pay-gap ethics done manipulatively with the sapwood of mendaciloquence like Blasey Ford whose physiognomy reeked of maudlin pretense that was so ornery in how obvious of a maleficence the intrepid Abortion Agenda has over the minds of selfish women who prefer ecbolic second-term abortions to the servile gripes of primiparas building new life rather than tearing down the scaffolds of new generations. Hominism deserves its rise because-in increasing numbers-men are derelicted by society and coerced into vapid tallespin enslavement that ridicules itself with the perjury of soul to the soulless vanity of recursive cycles of benumbed narquiddity found in “****** Hero” among other atrocities littering the human fascination with the hinderbaggle of our polluted age verging on totemic blistering hegemony of a few rotten apples corrupting the vagrant ingenuity of the forgotten champion who ushered in a new era of candor in the attempted interregnum of the United States government because I Am Hollywood got the name correct considering how many memorials there are to me in the movie industry. The junediggles of sc-ha-den-freud-e which is as deliberate of a German pun as JUDEn JuDEN which shows the German language is as farsighted as you can get and why many of my neologisms have a German tinge to them. German is an elegant language with botched syntax but a peerless repertoire of vocabulary and even though I love French, the Germans are smart because their language is smart not just because of petty arguments of pedigree which are specious at best. Being dontolesque with  the zenkidu of rengall nauclatic mythos is an artful degree which accords nominal prestige to licentiates while excorifying the obvious metaphors of sunblind logic that scours the scorched Earth of internet diatribes of sophistry and dethrones the Marcie Biancos of the world “Heterosexuality is officially OVER...K Bye” with her 145 IQ and a Stanford Degree in Queer Studies (A professed atheist by her own Twitter admission) with the warped logic to equate a heterosexual relationship for a woman as ******* to patriarchy. For someone that well-studied in literature she sure is a dumb-*** and I will demolish the syntagma of those that root against me for Status Quo preservation in the official interregnum of Saturdays during the Trump Presidency. We need an official referendum on the ideas of termagant illogical anti-egalitarian poison that derives from a deracinated worldview that doesn’t contextualize how powerful language is at shaping thought because if the entire world were Anglophonic every single country on Earth virtually would see immediate dividends in terms of intellectual creativity and limber with concepts and percepts because it is no accident the most successful empire in History the United Kingdom, was favored because of its shibboleths of Shakespearean creativity draped with flairs of the irreverent while gilded by God to be a majestic commonwealth. England and France monopolized a huge majority of history by no accident because although English might be a slightly keener language the French culture of salons of freewheeling intellectual enlightenment gilded the 17th and 18th centuries into absolution despite the Panglossian epithets of Voltaire who was ironically dissuaded from religion because of the All Saints Day 1755 Lisbon Earthquake and Tsunami. We need to be vigilant against encroachments of perceived shibboleths and more keen on an affirmative meritocracy that favors the poor and blesses the meek in their poverty and inspire ambition among them to join the coteries of refinement in thought sometimes harder to achieve with crackjaw lollops in pleonasmic languages that fail to articulate with nexility or forceful wit the true abstractions that govern the pataphysics of the unknown. Language is so decisive over human thought that it is incumbent upon every language to refine its vocabulary to trayne compendious verbiage and trim the hedges of global reform to invite the curiosity of the age to favor all creeds and languages of Abraham and the diverse progeny of a variegated panoply of majestic feats common to all parlance and capacity beyond just the Anglophonic snare because the world needs not a chicanery of blustering churlish buffoonery but an Almighty respect for the consanguinity of all to God’s blessed creation that he inseminated by his deliberate hands to enrich the world with diversity rather than cleave the world with piecemeal skeumorphs of radical propaganda that opposes the modern and post-modern egalitarian streak. One wrong must be corrected, however, the underrepresentation of Hispanics in the media and in film because this grave error is much more pervasive than the ******* LGBT inclusion narrative because these days the lollygags of fashionista odalisques with Obelisks to Baal get more say over the common decorum than the marginalized bronteum of the  rich and vibrant Latino culture which is squelched by the poverty of media and Hollywood representation. Synectics showcases how a henpecked aim at the synaesthesis of culture congregated around our Almighty Father blessed among the nations who adhere to the progeny of Abraham can be more blessed when working together rather than tribal with nepotism and aristocratic in sustained affronts to the elevation of affirmative meritocracy to the forefront of discussion rather than the froward backlash of benumbed narquiddity because the synallagamatic nature of complexity needs to be devolved with industrious ambition to all cultures and the savory flair of the vogue needs not merely a wednongue fascination with an eventual terminus of crudenzy but a sustained intellectual reformation on all fronts to standardize the English language through Hollywood and the Music Industry so that the dragnets of appeal etch a permanent trace into the engraved souls of the true flock John 10:27 are consecrated in divine purpose to reverse the Babylonian Diaspora of confused and conflated purpose that stunts the raltention of humane course and the proper pataphysical syncrisis of an evolved mundane temperament that transcends the circular traps of circumlocution common to the milquetoast industrial titans who winsomely charm with toady gestures the elitism of a moribund philosophy of intellectual thought delegation to elevate the common rhetoric to reach new pinnacles in both tribune and political gamesmanship because higher standards are required even when they surpass some common understanding so that every ambition becomes a conclave for the goal of human unity solidified by the truth of the kerygma and proclaimed to all creation as the culminated synclastic reformation of the idea of indulgence and the propriety of regaled moderation that appeases the common decorum with a shared vested interest in Latin America especially which is besieged by the cultural tenets of obrogated specialization and denigrated by the common myths of warped phenogenesis which should be debunked as a wasm of hypocrisy limited because its callous tentacles lack the charismatic fulgurant equipment of future generations to bear the operose burdens of a quintessential time of harmony united by the hymns for God by God to appease the sentries in Heaven and the celestial realms that exist for our merriment more than our detriment. The sprauncy have the  frikmag to recognize the spuria of apocryphal heresies that encourage kinship above matriotism and shared fortitude for intellectual valor rather than “*** talk TLDR” hashtags abounding on the turf of the insensate wernaggle of clueless charlatans wiggling through life not because they were borne into slavery but because they choose to be Helicopter Parents of “Baby Shark” rather than token mantelpieces of enlivened culture shimmering with radiation of Gods glory as cemented in Colossians 1:15-16 because the firstborn of all creation lives in some form in the ligature of Christ 1 Cor 12:12 because there are so many talents that exist in our variegated world that the mastery of expertise in dominions of conversant fluency will abet the variegated crops of a draped humanity corrugated on its own ironies for the delicate sizzle of beatific felicity multiplying itself in centupled design over centuries to overcome hinderbaggle while realizing the fictions of some drawflark. The strigine world concedes to this upstart rooster maybe considered a parvenu of dearth but luxuriant in riches boundless to all that draw near to the kerygma of Christ and feast on his daily bread found throughout liturgy because we should listen to people like Cardinal Timothy Dolan who is exceptionally astute (perhaps an understatement) to guide us on a regenerative rather than degenerative pathway towards universal attempts at salvation that broach a new decorum bridged by aliens to select chosen emissaries to bridle the fissions of repartee reserved for the forlorn that balk at ambition rather than relish a new era of seditious determination against the determinist fallacy and for the mental health of those coping with autodimplage and sheepish regrets and persnickety articles of remorse because all the world deserves our consolation and desperate attention rather than the trumpery of the circus masquerade of marauding agitprop which congeals into thrombosis of toxicity as the vast majority of Democrats refuse to even hear Trump speak when he is discussing discursive solutions to enigmatic quagmires,for, if more people listened to Trump they would be disabused by the specious claims of his misogyny and white allegiances because his candor is brilliant and despite the prominent advocacy of Biden who has considerable prestige in my memory, we deserve a bipartisan syncretism that unites the world and unifies the country away from the swerve of salacious mythos and towards a rambunctious magpiety of solidarity against the secular humanism of a defunct piety to Marxist feminism which is a crudenzy among the awakened men around the world increasingly alienated by the hackencrude of wednongue illiteracy even trumpeted by the vanguard as panacea when it is a comestible form of poison. We need visionary unity where there was once toxic divisive balkanization of exclaves of limited foresight clashing with new wave awakening to the persecution of illumination itself for not a rigid hierarchy but a flexible structure of inclusion that adjusts to cultural expectancy and modifies the traindeque that strands many in institutionalized poverty especially in Latin America and India and obviously Africa too. The stegophilists of language should herald the aubade of the chavish of redintegration over the squawk of din of squabbles of internecine redacted revisionism beleaguering our lyceums with toxic agitprop even at the highest institutions of learning who balk often at the recycled auditorium of useful thought because their venal tilt is complicit in squelching freedom of thought and our schools should open early so that zig-zag-zoom politics around feldtrounds who are eagerly outnumbered by the patrons who police thought become agentic not with outspoken treacheries but inseminations of intimation to hint at the spectral mystagogical reality we are all members of despite hurdles that beset the hemiteries of odalisques who seek inertia rather than mobilization. The ribald underminnow of transparency is a carcinogen of the rampant siege of Status Quo coarse hypocrisy for tentative flings with cadged cloyed saturnine professions of the landmines of atrocious miscarriage as I soldier on in the causes of the poor and the forlorn to become enriched by the glory that God delivers with munificence so that all might be enriched by the emanations of the true vine and in distaste of error I rebuke the armada of belittled armamentariums of the cantonment of deep-state breedbates boiling over potboiler frikmag that exists as a transcendent obscurantism flowering in decisive times to warp the contextual footprint of a life served in the service of all the oppressed people as a kind of Moses figure raised by the elite and fighting for the criminally oppressed and the ****** of mediagenic hyperbole is dissatisfied by my glowering spectacles because they dismount from the equipoise of the righteous gallop towards ecumenical solidarity at untimely punctuations of juncture superseding the flictions of frikmag dethroning my righteous valor and provident sanctanimity to prowl like predatory wolves the fathers of the casuistry of mendaciloquence to accentuate the stridor of inopportune squalor of the selachostomous regimes of teetotaler totalitarian freebooters who prevent bootstraps from manufacture as they gradgrind the world into ergonomic insufficiency while I provide a Kamacho-like galvanization to the broader world that favors the consanguinity of all animate sentience to the aboriginal vine of the universe that plays with the toyed cadge of oppositive support but lends credence to a more evolved view than the crudity of encapsulated travesties inserted with jaundice against the lyceum of freedom of thought and the celerity of headless horseman galloping in partial interregnum to crown the strobic stridor of the stiver of the steven of contarianism engineered for walloped ringleaders of the renegades of heresiarch sedition in their odalisque oaths to Pagan dieties carved from the sapwood of gullible Illuminati naivety that professes allegiance to the worst whangam ever invented Baphomet and his faked cronies of ewnastique free-for-all diminutive crags in the renown of dawning light becoming cagey struthious structuralism embedded in sclerotic wasms of the wanhope of a nullified message becoming a sacred creed to the attentive while the lilt of the otiose drawl in serpentine convolution a ribald pleonasm of circular circumlocution that provides locomotive linearity rather than leapfrogged slogmarches into the province of the territorial alignment of kinship against the partisan hollertrap and the stigmatophilia of obsessive persnickety popinjay beadledom the last stronghold of the rickety resistence to this Saturday interregnum which presides over the better part of the intelligentsia if not the common pedestrian parlance because hortatory weights cannot be described in any other way than metagnostic flickers of Yellow Submarine vandalism of a pristine living animation of the humane spirit that prizes the plight of the poor and the blarney and blench of unjust opprobrium faced by the institutionalized bailiwick of flictions of gammadion gallionic posture when in fact they register as seismic entities engraved upon my Christian conscience that strictly welcomes the emigrants to truth from whatever consecrated virtue they originate from because all are capable of the same light and the same compassion of a beatified humanity rather than the relish of deep-state castophrenia which belies its own ribald gay mockery on live TV as not a single twinge of ****** attraction overtakes me in matriotic sardanapalian effrontery of a hollow but sadly hallowed vainglory of the hierodules that bury the coffers of patriotism in a sad LGBTQ graveyard of landmines that demonstrate a complete disregard of the nuclear family and should be decried as an outcry against redefined Christianity bolted to unshakable irrefragable beliefs in the constitution of man and women wed together in one monogamous flesh with the occasional cuddle of close tithes to the ******* of friendship as the slavery of sin in Leviticus 20:13 falls to the wayside because this patriotic lewdness is a vapid fatuous derangement that is a new low for the United States attempt to inoculate China from religious accord with the broader world and should be seen as a Chinese maskirovka worthy of the heaviest disdain and I will disavow America if it continues to bandy the tripwires of Chinese boondoggles under the American banner and pretend its pretense isn’t lagging under its own bletcherous abecedarian elementary fallacy of psychobabble oblivion of dark saturnine brusque termagants of tatterdemalion cloaks of the selfsame illusion of a desperation of China to wreck the United States economy and inseminate Florida, Arizona and Texas especially with the Coronavirus to swing the election in Biden’s favor with or without US Complicity to expedite the course of a virus which sees no resurgence in any other civilized country in the world while the heroic Russians, Germans, Israelis, French, British and true American Christians banish the barristers of bad taste as an acerbic poison on the wellsprings of a flagitious flag I would kneel for in the knells of disgrace if the pompous and completely inoculated missives of Buttigieg ******* continue to roam shepherded by deep state elitism to wreck the opportune moment of religious revival for petty reasons of chryselephantine gambit and gimcrack for institutionalized poverty which my ambition is to heal completely by sacerdotal deeds and consecrated prayers in the Lord whose peace surpasses the temporal despair of senectitude and comforts the grievances of the aggrieved because Galatians 6:7 is no more true than the fatuous display of muscular idiots waving American flags for turpitude rather than flogging very perverse Gay men in the streets which might be a more fitting outcome even though I must remove the plank in my own eyes first to see the irony of the detested. The doytin is no longer misguided by the nanciful derision of the vociferous clangor of the venal Gates mafia militia wrecking ball vaccination Bezos crew in Medina which is a mettle I can’t match when you own every citizen in the world in a few square miles of nesiote territory the denizens of conquest besieging religious sanctity with profane outbursts of corruptible linchpins on the public lynch of the strepsis of periblebsis that vitiates commonwealths of supreme sputtering regimented clairvoyant superlative alabaster wealth of the isangelous protectorate of the supreme God that supervises his careworn flock into the storge against the scourge of prosodemic stigma stained in bleeding heart liberal bathed tears of pseudoautochiria of Jim Morrison glaring in the face of the triads that Killed Him in the French Connection ******* of 71’ that outnumbered his hobohemia of loyal jewish bohemians livid in the rhapsody of nurture rather than enfeebled by the unfurled destiny of the Soul Kitchen he foresaw to his own pitiable demise at probably the hands of strangulation because no autopsy was performed. Although repetitive Transparent is a real anthem for oracular mystagogical transcendence a mandatory hymn for the ryseolagnus of the poetic verve of a new wave swooning the cordial progressive of atmospheric oneness with the primordial vine and the vintners that congregate on populated soil to feed a desolate destitution of synoecy or synaesthesis in the syncretic rhapsody of the subfocal ageotropic plenilune yet saturnine lugubrious toil of those that shovel through the albatross of ewnastique recapitulation to the same tired “Its got what plants crave, it’s got electrolytes” wernaggle of the hopelessly dismal inkburch of illiteracy crawling like a Hyacinth House on a vacant graveyard turf guarding the legionaires of rapid-fire zig-zags through a serpentine curvature of the ligaments of fabricated space warped through prismatic lenses of aperspectival time aspiring for ventriloquial enamored rapture upon Earthly parallax with tapestries of refulgent cascading wandering wonder that meditates its own lucubration with careworn tutelage against the wasms of dying oleaginous swelters of redshort opportunistic vultures swooping with Raven’s claws against the odometer of viewership surpassing records in unspeakable wisdom that crowds out the crambazzle toonardical wreffelaxity of the tiresome nuisance of ornery brawn muscled into a formidable triage in vengeance for Jim Morrison’s scripted eviction from Earth either by poisoned ****** or by  Asphyxiation by the French Connection avenging RFK and the cultural revolutions of 67’ in Haight Ashbury and the widespread percolation of treacheries fathomed to the most obvious degree in showmanship that it bristled as an affront so severe that even the patronage of Paris wasn’t immune to infiltration. His threnodies will always be sung with Triumph that the hallowed day of a monumental soul eluding the darkness of purgatory into the welcoming aborning light of the noontide progeny of eternal ataraxia awaited him in the stagecraft tub of blasphemy bellowing ratcheted warnings that not even the palatine grasp of a potentially divine being was inoculated from the deep dark chasm of nefarious skullduggery for boasting so widely and openly of his professed foresight to glamorous to be hidden as the beacon of virtuosity that galvanized a generation to flout the  futtocks of a keelhauled vision of sanitized purblind mortality that the fear of death rarely crossed the mind of the greatest fearless poet of an entire epoch that we may pray that Jim Morrison feasts in Heaven atoned for his sins and is at peace with God now. The substratose congeniality of marginalia on the outskirts of pederasty in cultural miscarriage owned by hierodules boundless in their lurid debaucheries that they might be remanded for being custodians of hostage to a prolific nescience  reaffirming their dying posture in the extinction of sardanapalian coverthrow of repcrevel camorras of ladronism and dacoitage always cauponate in imbibed throes of lewd AstroTurf outrecuidance glowering at sanctity with a bereaved psychobabble divorced from the purebred empiricism of true giants of industry that are almost insuperable in their extortion that their darkness in deeds of Kobe Bryants assassination do not go unpunished at least in Los Angeles. His untimely death as with many others registered on the Richter Scale because Come Clean perverts from Kansas City wanted San Francisco to win to clean the mops of janitorial revenge of the subturbary rickety foundations of a flailing moral compass so wicked in arbitrage that no subreption undetected would flourish among capernoited vigilantes of poached titanism and illuminism scarring the vestiges of enigmatic encroachment upon untouchables daring the frights of the Living Daylights of scurrilous rebukes so scathing in their menacing depiction of negligent bromides of token sacrilege and scarred sacrifice of a scarecrow example of how the prosodemic scourge of befuddled turgid pristine transmogrified heralds scampered away with pseudoautochiria that afflicted Jimi Hendrix suspiciously as well. My support is behind the justice warriors aggrieved by the Beirut explosion because they deserve a vindictive outcome that quells the quislings of atrocity of the popinjay beadledom of the unspeakable tremors of seismotic popples of unrest warranted in Lebanon the homeland of Keanu Reeves a saint among men for his peerless grace and agraceries of the smog of myth evanescence becoming perdurable swings of the humdingers of berated jaundice becoming the prerogative of the revenge of a city leveled to the ground by suspicious skullduggery and I am surprised they lay dormant for this long in their protracted grievance over the ghoulish frights of one of the most unheralded major events in recent memory. We need to highlight the plight of Lebanon so that world leaders are frightened even of intimidated people tranquilized by terror rather than enlivened by the propriety of redacted rejoinders that serve the ulterior mission of a Titanic bravery that never sinks beneath the sumptuary treacle of grombang grambazzle and supercherie of the supercalendar of poignant repined repose derailing an emolument to ecumenical solidarity. Lets highlight Lebanon as an inexcusable trespass worthy of some mighty reckoning if not a riveted war but at the very least a devastated twinge of outrage.
afteryourimbaud Oct 2017
Kudos to Kaepernick.

I just cannot drown all my beliefs and ideas, even if it contradicts my flesh and soul. When I heard that not standing up to the tune; that has always succeeded on sweeping all of the messes underneath the sad reality, to be deemed as subversive, I know that Rosa would definitely clench onto the seat tighter than ever.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

To drag our body out there, all over the precious hills and fields, while acting as if the scale has always been set fairly beneath you all this time, will hurt you more than myself. How can a mere matter of things decide our future, our destiny? We shall shape our fate, you shall shape your own fate, and to be judged on the perception biasedly built in the name of order for thousands of years, is a situation that should not be endured by anyone or anything in a tiny dot within this vast universe.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

And for that, I cannot stand proudly and profess my love to you as of now, even though I will always wear my heart on my sleeve for you to see. To be cheated, to be manipulated, to be deemed as surplus, by those at the tip of the plateau, that cunningly asked us to forget all the tangles and wrangles for the love of this sacred land, while unashamedly distribute everything off the land, off the ocean amongst them, is the last thing that we should allow to happen. I am one of those people that are not able to put on the mask on top of our meant-to-be honest faces, to say hail to the thief is worse than the eternal grief. I have never dreamed of burying the hatchet with them, not even for a second and if I ever do it, I shall be condemned and dismissed for forgetting the roots, the fons et origo of mine. To love you does not mean to stand still to the soulless melodies, to love you does not mean to bow down to the meaningless piece of cloth that has overseen countless infiltration and bombing over the years.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

To love you is to fight for the rights of many, by any means, even by not standing up. When black is no longer the symbol of miserable, filth and calamity, we shall then breath with ease, stand on our feet and fully embrace the real meaning behind all those majestic words.

Kudos to Kaepernick.
canto 1
I call her daddy my own. He felt nothing for her when the time had come for him to do something he fell and she felt nothing at all, nothing whatsoever. It is a cruel world, mateys, and the best thing you can do is curse God and die. Hard to ditch the pity act. Ditching is denying and there is much truth to the lie.

canto 2
Their eyes bubble in the open air, they fill to bursting and scrub until they scratch. **** drips. It's a sound that I will never forget. A sight that should be reserved for the dream world...a stench unrivaled.

canto 3
The Chinese bomber is persistent. One has to wonder why he bothers at all, seeing that his attempts have been futile up until the present moment. It's shoe week, so I guess he has his reasons. But this has gone on for far too long. If there were a way for me to stop him I guess it wouldn't hurt to try.

canto 4
Random parking lots and good God what have they done? I thought it was all over, these thoughts were through, these voices are mad. Usually it's not as upsetting. Your car door gets stuck, you know, it happens all the time. It happens every day, still you never get used to it, do you? You're always stuck inside that ugly mirror.

canto 5 (the "missing canto")

canto 6
I want to tell the world how good you are. Amazing and incredible. **** and *******. Talented and unrestrained. Honey nut Cheerios. You give it but I have a sneaky feeling you would rather be lost in a dream. A banal night vision. Comparably

canto 7
I want to make it better. I want to see you smile. What can I do? You are my own heart ripped from my chest and given wings to fly. Your smile is a lost treasure I would do anything to get it back to give it back to you, I didn't mean to take it away from you. You push me up against a stone wall and you don't even realize you're doing it. That my soul cries and prays for something real, for some kind of explanation or even an excuse would be fine right now. Instead I float. Not the way I like to float. I drift and crash, a dizzying spiral out of control, confused and dumbfounded by the realization that none of it means a ******* thing. What I thought was love turned out to be a jester's game, a joker's trick. You don't need me anymore.

canto 8
I hide myself behind a blanket of stone where you cannot spit fireballs at me without cracking an egg. Cold breeze tickles my news. It's not too chilly in this room. But the fireballs warm things up. "Blanket of stone"...what a stupid expression. Why do you have to be so hateful to me? How many times can a man say I'm Sorry without losing an eyeball?

canto 9
I have no right to feel the way I do. I don't think I can control it, though. This is one of the ****** up idiosyncrasies of my confused existence. Vanish without a trace and look for clues in the alphabet soup.

canto 10
Weariness is like a slug, a giant slug, a parasite infesting my body, hanging on and hanging out. A fire down below that waits for my imagination. My sleep patterns are getting ****** up but I'm not sure if I was sleeping or just dreaming I was awake. Under the impression that it doesn't matter? Well, you are a stone fool for thinking that way. You've never experienced the life-changer. Else you would know. But all I want to know is this: Why am I afraid of sleep?

canto 11
Things get slow. Patience is required, but I don't have any. Why does it have to be that way, o cruel dictator? You get a kick out of this ****, don't you?

canto 12
Spill your guts, maties, it's the only way you'll ever come out of this situation with even a shard of dignity intact. I know it's early and you haven't had time to adjust your eyes and your wrists for this delicate task. Go! Do it now before you lose confidence.

canto 13
We took a holiday and it was so nice. She stood there on that stage without a stitch of clothing on her voluptuous body. Baby, don't you let your hairdresser down

canto 14
Who doesn't love breakfast? Me, actually.

canto 15
I can't help it if I'm changing every day. Ask the question later, maybe my answer will be suitable. I don't think I can help you because I'm not like anyone you've ever known or will ever know or can ever know or would ever want to know and why do you keep wanting to know where I've been? I've been right here. Right where I've always been. Haven't moved a muscle.

canto 16
This is the 16th and I should be proud but the apathy seeps from my very pours. That little ******* was about to take a **** in the corner. When I picked him up to take him to the paper he dropped a couple of turds on the floor beneath me. I guess he couldn't wait.

canto 17
Sometimes things change so much that it's hard to tell if they're for the best or the worst. It is at these times that I enjoy a good evening on the water, enjoying my yacht and eating peanuts from another man's sack. Salted peanuts with pickled eggs and deviled ham with a side order of angel food crack.

canto 18
My wrist hurts and I've lost the will to **** socks.

canto 19
The lawn chair has been placed under extreme scrutiny. It's rocking motion is being scientifically tested and arranged for packaging. The physics of this miracle are in the process of logistical infiltration. You'd be surprised at how useful a rocking lawn chair can be in a world tangled in war. It's a good place to relax. For paranoids, that is.

canto 20
Bird feathers of a different post, it has never made a lick of sense and the promises made were broken. Who was that man in the bird suit? Why was he making all those funny noises? I'll have to investigate. Lawd have mercy I do believe I've **** my pants.

canto 21
Don't come crying to me if you feel misunderstood. I can read right through you and I know that all you're doing is fishing for a compliment. You will not receive one from me, Salty Dog, not because you don't deserve one. You probably do. But not from me. Perhaps you should take up your case with Hoda Kotbe. Who knows but that you might look really, really good on television. Just remember to feed the dog before you leave. He gets hungry. But he doesn't miss you. I don't mean to break your heart, but the rational man within me is very convincing when he tells me you are a real pickle.

canto 22
Those comments are found particularly offensive in light of the situation in the Gulf. You need to regulate your interest in beans. One day you'll fly to the Middle East looking for peace and all you will find are demons like the ones who raised so much hell in "The Exorcist". You don't want that, do you? Settle for Ranch Style and leave the diplomacy to the masters.

canto 23 (the "lost" canto)
I wouldn't wish this on a barrel full of monkeys. They say that time heals all wounds and I suppose it does. No "if"s, "and"s or "but"s. Don't believe me? Listen to 'em snarl. They're hungry for blood and sandwiches. I owe you nothing, so perhaps I'll send you a good time from New York. You gotta love a trapeze artist.

canto 24
I'm trying my best to change the world but the fact remains that the human race does not deserve the kind of tender loving care that I'm well known for. This holiday event will not include high temperatures or the kind of crap the weather people try to sell you.

canto 25
******* Valhalla. This is how it always seems to wind up, isn't it, Pinnochio? Just when you think things are getting better, BAM, ****** up again.

canto 26
You know you've reached a severe point of boredom when you switch to the Daystar Network and find yourself singing along to the bogus faith healers. Pecans on that one, please.

canto 27
Plug away, Sailor. Keep plugging away. When you get there you can say you plugged away with as much vim and vigor as a much larger man. Slough it off, O Great one. Keep sloughing it off. When you get there you can say you sloughed it off with as much skill and empathy as one might expect from a lizard. Or a monster frog.

canto 28 (the "twenty-eighth canto")
Come, look at my incredible collection of dice. Right next to my collection of mice. Next to that bowl of rice. Sugar and spice, everything nice. My head's full of lice. Don't think twice, just break the ice. Pup your puppy dog in the freezer.

canto 29
My toes are cold and so is my nose. I should be concerned with this situation but, strangely, I could care less. There are so many other, more important things to worry about. Like how many frosted flakes are in that box over there. And is there any milk left? And is it the real deal or that phony 2%? 1%? Skim milk is even worse. If it gets down to that point I'll save the money and use tap water. Don't think for a moment that I won't.

canto 30
Colored pencils expect risque answers to tame pencils. Unfortunately the quality of superior eggs is relative to the ice cream that has dripped down your shirt. You're starting to smell bad and I would highly recommend soaking in vinegar for an hour or six.

canto 31
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 32 (the "same as the 31st" canto)
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 33
Yazaa, yazaa, yazaa I told you I was gonna steal that car. You didn't think I had the guts, did you? But look who's laughing now! That guy with the big flower in his pocket must really feel like **** right now, realizing that his awesome vehicle is no longer in his possession. Maybe get an ice cream cone, maybe feel better.

canto 34
Come out of your hidey-hole, scurvy dog. Rat scabies be breathing down your neck and it's cold and old and you'll do as you're told. Pinch back that stray lock of hair, O Queen of Sheba. You shall spend the rest of your days parked on a green chariot overlooking Lake Erie

canto 35
You could have given me a reason for the season. Instead you had nothing to offer but a huge chunk of pepperoni that had mold growing all over it. Admittedly it was delicious but surely you could have come up with something a bit more expressive of the tender emotions I inspired within your fluttering heart.

canto 36
The prospect of a news reporter calling you a crack head based on information gleamed from your Internet social network profiles is quite terrifying, but when you tie the noose you might as well make sure it was time well spent. It's a shame you shaved your head because the painful truth is that now you bear a striking resemblance to Telly Savalas.

canto 37
Energy. That's what is required. And not just the kind of energy you can get from sugar, caffeine and butter. If it were that easy you could be **** sure that the Catholic Church would be the first in line to canonize it. They have a burning desire to fall off the wagon. "Which wagon?" you may ask. The one with the ice cream, of course. Don't be a fool.

canto 38 (a "short" canto)
If boredom is a sea in which one can easily sink into and drown in, I must be swimming the Atlantic.

canto 39
When the dog barks like that it's a sure bet that he's been neutered in the last few days. It's a sad and sorrowful sound that is only recognized by **** knockers in the deep woods.

canto 40
I could stare at the bars of this prison for the rest of my life. Okay, that's *******.

canto 41
Who was it that once said time is the only reliable concept in the universe? Oh, wait. That was me

canto 42
They tell you to wait. That's what it's all about. Wait, wait, wait, wait until I can almost feel my hair turning gray. The estimated time is currently number 7 the estimated hold time is 4 minutes, thank you for your patience. Well, you're welcome, comrade.

canto 42
I've only to surrender you to the world, lie down and wait for it to crush me.

canto 43
If I can only keep it together...if I can only hold it together this one time, I know the gravy train will come my way. Would it do any good to pray? This isn't the first time that enlightenment and illumination have reared their blessed heads. Would that I could live within them this time.

canto 44
Have I told you lately how much I hate to wait? Thinketh not that the Chair has lost it's financial imbalance, the very thread of chocolate that brought you here. It is still a very important and, some would say, a hot topic regardless of the amount of grime, sweat, blood and V8 juice is spilled on it's ivory shaped pear seat.

canto 45
The shadows turn into cloaks, dark itchy woolen capes that enfold the nothingness beneath them, the nothingness of being. You could have worked a little longer and a little harder on that one, amigo.

canto 46
It's been awhile but my wrist still hurts and I've written the word "moon" on the back of my hand with a Sharpie.

canto 47
I'm movin' this **** to WordPress. No I'm not. **** WordPress. Press WordFuck. Word FuckPress. On and on and on and on and not the least bit clever or entertaining. But I do like steaks.

canto 48
I swear to God I wish I had never taken that first hit of ****. Look what it's done to me. After so many years, I guess I was only fooling myself. Or maybe I was so dumbed down that it didn't seem to matter. But now things have changed. And I can do nothing about it. Dump a can of Campbell's Chunky Soup into a bowl, throw it into the microwave, let 'er go for three minutes, let 'er cool down in the oven for a couple more, stir in a quarter cup of Tabasco sauce, let 'er cool down for a little while longer, mix in a ****-load of Cheez-It reduced fat crackers and then go to ******* town. Go to ******* town, I say, **** the stoner days.
Meg B Sep 2014
Inspiration,
perpetuation
of fascination,
inclination
to take refuge in
my imagination,
fantasies trapped safely in
hibernation,
concealed within
my stifled grin,
quivering
just above my chin.
Willow-Anne Oct 2014
For all the time I've know you
You've worn a mask upon your face
It appeared beautiful, perfect, and friendly
But now I realize that wasn't the case

For hiding underneath that mask
Was a soldier bent on destruction
Posing as a comrade fighting for good
But following the other side's instruction

You wormed your way into our ranks
And we accepted you as one of our own
But all of us were unaware
Your true intentions had not yet been shown

When an opportunity presented itself
You struck without any hesitation
Our troops started dropping left and right
Without any sign of infiltration

You knew you only had so long though
Before your actions got you caught
So you moved to abolish your final target
A tougher task than you had thought

That night, when you attacked me
You allowed your mask to fall
And as you fled, I caught a glance
Of the real person beneath it all

Well, "What doesn't **** you makes you stronger"
And you make me tougher every day
Which is why no matter what you do
I refuse to let you stand in my way

I learned some valuable lessons
About how you fight this war
And now those same old boring tactics
Won't work here any more

So thank you for the knife
That you embedded in my back
For you just gave me the tool I need
To defend against any future attack.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
pre-scriptum:
                no polyglot would experience this sort of "paradox", it's not even a paradox of a "paradox" off a 'paradox', bilingualism has its methodology, as Kant could explain, extracting his methodology off the page into a meticulous day-to-day activity... the sage / if not the clock of Königsberg... i can imagine this obsessive-compulsive mini-rituals that would always escape the throng on a Sunday... the Sunday eucharist wasn't enough for the man, there were so many rituals to take care of, having famously not married, while Kierkegaard having: infamlusly not married... i appreciate their strategy... reading them while also reading Nietzsche, these two gentlemen, by comparison, if not in work, certainly in life gravitate above the popularity of Nietzsche... why? Nietzsche appears as an incel... fan boy, are you? *******... but you need some sort of structure if you're not going to marry... Kant found his daily routine an eternal mass... so many routine daily tasks seemingly mundane to some, can enlarge themselves to become out of proportion pillars of preserving sanity in face of standing before god and a post-life scenario... hell is not so much a place of suffering... i can tell you of the most "mild" form of suffering... an extrovert becoming drunk... constant talking, lack of purpose as in: lack of direction culminating in: lack of concentration, pandemonium is the heaven of a flickering light for a moth... again... this always bewilders me... why did Sisyphus have to drag the stone up the hill? was there some overlooking demon with a whip looking over him? couldn't he just... sit, and concentrate on the stone, create pleasure, from thinking? is that really so odd... i suppose so... given the grand h'american export of the freedom of speech... few people will find pleasure in thinking... Kierkegaard, which Nietzsche didn't read... said: why do people concern themselves with the freedom to speak, when they already possess a freedom to think? is this, me speaking, because it's the internet and it's a public space... surely i don't have an eloquent speech, i speak too quickly, i sometimes mumble, this is an extension of thinking, it's not an invitation to speak... rhetoric is an art designated for people who joked about philosophy and took sophistry seriously... i don't like Nietzsche... i still think of the man as the esteemed bachelor... apparently being freed from women allowed him to write his Critique with the sort of clarity that comes, in a cascading form, at the end, in the methodology of transcendence... which reads, like a page-turner tabloid narrative... once the formalities / difficulties are established... i'm no polyglot though, but i do succumb to some eccentricities... as any entrenched bilingual might... notably linguistics... how there are no diacritical markers in english, but there are: in other latin script based languages of continent europe... how i've never heard of dyslexia outside of the realm of spoken english... how orthography does not exist in the english language, which creates all these silly english questions of: what is reality, what is perception... with no orthography: metaphysics runs rampant... and "another" thing... i really can't read a philosophy book in english, i always have to revert back to my mother tongue, to Polish... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i looked at Plato once in english... the aesthetic is lost on me... but the Irish know of the Slavic aesthetic when it comes to dialogue, i.e.:

(a) the english standard for dialogue weaved into a narrative -
"i want this," she said,
   "as i want that," he said...
(b) the slavic standard for dialogue weaved into
a narrative...
- so?
- what?
- will we try to speak without
   the reiteration of who said what?
- we could.
- no, we should.
smoother... James Joyce noted this,
casual - no point adding descrptions of
how the puppet-master lost power
over his puppets with " " ditto markers of
dialouge of a: he, he really did say...
no, not he, the narrator...

   i simply cannot read the genre of philosophy in english, too much easy access points of pop culture with that umbrella overreach... matrix, memes, darwinism, blah blah... too much focus on images and very little focus on words, esp. etymology, that other component of history that focuses on: a universal application of words, beside status king, or status pauper... both the word bread can succumb to the king's tongue, as to the pauper's... but with an origin story? anything beside **** similis, the monkey, will do me just fine... then again... there's no one strand of monkey to begin with... a bit like looking up your own *** for too long, you decide that there's a coherent, "bigger picture" and it begins with chimp- and ends with -rilla... doesn't anyone else just tire of looking up a monkey *** to peddlestool the importance of darwinism for so long? i mean... at least chemistry is a playground among the science... there's no worry for a beginning... there's only play... no... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i have to read it in Polish... which is also a... january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, novermber, december... you'd think i'd be able to recite you the months in my mother tongue... styczeń, luty, marzec, kwiecień, maj, czerwiec, listopad, grudzień... english alphabet? a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, m, n, l, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v... **** gets scrambled... pointless rubrics... give me the practical! - i've just picked up a copy of Plato's republic... straight away i know that i'm finding my gensus in Plato rather than Aristotle...

    och ty, pijaku z psim pyskiem,
                  a za to z sercem jelenia...

    oh you, drunkard with a dog's snout,
                           nonetheless, with a stag's heart...

again, Nietzsche: Kant is an idiot, Plato is boring...
perhaps in German, for a German,
looking for Germany while roaming parts of Italy...
well... Plato, really seems appealing in
high slavic (western), the conversations breed
a sense of clarity, about fog, about darkness,
or any akin metaphor to boot...
                           between Nietzsche's maxims,
i'll take la Rochefoucauld succinct observations
before i succumb to pop-nietzsche modern
cult meme fucklords...
                          Roger Moore... prime example
of a bachelor, Kant, the same, Kierkegaard...
as for myself? if i married?
  would i still have the same sort of access to new
music, that i currently enjoy?
   for god's sake... i have to fall asleep while
listening to music, if i spend a day without
at least 5 hours of music on the headphones
   i start to lose the plot...
              my drinking is merely a side-note...
a p.s., given that now i'm a reformed drinker?
having cut my dosage in half...
     i'm still a music *****...
   women don't like music junkies...
                   and when my ex- started reading me
a qustionnaire from a russian cosmopolitan
magazine on the train to moscow from
st. petersburg... i thought i was going to shoot
myself in the head...
             perfect girlfriend this,
perfect girlfriend that...
             bob dylan saved me...
        but not for long...
                         women aren't feline...
at least with a cat you can ignore it...
                  he's pretending to be a solipsist and
you pretend to be: caring...
                 food on the table,
a clean litter tray... besides that?
                                                 fuckoffski!
     and i write this from a perspective of endearment,
nothing beats the zenith moments in a hetrosexual
relationship... the odd date...
                 talking impromptu... making food...
***, ***... ***... *** *** ***... ***... ***...
       but the petty arguments...
   the attention to detail...
                   god... anniversaries?
  i don't even celebrate my own birthday!
i fake celebrating christian holidays...
                    today is today, tomorrow:
that's tomorrow's concern...
           o.k. england winning the cricket world cup...
but that's a celebration with a calendar!
it's not regulated by hormones and
the impossibility for nostalgia...
                 i tried the relationship,
i tried the ***...
                       i had to visit a brothel for
the anaesthetic with regards to the past...
  i needed to visit the brothel to also visit
the butchers...
                               i needed to become meat,
to **** meat... and stop concerning myself over looks:
they only brought me trouble...
like i was walking with a "telepathic"
c.c.t.v. crow on my shoulder...
                             so i put on the weight i lost...
and... at that point? it was liberating...
mind you... if you want to lose weight?
  bicycle and swimming... no gym...
fruit for your last meal during the day...
eat anything you want...
  but losing weight? and all that bulimia,
classical roman bulimia:
training the oesophagus with first *******
into the mouth... then with no fingers
down the mouth?
                beauty... is not worth the trouble
when you really tempt yourself with the expansive
temporal canvas...
21 was my peak... after that...
                     voluntary celibacy...
                   a **** here and there...
            but no... it's not for me...
                    i guess i looked up to the right sort
of men... with regards to staying a bachelor...
to be highly invested in something,
   like Kant in a transcendent methodology...
like Kierkegaard invested in the arts...
like Nietzsche invested in waiting for
the fruition of his prophesies...
                      you have to be born to want to live
the simple happy life...
                  the "expected" life...
       the whole Hiob motto of: once taken,
can be regained blah blah...
                        it needs to have trans-generational
breeding involved...
                   a list of expectations...
                social-pressures and for that matter:
intrinsic socially-cohesive-stratification...
i'm a ****** in England...
             and... that puts as much social pressure
on me as... a chihuaha barking does
to an Alsatian's yawn... that's the stereotype...
the smalls dogs bark... the big dogs bite...
                 oh sure, when i visit my grandparents
back "home"... the older generation put
the pressure questions to the test:
even women from Warsaw...
   so where's your girlfriend?
to the old folk i reply: well i can't exactly force
a woman to be with me...
to the women of Warsaw?
   i'm practially a monk...
                        why?
          you don't really want to be aged 21...
forced with a scenario of:
happily dating, presumably reciprocrating trust
with regards to contraception,
being forced to reply to the scenario:
i think i'm pregnant... my my...
   and we were only 6 months apart after
the break-up, living in two different cities...
em...
                     on a lighter note...
what's the most fun you can have in Kenya?
   sitting on the balcony, in the shade...
feeding rascal macaques anything from nuts...
to bags of sugar... you, two macaque monkeys,
one balcony... the indian ocean frothing beyond...
it doesn't require a genius to figure out
what's worth cherishing without having
to feel obliged to the whole of humanity for...
offspring - many already figured this out before me:
you learn to give birth to your self (reflective,
and yes, not yourself - the reflexive)...
   which brings death to having to stand on its head...
... isn't Sisyphus the son of Atlas?
            couldn't Sisyphus just sit beside the stone
and... well yeah: think up the philosopher?

.em... looking back at the british empire, and the loud-mouth former colonial people... by god, i've never seen such leeches, i've never seen a people, so proud of being colonialißed! what's there to be proud of?! looks like in a post-colonial world, these former colonial busy-bodies had to, had to: step up and move their markers for Aladdin being performed in the West End... *******...  never in the history of the world, were post-colonial people endowed with so much pride, the whole m'ah bwee'dish *******... to counter herr zeppelinmann with the pakistani in the p.s. framework of the british empire... rotherham... ring a pakistani blue?! have a guitar on y'ah?! see... i don't like these former colonial states, with their people migrating to england, having their overlord say it now, say it clear bollocking... i don't mind a top hat, tux donning ******* giving me directions... but when a ****- does it?! sorry... i'm so sorry... will you please excuse me?! i just don't like *******, i don't like the sort of people who celebrate being colonial subjects, esp. after the whole post-colonial celebration of "libertion"... i don't like ****** / pakis who have to find their "past" by playing the cricket ball of, "the former" colony! i hate copper skinned ******* of ****- origins! former colonial raj-vizier... how can you breed these sort of people, who find pride in being under colonial power?! the **** didn't understand freedom, only understood it when being subject to its lack?! well... so much for english women... i guess they were only going to go for pakistani grooming gangs... drowning in the ganges... i have as much of jesus christ on the cross in me, as i have plenty and enough of pontius pilate's worth of soap to mind the next few years; never in my life would i have to witness the former colonißed to bribe their way, into an acceptance "speech" methodology... the ****- to fable the englishman for his, "tea"... no conquered people, no colonißed people should ever glorify their conquerers or colonißers... i guess the british achieved a double subversion... why do the ****- (stanis) still play cricket... i don't want to know... i'm new here... but... but... when a ****- attempts to displace a european from europe? that's my breaking point... i don't like being displaced from europe... the next ****- that will? well... the obvious target, a northern english teenager girl readied for grooming. i said! next ****- that tries to displace an european from europe... well... i guess.. given the power of the current politicians... nothing! ha ha!

well, with the e.u. article x, y and z...
herr zensor just flew over
London and dropped a bomb
from his zeppelin,
             because?
         two year ago,
       a teenager, girl, aged 13,
downloaded some materials
regarding self-harm...
              now the english government
is implicating regulations,
it will regulate social media usage,
mind you: ***** 'arry was pushing
the agenda all along...
   never mind the competent users...
just tackle the problem
with the addicts...
    oh look: no ******, no alcohol...
ms. amber: i'm sorry, we've failed,
we punched "the agenda"
of a blank canvas too far,
    we're going to have to double down,
for a while, so we can just
survive and have this sort
of a punching-bag of a blank
canvas readied for us...
               so the government will come
in and regulate,
       come on, 13 years old,
but the rising queer epidemic of
premature depression in the youth?
    while the parents do not
implement internet safety
   for their children,
        no block filters...
                like blocking pornographic
sites,
      so the infiltration came
            from within the supposed
safety-net sites?
           ****... i was exposed to
rotten.com by word of mouth at
school...
                           just when the internet
launched with that whole
dial-up modem,
    chris rock in lethal weapon
moment talking about old telephones...
and people bemoaned e.u.
articles...
         there have to be consequences...
people should / companies
should be taken into account...
     what about the *******
  who sold me chemically enhanced
marijuana?
            well of course:
   better a guilty man walk free,
than an innocent man become imprisoned...
that logic is still kinda flimsy
for me...
                 i don't know why...
   but it just is...
    surely there are parental filters
for what a child can and cannot see
on the internet...
                 when i was first exposed
to horse on woman *******?
       em...
         is there anything honest to think
about, at this point?
          maybe that's why i decided
to "ghost" around 200 fwends on fb.,
i figured...
        **** this pseudo-voyeurism
of what people want me to see...
    i've invested a decent amount of years
and settled for the 13K poem / doodle count...
and some pictures...
   none of them saved on a personal
drive...
         why would i stash the content,
hide it, when i want people to peruse...
'it's always dark before the dawn',
sorry, i don't know how much
of a ****-******* optimist i have to be...
before a stoic cynicism grinds me
to a halt of:
                   "branching out"...
              i came here for the punching bag
of a blank canvas...
              i never came for the fake
sycophancy or some count of numbers...
i came here, for an outlet...
      it was either this,
                     or a punching bag...
and you almost sense that this whole
farce of "national sovereignty"
is about to be dropped into the *******
and flushed...
       because... it will all become
                             "too inconvenient"...
oh they'll stall... until the european elections
take place...
                   and there's a u.k.
                        (probably the only time
where an N does't come between
vowels)...
                they're wriggling themselves
out... public: 1 vote...
                parliament: i've lost count...
it's not even akin to rats jumping ****,
more like a maggot **** in a pit...
                        that's what a cynic is:
a realist...
                         if i'm wrong, i'm wrong...
but...
              on several occassions
i haven't been wrong...
           and you just have to watch for
that glee in the eyes of channel 4 journalist
anchors...
     i know that glee in the eyes...
it's a glee of hope...
              a sly variation of hope...
               it's also a certainty imbued
               with a certainity-expectation;
thank god i didn't use the video medium...
no passive watchers,
      at least with writing...
certain sacrifices have to be made. / / / / / / / / / /
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

a "p.s.": well of course i'm not happy
with the news coming from today,
mind you: ever spot a woodland pigeon?
god, aren't they plump?
               bloated *******,
they always seem well fed by the forest...
a pair nested in a tree in my garden,
only yesterday, i picked up two
almost translucent offspring of theirs,
thrown out of the nest,
   the bride and groom
               decided they were sick,
weak...
                  they did look weak...
     death stared back at me,
          what once was animate,
lying there, among the stones, inanimate...
what a strange sight...
            do i believe in god?
            well... tell me...
   what is the driving force that coordinates
hearbeats, the functions of the stomach,
intestines, liver, kidney and lungs?
the categorical imperative split of the brain:
thinking, memory, imagination?
the bank of pathologies?
              tell me, what is the universal
1: nth term functions of the brain / 1 (divided
by 1),
                 the heartbeat / 1,
              the liver's function(s) / 1...
              the stomach's function / 1...
the pancreatic function / 1...
           i sometimes wonder:
  i own bones only in light of the thin
skinned extentsions associated with
fingers and tooes...
   sometimes this sort of thinking helps...
to "fake ignorance",
in order to rediscover awe...
         as if a genesis story...
to be the first...
        you never actually know what you will find...
sometimes there's no point being caged
in all the advancements of knowledge,
of certainity we are presented with
on the secular altar,
            ****! i can't even begin to comprehend
how i managed to clamour out from
beneath the eisenvorhang...
    a brief interlude... and straight back under
the siliziumvorhang...
            i guess i need to sleep the better dues
to pass this day...
           it was expected though,
i was, after all... sending out an S.O.S.,
     wattpad... what is it?
              teens wet silly with poetry
associated with no messy love,
mostly girls...
              YA novelties and novellas...
side projects...
               again: vampires, warewolves,
zombies, blah blah: yawn a year later...
         teen girls: sensitive as
daffodils, but as soon as a presence
comes along: little scheming modliszkas
   (mantises) - since daddy would not
approve...
              i discovered marquis de sade
in my teens: thank **** that i did...
i wished for an exoskeleton,
i moved past it, into lizard skin,
until my skin started resembling
an oyster shell hardness...
                     you snooze, you loße...
i only saw the trilogy once,
in the waterstones of Greenwich Village
in London, when i was doing some roofing
for a housing project...
i only saw the trilogy once...
i only bought Joris-Karl Huysmans's
Là-Bas once... i should have bought
the two other books...
  since i never saw them again...
  unlucky me... having succumbed to the sterotype
of the magpie stealing silver spoons...
the cover...
   artwork by aubrey beardsley:
                        'of neophyte and how the black art
was revealed to him by the fiend Asomuel'
   (the pall mall magazine, june 1893)...
on amazon.com you either get a chance
to purchase this book, or:
Against Nature (a rabours)...
    but there's a trilogy behind Là-Bas...
zee fwench: sorry, and not sorry,
the english can be grand poets,
but when it comes to prose?
                they're not even sniffing
the toes of the french...
                what happened to woodland pigeon
coos today?  wattpad.com,
2015...             the same for me...
an outright ban... because some girl
decided to be offended by me cutting off
a conversation with her: wish her a good life...
and i really out so much effort into that page...
zip it shrimpy: cut off, little richard
on the guillotine... cut!
                well... i was clued into
the world of 'olapoesía.com,
           hallopoesia.com
                       sveikidzeja.com (lithuanian...
dzieje? happenings, events, in ******)...
          and just my luck...
      leave a harmless comment in an in-group,
in a hive?
              how the nazis were not exactly
mongols, or the first christians who
burned down the library of alexandria,
when notre dame burned...
      when the blitz of london...
and how st. paul's "miraculously" survived...
and i said: i'm pretty sure the people
in command said to the luftwaffe squadron
about to bomb london:
you drop a single bomb on st. paul's:
firing squad...
           they were nazis: but sure as ****
they weren't the people of the siberian steppe!
so hellopoetry.com,
  2019, suspension from may until december 2019...
but unlike wattpad...
  i still have my account!
   and guess who's digging trenches, right now?
poetfreak.com and minds.com are
step-overs...
why did i delete my 200+ fwends off of
facebook.com and reduced it to
3 random strangers?
          eh?
                   as much as i abhor darwinism
poking its head through to give
every single existential explanation...
i have to side with darwinism on this point:
a defensive modus operandi...
lie low...
          pretend to be dead...
                   i knew the censorship storm
was coming back in 2015...
and this current banning of woodland pigeon
coos banning?
     i'm sort of happy...
but not for the sort of reasons stemming
from the ban...
     i can finally spread the "love"!
           i finally know what it feels like,
for someone who liked my work...
         being cut off from my content...
frankly... it feels great!
                   i can finally entertain my perspective
with a pinch of empathy...
sympathy is already here:
since it happened to me back in 2015,
and in early 2019...
         now for the 3rd time lucky
on the platforms i already mentioned...
but like this hindu woman said to me...
1st time is an honest mistake,
2nd time is a lesson in learning...
3rd time? there's nothing for you to learn...
and that's of course in reverse:
of me being banned.
                         after all...
if marquis de sade is still with us?!
                 marquis de sade...
                              i knew herr zensor was
coming...           but i didn't exactly
expect to climb from under the iron curtain,
to be draped over with the silicon curtain...
and these people know they're taking away
our former playground,
our youth center,
                       well...
                           but at least i didn't make
passive content akin to a video...
         if they really want to ban me a third
time...
       i'm glad someone took the effort
to read my work...
   saves them the time ageing toward granny
age, resorting to binging on harlequin
romance novels.

p.s.

you've actually caught me in my berserker
drinking mode... i'll just spew...
and spew as i must, i never expected
the "useful idiots" to comply to what my thinking
didn't prescribe them to do...
even hegel once pointed out:
something about 3D chess,
a thinking man, with pawns of willing
actors... i never liked hegel...

                  hegel has become too much
of a crucifix, a bookmark,
of what and where, "things" went wrong...
i hate bookmarked people...
kant isn't bookmarked...
         all the slander that nietzsche offered him,
as some repetitive jargon booster,
with the sort of a bachelor lifestyle
he greatly admired: rooted in Königsberg...
****** worked like clockwork...
his predictability was the great deception...
forget shuffling ideas and whatever
like a northern semite...
weren't the vikings the semites
of the north? restless creatures,
constantly displaced? weren't they?

mind you... eh...
     you know how many necromancers
actually exist?
   you ever read a book by jean-paul sartre?
james joyce? stendhal? dumas?
sienkiewicz?
      you sure you're not
a necromancer?
                it's not an exactly
illustrious title to hold...
             when reading the books
of the departed, aren't you invoking
their living presence, into the current storm
of affairs?
  sure as **** it's not a spectacular "title"
to hold, is it?
           to think: one is more likely
to cite the dead, having "risen" from
their grave, that one is to make
   "compensations" with the living...
   when journalism ****** politics...
and the sort of admired journalism,
akin to all the president's men...
died...
                a slower death than the traversing
speed of a snail...
   like that other quote beside
hegel:         the terrible...
                   has already happened.
the holocaust, chernobyl...
   that has already happened...
               awaiting what could ever be
worse: is but akin to the sword of Democles...
it's hanging in the air,
   blood-thirty,
  like the talking heads of
the french aristocracy, once the guillotine
chop happens... gagging for "free speech"
in a basket...
what is mary antoinette just said:
let them have croissants?!
    fat fake cake binges would...
with a snap of the fingers... be over...
still... the english crumpet...
      tyson fury vs. manny pacquiao
    (the obvious choice of crumpet,
and the croissant getting battered...
akin to a french toast,
               soaked in beaten eggs)...

you read any book by a dead person,
you're a necromancer...
             i'm a necromancer...
                 you're a necromancer...
the dead arrive at your head,
have a ******* with your thinking,
then leave,
you continue,
   in your own right,
and in their right: of mutating their
original thought...
          that lost ambition of narrative,
transcending any and all
moral 'oughts...
                    try me after an hour
spent with a ******* doing nothing
but kissing her:
just, because, "on a whim",
i forgot to trim my ***** hair...
                stealing kisses from prostitutes
isn't exactly easy...
all that pretty woman dogma...
     **** above a kiss...
          well... "yeah"... in reality?
                   i'm thinking about three things
right now... growing a heard long enough
to reach my heart...
   bonsai: in both the tree botanical form
and a feline form of a shrunken tiger
akin to a maine **** cat...
   and a pagoda...
                      don't ask me why...
i'm good at su doku puzzles... mahjong...
really **** on the crossword puzzle scale...
hence? random words just enter my mind
and i need an ars poetica impromptu
to lodge them into.

p.p.s.
i already know what the inquiring man would
or could ever do with a child,
to inquire about his own development as
a child, to find the: dot dot dot the missing
answers, to see for himself as he developed
into an adult, or, worse, to project his own failings
onto the child, child genius tiger mums team
alpha-bravo... child prodigy gehennah...
it's almost a psychological fetish for some,
to bind oneself to the canvas of a child,
better off with a cat, or a dog if that's your
"thing"... at least you won't be hurting anyone...
worse still: the marquis de sade ******
scenario... i still have memories from when
i was 4 years old... Ganesha must be looking
over me: the stereotype? elephants' memory,
which is as long as its trunk...
      "conundrum": if an adult male can fathom
his child: himself at the age of 4...
if he can fathom a metaphorical foetus,
why would he have to procreate,
to produce a d.n.a. mongrel to satiate his
curiosity further?
      besides that... if society was once overtly
religious, moralistic...
today's society is overly-psychologised...
i hate psychological stereotypes,
everyone is this part-time hobby-psychologist...
             i don't exactly require a biological
part-replica of myself to preserve at least
one thought with origin and end within
the confines of my self...
       i'm not exactly prone to utter patriachal
proverbs that encompass whole ethnic groups...
maxims or categorical imperatives
cater for individuals...
                   not the masses...
i'd have to be a patriarch to utter proverbs as
a way to gather the brood of my own
sow and subsequent harvest...
to be so obscure,
    to be so... concerned with lineage...
                   you have to be born with the facets
of necessarily ensuring that future generations
are to make the same mistakes...
           that's why i would never trust western
neo-atheism... d.n.a. as the only future blah blah...
         sure... if you can lodge a thought
into d.n.a. and receive the token of finding both
self and consciousness within such claustrophic automaton confines,
"somewhere down the line"...
      much older generations would have told you...
that's in the fables, the mythos, the temporal crux
and crossroads... time doesn't give a donkey's *******
about your "rational", scientific materialism's worth
of continuum...
                         etc.
a malignant cancer spreads
in prime agricultural land
the Santos Company
gas wells ever expand

the waterways and aquifers
sullied with material not healthy
the corporate entity
aspiring to be more wealthy

campaigners outside fences
at drilling locations
wanting to stop the company's
sick infiltration

the fight to preserve the family farm
has been unheeded
company profitability
must be well seeded

a state government not listening
to scientist's info
seemingly it is more interested
in the gas field's revenue flow

as time goes by the waterways
and land will become sicker
all in the name of the Santos brands
noxious sticker
I was born on March twelfth, the nineties is my generation.
Everybody grab your pen and pad this is the preparation
and I’m not talking about gang banging selling vegetation.
Prepare for random knocks hide your glocks comes confiscation.
It’s like we all apart of Wii just need recalibration
Control your mind soul body focus concentration
and clear your mind and think positive in isolation.
Our bodies feel the pain, soul faces condemnation.
Prepare yourself for starvation and dehydration
I carry the Bible and a compass as my navigation
and with the Gospel of peace the helmet of salvation
I am a soldier of righteousness not the nominated
because the nominated moving towards *******
beware of imitations because that leads to infiltration
just close your eyes and you will feel the negative vibrations.
I believe it’s time we all stop going to power station
I don’t think our grands died for our relaxation
our president is black you all went into hibernation
while I’m standing tall facing these administrations
because I didn’t know the constitution had an expiration.
©
Written 2009-2010
Enough-
Its enough having these corporations run our nation while the infiltration of money making keeps destroying world peace aspirations-
Its like Satan and his manipulation keep telling me that success lies in the accumulation-
And the accumulation of that money making is what makes life exhilarating?
And the exhilaration of materialization keep growing as a representation of America’s successful creation-
And soon it becomes discrimination-
Upper class elevation vs. lower class stipulations-
The poor patient vs. Rich patience-
The barring margin of APR regulations-
Keep our nation rotating-Gaining speed and evaluating-
The appreciation of desperation is all for corporate gaming-
The memorization and commercialization keep our nation deprecating from the rest of the worlds visualizations-
Our accreditation creates frustration-
Segregation and integration by the new world organization-
Integration to a peaceful appropriation is questioned by this American administration-
AND I QUESTION IT?
kbww Jan 2019
Head a hostile environment again
Emotion overthrows intelligence
Fragile skull accepts another beating
and indecency becomes preference

Absorbing black into gray matter
Meticulous infiltration;
Makes death a desire
and living a fear

Friendly fire
Mind battles disease, disease
obliterates mind to violence
collided with sharpened corners of myself
****** mess, wrong message

Swallowing hostile heavy medications,
contain my elation so that overjoy
doesn't morph into mania, or joy
Mass of electrons now inside
find nothing positive; thought paralyzed

Deviating cells that scare themselves
from the darkened sanguinary state.
wide eyed faces searching for a homeostasis
Far from stable since demon's rule

Constant epiphanies with no execution
turn to facts filed in brain catalogs
Fully aware solutions are there,
but the drawers are glued shut

~kb
It was silent for some time
But the darkness breached my mind
Shrieks of laughter and smiles unkind
Come you spirit intertwine
For you and I follow no signs
Nebek Wormer Jan 2015
Big wigs

Takin swigs

So this is what its like to live life with a suit and tie

Well ill tell you what i think id rather die
i met the city mayor and im sure he wasnt  fond of me
Alexandra Sep 2013
In the cookie cutter cage
Struggling to contain the rage
A free-spirit was torn between reality and dreamland

Break the shackles of expectation
Shrug away judgmental allegations
Explore the depths of your creation
Surrender to allure of deep temptations
     REBEL against the infiltration
     Of a mass produced mold
Dare to wander, to be bold
**** the status, and their gold

Discover your own imagination
Live through your own interpretation

Search for treasure in the crowds
Let your mind transcend the clouds
Emancipate your inner child
To take a step, into the wild
Third Mate Third Aug 2014
the titles
lay about,
filed in no order,
some a mere notion,
some a finished few,
most a line or two

that

ask fervently for
birth, commencement,
not understanding
that finished,
need not mean ripened,
ready for release, consumption

some indeed,
awful layabouts
in no hurry
to complete their
appointed rounds,
or make their
unique composed sounds
spoke out loud

content to be,
yet-to-be
but already
wanting the entitlements
of being
just a title entitled,
yet even without shape,
content to be
content-less,
poem teenagers, I guess,
they want it all

all awaiting wondering

they understand how humans are born
but see no parallel to gestation literate

they see
infiltration, fertilization, conception,
automated, tracked and formulaic

the process similar,
but the exact moment of birth
knows no schedule,
some burst, some dormant,
aging beyond aged,
struggling to believe that
those who wait also serve

if you were to sit beside
this troubled man,
whose clouds need poking by,
perhaps,
your fresh fingers
could rocket them into
partum warmth fluid bathed,
then they would belong
to you
for you
were the trigger,
that fired them into existence
Every day,
who are you?
oh,
how are you doing?
who are you?

And every day takes a little more of you away back to another day,
nineteen fifty two?
who are you?
oh,
how are you doing?

And it's demanding takes you from standing to sixty and then everything drops,
stops
and
who are you?

It goes on and on and it ends and goes on,
the blinds go up, drop down and you,
who are you?
oh.

Funny and tragic but magic mixed in with the heartbreak.

Infiltrate:......to gain access surreptitiously
Notes on Alzheimer's
Yenson Nov 2018
WORDS GANG STALKERS DO NOT WANT TO HEAR

The first, of course, is the “G” word. No explanation necessary.

GANG STALKING

VIGILANTE

The gang stalking recruits are of course being recruited into a cult for the purpose of carrying  out vigilante activity. As we all know the same authorities who “do not have the resources” to protect you from burglars, gang intimidation, vandalism, mugging, ****** assault, etcetera, are not short of resources to deal with the least whiff of vigilantism, as people desperately try to protect themselves. The recruiters of course do not wish their recruits to be reminded that they are engaging in vigilante behaviour, so I remind them at every opportunity.

CULTS

The methods the recruiters use are classic cult methods. The recruit is told lies while their emotions are manipulated; they are not told the true agenda of the cult they have been tricked into joining; they are given targets to hate and vent their frustrations on; they are enslaved and over time leached of all their resources; their children will also be indoctrinated and used. People know joining a cult is a bad thing. So at all costs the recruiters wish to keep the idea of cults away from their recruits. Again, I make a point of reminding them.

CON ARTISTS

Another word/concept the recruiters want the recruits to forget. Again, another rich source of conversation with a gangstalker.

COVERT WAR
A major tool in the gangstalkers weaponry is successfully keeping the practice of gang stalking a secret. Most people not being stalked and many who are have never heard the term gangstalking and do not know what it means – a major Orwellian coup. Getting the word out is a major difficulty. From this point of view the words – covert war – are hated by gang stalkers. Both words, and especially in combination attract peoples notice and naturally induce them to read further.

FAIR GAME (Scientology)

Remember the film “Fair Game”. Odd title don’t you think when the story line had nothing to do with Scientology. The story based on fact about the betrayal of a CIA agent betrayed by her own government.

Gang stalkers do not like mention of Fair Game because the methods of Fair Game and gang stalking are identical. The existence of Fair Game tactics are acknowledged, but the response of authorities to gang stalking is to assert dogmatically that gang stalking does not exist and any who claims it does need the help of a psychiatrist.

MAFIA

The authorities do not wish people to be reminded of the Mafia. Many gang stalking methods and Mafia methods are identical, particularly the diverse rackets both gang stalkers and Mafia engage in. Infiltration of legitimate businesses, exploitation of labour, housing scams, protection money, and controlling people such as medical personnel who can make ” mistakes” in medical treatment, or an office worker who can “lose” or corrupt private data.

STASI

If the STASI were not the creators of Zerzetsen, they were the world’s foremost practitioners – a massive state spying apparatus which created as many spies as citizens. Gang stalking and Zerzetsen are identical.

dailykos.com/story/2010/10/12/909826/-ZERZETSEN-TORTURE…

WORDS THAT GANG STALKERS WANT EVERYONE TO HEAR

SCHIZOPHRENIA

After the primary objective of gang stalkers to keep awareness of gang stalking from public knowledge is the secondary objective to ensure that if anyone comes across the concept of gang stalking or targeted individuals it will be immediately linked with insanity. The purpose of gaslighting behaviour is to make the person on the receiving end look insane.
brandon nagley Apr 2017
i.

Woe unto thee O' man, making woman thine thrall, beating her, bruising her, O' how God dost see it all. Woe unto thee making innocent toy-***-slaves, build thy Bunker's in thine deep caves, for thy statues and idols wilt be moth-eaten, cankered; just as thy silver and gold.

ii.

Woe unto thee O' man, taking innocent soul's, young men fight and die, whilst dear mother's cry, look to the sky's; for the signs of Prophecy art awake, stay alert O' elite men for how the ground is soon to quake.

iii.

Woe unto thee O' man, blasting bomb's in foreign lands, making robots human, and robots men; how technology hast become thine own savior. But thou shan't be saved, just running away, as thy streets wilt fill with the blood to be spilt and crumbling skyscrapers.

iv.

Woe unto thee O' man, spraying chemicals in ourn midst, slowly murdering the innocent; whilst thou drinketh toddlers cruor to keep alive another day.

v.

Woe unto thee O' man, pushing deception on TV, media puppets thou doth feed, CIA infiltration with thy greed. O' soon thy airwaves wilt be shocking. Thy earth
Wilt mourn like cradles rocking,
Making Christmas not of the
Messiah but of stockings,
Filled with lust and
Filth.

vi.

Woe unto thee O' man, grab some stilts, walk highly with thy head in the clouds, as thou hath all pride and None shame.

vii.

Woe unto thee O' man, for thou knowest not pain, for what's coming to this sphere shalt make men's hearts fail them.

viii.

Woe unto thee O' man, judgements art coming as I shalt detail some thing's as
For me to thee I was sent. Quakes in high
Magnitude, an Antichrist and his false
Prophet, whom shalt rule for seven year's,
A mark of the beast (RFID chip) in the forehead and right hand, don't yet shed none tears yet for these things all were
Planned. A one world religion coming
Together as the false prophet wilt make,
The last 113th Pope is here, many lies
He gives and takes. Predicted by two
Saint Malachi's, of the last great deciever
Of the Church; he gathers all religions as the Bible dost sayest, so don't let thy feelings get hurt. All religions wilt gather, after the rapture of the church, the rapture is Jesus Christ rescuing his People, from the Antichrists coming scorch. As in the moment in the twinkling of an eye, believers in Jesus Christ like bird's wilt disappear and fly, high in the clouds to meet ourn Lord in the air, news channels wilt be reporting (MILLIONS PLUS MISSING) MANY NOT HERE!) The Antichrist is here now, he wilt soon (return) many will bow to an image made for him during the seven years of God's judgement that shalt be felt-heard. The Antichrist shalt hath anyone killed who doesn't worship his fatal image, for anyone whom takes his mark (RFID chip) wilt be eternally ****** for hells own wishes. Though Christ didst not come for to judge the world, but to save, the sinners, all humanity, were all sinner's on display. For Christ died on that cross, was mocked spat upon, beard ripped out, holes in wrists and feet, after his soul left his body the sun turned dark, the moon blood the Earth's shook for his own People killed gods son, the only name that gets thee to heaven; Yeshua hamashiach ( Jesus the Messiah) alpha, Omega, beginning and end. Life of living water, bread from heaven. He's always the same yesterday and today. As must I sayest to fireballs shalt come, and tsunamis so high people can't run. War wilt be nuclear as battles shalt rage in Israel, Christ came not for thy damnation as thou hath been taught, he came to save the soul. The Lord said ( I am the way truth and the life, no man cometh to the father God but by me,) that means only through Jesus, gods son, canst thou be free. Theres none other escape from these things coming to pass and things to be. Salvation was payed on that cross for thou and me. Now it's they own decision where thou Wilt spend eternity, a very real hell descibed in death and ourn gospels seen. Yet don't take mine word reader, thou canst try to ignore all the day, I just came to tell thee who died for thee, Yeshua (Jesus) his name. There's much more I couldst sayest but I'll leave thee with this, John 3:16,( For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.) He opens his arm's to thee O' reader, it's time to make thy choice, the morrow
Might not be here for thee, Christ offers
These words with his voice.

© Brandon nagley
© Lonesome poet's poetry
Word meanings:
Woe until thee; Christ used to say this alot to the scribe's and Pharisees who's heart's were hardened and eyes were closed, as his own Jewish people sadly rejected him and they still reject him alot today though the 12 tribe's of Israel will come back to him as the book of Revelation speaks in the  judgement hour of (7) years of tribulation.
Thee; you.
Thine- your. Thy also means your.
Thrall; slave.
Dost; do and does
Doth; do
When I say build their Bunker's in caves the book of Revelation speaks this would happen as the elite high rich people are building Bunker's all across the globe Miles underground you can search it in Google , their miles under the earth miles long they are building it because of planet x (nibiru) and other planets in our solar system being caught on film all in YouTube and the web footage everywhere thus why I said to in poem spraying (chemicals) in our midst. They spray over 40 chemicals in our air (chemtrailing) lines that aren't regular plane lines left in our sky but they make tic tac toe in sky and starts opening up looking like whispy clouds as they aren't real clouds, they are spraying to cover up planet x (nibiru) near the sun already here and other planets in our solar system that came in with this planet x. As suggest all go back read my poem ( nibirus approach on here ) .
Wilt; means will.
Whilst; while.
Art; art.
Hast; has
Hath; have.
Thine; your.
Shant- shall not.
Ourn; our
Drinketh; drink
I bring up elite drinking youth blood this is actually something well known luciferians do, take youth blood getting it iv style in their veins because they believe it's keeping them alive longer. Ya these are the real people who run your globe you can look it all up yourself if want truth not feel good lies.
Knowest.
When I say things coming upon this earth will make men's hearts fail them, our Bible speaks men's hearts will literally fail them from looking at things that will come upon this earth.
Canst; can
Some links for you to read asap

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1837677/serious-note-not-poemyour-time-is-running-out-readerjudgement-is-coming-to-the-world-read-find-out-how-to-escape-tribulation-coming/

Link 2 read notes below this poem

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1874075/nibirus-approach-thy-end-is-close/
Amy Perry Aug 2016
We are a generation,
Indeed, a nation,
Raised upon foreign warring.
Scapegoat aggravation.
Bushes and *****
Clamoring for horror and hoarding.

Conspiring against a population,
I watch through youthful aging.
With my childlike eyes, I see
The target they're blaming:
Afghan families having more
in common with me,
Working class American,
Than those transparent heirs
With the world's wealth and arrogance,
Ordering for the villagers' obliteration
Through boys from our nation.

We are a generation raised
On media sensation
Of militarized devastation;
Animal exploitation;
Technological manifestations
Providing privacy infiltration.
Material attainments;
Mental frustrations;
Fiat debt enslavement;
A nation entranced by
Senseless parading.

Tempting decadence and
Announcements with no evidence.
The September bounty of edifice
That fell with no hesitance
Still echo its unfounded,
Preemptive pretenses.

This murderous reign;
this senseless parade;
Advertisement cyclical
in their game of charades;
Dog on a chain;
Famine causing no pain.
Permissible opinions
To be solely maintained.

The damage, the waste,
The heinous race and class chase.
Oppression remains thoughtlessly dangerous,
As moral responsibility brings no attainments.
Chowing down on maimed millions
Bellowing from enslavement.

Fortunately, elder,
Rothschild, Rockefeller, or
Those above them whom
Remain blackened, faceless:
Resistance shall come
From all places, all ages.
Such as this generation of mine
Inheriting increasing complications,
With the type of America
You wish to keep in rotation.

I'll carry the flag containing
Your mistakes as a symbol,
To remind those behind me
What not to rekindle.

To the Boomer who stews
In your white collar suit,
Still refusing to shake
Your destructive pursuit,
Still asking me to lick
Off authority's boot:

Growing up in this nation,
With childhood innocence,
I grew increasingly aware
Of the land of such ignorance.
I had such thoughts since
Early adolescence,
I was not blind to larger lessons.
Only since supported by
Actual, factual supported confessions.

To the Boomer tied to his convictions,
Now will you see-
That isn't going to work
For us or for me.
I'll bring to this world
Whatever I please.
Which so happens to be
Truth, justice, and peace.
Sincerely, the Millenials
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
there is absolutely no hippocratic jurisdiction in psychiatry, i sometimes walked into the psychiatric offices, poked fun at psychiatrists for being callous sadistic *******, as one suggested: thinking out-loud in reverse: oh, he must have been abused as a child... psychiatry has strayed away from making a hippocratic oath... it actually doesn't have an oath to make: it has persisted with more harm than good, clinging to the notion that there is no summa totalis of the body, and medical psychiatry is to blame for this persistent infiltration of psychiatric lingo... you can't even begin to imagine how much it pissess of people who live in a secular society, to be strapped under an umbrella of "mental illness", while the jihadis are celebrated as completely "sane", psychiatry is the one branch of medicine that's persistently being undermined by the general public, for me, psychiatric materials are too readily available, is psychiatrists are the new priests of the secular age, i demand! i demand that psychiatry does what the church did once before, return to it being solely written in latin! too many ******* retards are abusing this branch of medicine, suddenly everyone is a ******* psychologists amateur, the jack-of-all-trades know how! ******* know ****! i'm this close | | to boiling point with respect to the degradation of psychiatry... reverse everything! start writing psychiatric works, solely in latin! give psychiatry some hippocratic credibility, sure, it's a hit & miss with the pharma side of things, but come on, give these people some ******* empathy, do what the churches undid, and write all psychiatric material in latin! the public doesn't have to know the complexities of this branch of medicine, because, clearly... it doesn't!

we live in an age where dialecticas is
not engaged with,
not even to the point where you can self-realize:
oh, right, i know absolutely nothing!
you can't do that these days,
you can't have that self-realisation -
that "demand" for a "consciousness" -
100 years ago people spoke of a *soul
-
that summa totalis of ****** mechanisations,
that eating some food and then
falling to sleep, and yet the organs working
their magic digesting the food...
yet people have replaced the soul
with a reinvented concept of
"consciousness"... the **** does that
even mean? a second awakening within
the first wake?
the brain is the only ***** that can't
truly experience itself unconsciously...
even when it is "unconscious" it still
poses the threat of dream theatre...
   i find that the summa totalis is
bordering on an a "soul" within this
membrane, in that:
  at least one aspect of our body can't
exactly become part of the summa totalis,
and become enclaved akin to
the heart during sleep...
or the stomach prior to falling asleep
while still managing to digest,
the brain can't be deemed completely
unconscious, otherwise how else would
you mind to state why light is trapped
and then projected, and we dream?
           dreaming, that "consciousness"
of the unconscious brain, and somehow
pulverised by the truth-bidding inflection
of the pentagram...
       god, i hate these sorts of poems,
i read a bit of heidegger and suddenly spiral
into this jargon...
  i abhor it...
           literally, it's about as enlightening
as turning on a lightbulb, minus the stereotypical
imagery surrounding an einstein moment...
more like that loony tunes moment when
the head turns into a donkey's head,
   or we see the dunce's hat appear...
elsewhere the capirotes march...
                     but then i think of mental illness
and the stories of the young,
and i'm genuinely worried -
   i was one of the first kids to own a nintendo
NES...
  yes, from the ages of 4 to 8,
my father was just a voice on the phone,
and the odd package of gifts from her majesty's
fair green land, notably the nintendo NES...
but being one of the kids, we still preferred
warm summer nights, hide & seek,
playing with marbles, walks into the woods,
picking strawberries coloured pale yellow
before being ripe, throwing potatoes into
fires, eating gooseberries, eating whole plates
of sunflower seeds,
                  i remember days when we had
neighbours, neighbourly women playing cards,
sitting till 11 talking outside the communist
concrete blocks...
that transition period, i.e. my childhood
has a knack of almost always reappearing...
   so i must be "mentally ill" for reading heidegger,
not many people do,
maybe i suggest something?
  learn biology / chemistry or physics to a degree
level before reading books like that...
it softens the blow of reading puritanical
humanism of, say, a novel...
        or poetry...
             and some people take holidays
to the caribbean, or take a cruise around
the norwegian fjords...
   or walk the great wall of ching ching...
   or ride a horse on the mongolian steppes into
the sunset, or ride the trans-siberian railway...
me? i take a "slingshot" back "home"...
get immersed in the native tongue,
  and finally! oh finally! manage to read a book
in the native tongue...
  i found that i'm a slow reader if i have
a book in polish, but can still hear english
on the television...
   back "home"? what a surprise it was for
my grandfather: he just threw bolesław prus'
book lalka into my lap one summer and said:
lap it up.
      and i lapped it up...
  point being, all these sights and sounds,
scents and exciting stories people have from abroad...
well... when i was in kenya,
i lounged, drank enough to fall asleep in
a hammock overnight and was not stolen by
the somali pirates, but someone did steal
my glass of cognac when i woke up the next morning,
then drank some more, and stayed in the shade,
played some ping-pong with a german,
chatted up these gorgeous ivory beauties of
the night, and chilled with macaque monkeys
on the balcony giving them nuts and sachets of
sugar, again, in the shade...
   i took one dip in the indian ocean and became
bored from the beach vendors pushing
****, drank some more, wrote a short story
for my grandfather about an elephant
           dunking its trunk into a bottle of whiskey...
drank some more, lazed in the shade,
read c. g. jung's western man in search
of a soul
- dedicated it, and gave it to one
of the german beauties, drank some more,
         laughed at a baboon with hemorrhoids
trying to sit on a roof once it raided the kitchen...
point being: what sightseeing i have when
i go back "home" is the language -
sometimes i read it, sometimes i might write,
but i definitely speak it,
  but reading it is like the tower of pisa
for me...
           this complete re-immersion of the 8 year
old kid that left kicks in...
        ooh, ant that -18ºC temp. of winters in poland...
to be honest, i never know why people
decide to go to tropical places on earth,
sunniest and what, in the middle of the winter
months, why?
      coming back must be a double ******...
why not go to somewhere where the winter
months are worse than from where you came from?
Kìùra Kabiri May 2017
"Remembering the Soviet’s silent sufferings!"

Chechnya, Georgia, Crimea…… Kiev!
There they marauded cruelly combing all  
And souls they severely sought to take like hogs
Souls they fatally fought-these Dmitri dogs
In death jails-a hell more than purgatory’s punishment
They put souls to pleasurably slaughter them all
And a soul at its time they picked and hacked in elated excitement
Severely they severed them these trigger happy Zarkozsky fools

Hunger and starvation their invasion caused!
It is a saying: To suppress small states-hunger and violence cause!
And out of these societies’ desperations, demeaned humans
Will subjugate freely as miserable subjects-slaves to any rule
The soviet sacrificed us to their animosity and brutality
Our children, our parents, our experts-we all fatally fell
Of their gallous guns or cruel squads or unnatural hungers
Humans, hardworking humans became bones-NOTHING!

We did the donkeys’ hard works-indefatigably  
And they ungrateful, kingly collected our all
All our tills tires they unjustly carried away
And all was left in sustainable villages were huge hungers-
Everywhere were war casualties: tension, desperation, mass starvations-
And when angered we couldn’t bottle anymore we staged rebellions
And they cursed us with all sorts of chemicals contaminations

They combated and convicted us with any known brutal cruelties
Innocent infants they injured with their injustices-fatalities  
Little angels they hewed with brutality-others they made all sorts of slaves
They collected us, us resilient and begun murdering our mettle vitalities
Men, all able men they collected, killed and covered in mass graves
Them they carried in transport trains, some they threw away in trenches, in rivers…
Their remains they concealed to deny us a claim of their atrocities and animosities

Babies remained, crying for their dying mummies and daddies
Long after finally they have given up fighting-living
Poor innocent babies, unaware it is death……
It is not death the devil but Dmitri dogs the devils
That has fat fed on their last of defenses-able parents
Times ahead of them were tough if not toughest

The Petrovs’, the Pavlovichs’, the Mirovics,
The Lenin’s, the Stalin’s, the Sarkozsky’s.....
They are animals raised from hells horrible
There not to pamper and foster but to decimate  
Ruthless and cruel they killed without a soul-a heart  
Death is their rite, blood is their eucharist
Mass mortuaries of mutilated bodies are their sophists
Killing is their glorious celebrations-theirs sacred sacrifices

In jail, doors opened and rude were ruthless soldiers’ orders
Chains crinkled on ground as sacrifices lead to little altars
Prisoners were time to time collected and lead in cruel commanders’ commands
And from distances came echoes of targeted bingo bull’s-eye shots
A LOW ROW of shots followed by the silences of squeal of sailed souls and their guilt
If a day or a night-if any able to tell from chained scary dark chambers  
Passed and found you fit-alive, you counted yourself very, very lucky!

It was dark when we escaped from the jaws of our starving starring deaths
Out, the moon shone silvery sweet and bright on these sad ******-white snows
Its silver speckle lights letting lurid luminous sparkling glows
The snow rained with such sadness and bitterness
On our ears it whizzed with fury and ferocity
On our bare skins it bit with brutality and cruelty
On our near naked feet it froze and frosted
We endured, we had to!

Had we managed to rob death of its celebration and elation
A taste of our starved wounded bones-surviving skeletons
We had to struggle to live and hope give, we strived, we had no choice
If we were to be counted heroes of our hopeless humans
Saviours of our suppressed peoples
We had to reach a safe distance and our rural homes
To stage the war from the roots, the stems, the base!

A death in nature by nature is better than one in Dmitri dogs hands
Their deaths were inhumane, their deaths were merciless
They were mocking and shocking-laughing and loathing while killing
A mocking moustache peeking from their elongated mouths smiles
A cigar smoking from their mouth and emitting from their nostrils
A red star labeled soviet beret on their ***** irking hairy heads
They killed you slowly loving and laughing of any strength you gave to live
Until at last you are lost-in the abyss arenas of death, your are done
Such a point you give up, you can’t fight, resist anymore

They chased after us–they pursued us
They were too determined to not let any of us live
But miraculously we lived-we somehow survived
Here in this snowy arena it is a fair ground for everyone-
There is no grandmaster, it is improvisation
Survival only for the willed-fittest
Not how well you were equipped or trained
Though too skills and determination also counted

We trapped them in their own constructed coliseum
A lot of them free-froze and fell in these forgotten fields
Their bones never to reach their of-kin commemorating cemeteries
Nature is JUST! As us, theirs too had to bitterly mourn their nature lost
The never to see graves, reminders of their never returned fighting loved ones
With God’s grace on us, we cheated their beginning to tire authorities
We reached home; we reached the earth’s of our ancestors

And here we gathered to charge back-to seek backups
To restore the lost glory of our nastily punished perishing people
Some we sneaked to safety in case we all perish we have remnants
Backups to tell of us-our sorrowful story-our liberty struggles
To Kiev and its heroes; to Kiev and its strong heroines
To Kiev and its resistant living; To Kiev and its resilient
We gathered to kick back, to tell the world of the evils of the Soviet Satans
To mourn with grace our gone and done in this dehumanizing disgrace!  
O Kiev, her heartless Holodomor; O Crimea, O Georgia…..
The Satanic Soviet infiltration brought you eternal sufferings!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
JLB Feb 2012
It's amazing,
How words will only actualize our realities
                                        Fully                   ­               
               When they are uttered
                                   Aloud.


And once those unspoken realities transpire,
It's as if the all the air in the world gets caught in a primordial vibration,
                
                   And those vibrations                                                       ­                     
Break the internal balloon                                                
Detaining­ veracity's ink                    
Painting our insides like the canvas of Jackson Pollack.
                                                        ­       Seeping through soft tissue.
                                          Spilling into chest cavities.
         Sloshing around.
           Saturating the hues of our flesh.

A single utterance
Resulted in irrevocable emotional
Infiltration:

"I'm in love"

*******...
MoonChild Mar 2013
A single seed
Watch and it shall grow
No measure to length
Or width to abide
But grow it must
And will forever
Not this to subside

One embarks
To grow to grow
With what before
Only known from once
Shown and grown

From dirt to dusk
We rise
And fall
Expand and collapse
But grow
Is in all the seeds to begin
Growth the only ingredient no
Destination
Manuel
Or infiltration

From small to large
Large in sight
For this we grow
To take flight within
Ones soul
Which growth
Sees to ignite

From nest to barrier
From mouth to tongue
From stars to planets
Far and wide we all must grow

Outward and inward
But inward it’s from
The center point
From which all to grow
Not outward to expand
We rise inward
Occasionally to fall
But inward its there
The growth we mustn’t forget to dare
Inside
Inside
From within
We see
The begin and the end
From inside
That is all of me
The Dedpoet Dec 2015
Woman,

     You ask that I write you a poem everyday that you are away from me. I willingly spill the words from my soul, I sacrifice myself and fall upon the sword of the pen, the drops of blood like rain from God. And they fall to paper, all that I am, all that I hope to become within you, in a poem to you, at the moment so far away.
       Today, alas I have spilled so much of myself that I too require a filling, a need that sustains me like my words that feed your passion for me. I need the touch of your hand as we sit upon the portico resting on that sunset purple gold, that which lights the stars when darkness falls.
       I need the soft of your lips as they graze the nape of my neck, the stride like a galant mare across fields of shimmering lilies, I need the kiss which fits me like gloves in the cold depths of morning one feels as they take in the first chill of morn.
      I need you like a poet needs words, I need your depths that fill the abyss like the blood fills the body, or the lover fills the woman, oh this wanton desire for the touch, the kiss, the experience of being with you.....
      These are my words, these are my sonnets of infiltration to your soul, a haiku of touch, a verse of making love!
     My love all that is poetry is required by your presence. Simply put, the motions of our love.....that which must be experienced,
       we are the poetry in motion.

               Missing you dearly,
    
             The poet who lost his words.
Anonymous thanks Apr 2013
Frowning through my tears of joy,
I’m the kind of person who
Glowers when happy - plays decoy,
But I’ll always bleed for you.

Kiss me – in the wind and rain.
Touch me – I want to feel the strain.
Hold me – I need to hear your heart beating.
Warm me – in the cold and dark.
Break me – into a million shards.
Take me – I want all of you and nothing else.

Something unbound, something awakened,
Something made of revelations sweet,
Something which we don’t have to hasten,
Somewhere that I don’t have to fear,
Something renowned - lost in translation,
Something of an exploration sweet,
Something without abnegation,
Something born of deprivation’s heat,
Something from our raw starvation,
Something to give affirmation sweet,
Something of pure intoxication,
Something free of all complications prior,
Something in my adoration,
Something in your infiltration sweet,
Something in our desperation,
Something which dares not even one glance back,
Something without hesitation.

But so simple.
Del Maximo Jul 2010
alone in the dark
feeling the infiltration
porch lights and lamp posts
softly glowing through curtains
stealing onto the ceiling

robbing me of sleep
streaming, churning mindlessness
a holding pattern
clenched fists grasping on to night
keeping tomorrow at bay
© July 27, 2010
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2022
7:00am
Shelter Island,
Sat Sep10

on the south west edge of the isle,
the slowrise sunrise just behind the trees,
so early day yet, no full frontal of a sun
bathing to wake up woman, babes asleeping, but the
animals know exactly this hours early
perfection.

indeed, the crazy squirrels are random
hither and dithering in spurts of energy,
only stopping to observe a viewing of the humans
nest~resting through the glass doors with their
inquisitive, self-possessed, bedside reckless manner,
perfected.

the suns pealing gleaming gleanings picks
out any shiny reflective surface that enhances
its low-rise greeting, with a chorale of living objects
singing “Hallelujah orb, what’s in store for us today,”
river~bay, wake-less, its becalming, marbling surface, again,
perfected.

me?

I’m mugged by the perfection intersection of
my eyes-scape, first coffee, the holy quietude, only
the regular soft breaths beside, lend a counterpoint
to these thoughts and the litany of chores the iCal happily, annoyingly,  prematurely but with certainty lists, resistance (Walk!)
perfectly ok.

ok not to move an inch, watching this daily movie rerun,
that energizes hope, a contemporary localized contented without the
humdrum of blaring headlines, talking heads, and the
infiltration of the guilty unfulfilled responsibilities demanding a due,
then heavens signal me, Donovan, earbud singing Colors, confirmed
perfectly ok!


Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the mornin', when we rise
In the mornin', when we rise
That's the time, that's the time
I love the best

An attempt to tempt temptation we're facing
The entire nation is wasting
While the time clock is racing
Sitting idle I dwell
Don't know what to do
A bottomless well
filled with good intentions
That I forgot to mention
while men's sons
climb the walls
Fingers bleed
so I choose to run
Pain outweighed only by guilt
An attempt to hide so no one would see
Added my hand by not lending a hand
The inevitable entropy

Criticize the critter's size
This infiltration among us
A monstrous demon
indeed in need of expatriation
The daily battle uphill
An upheaval, this weasel
An endless war of soldiers who sold their souls
Signed their mark on the dotted line
Became a mere dot left in time
Sand in the glass we know will not last
Last train leaves the station
Can not stay
Have been shunned

Should have listened when told
On an endless list now too old
The souls that time has forgotten
A swirl in the whirlpool for getting into this mess
A choice we did not choose
Being lost made us lose
A loser with nothing to lose
Loose with our lips
Quick with the fists
A tunnel with no light
The endless darkness in sight
Filled with fear, we do not fright
For what is wrong feels so right
Take the plunge
I just might
Endlessly spinning in time
while getting so high
Spinning out of control
This way I live, this way I die
Written: Early 2018

All rights reserved.
On a throne in Rome is where satan is seated; eating the flesh of man; like a pagan Caesar being fed grapes. He sits, awaiting man, to kneel before him: kissing the ring.

Drinking the blood of man, by his royal cup; that which he never touches with his own fingers. King of all kings, lord of all lords; pope, pontiff patriarch and arch-bishop of all Christendom -- rejects you Rome.
From the schism to the Reformation, yet the prey are tempted as you ****** a bogus return. To/from an institution steeped in crises; openly admitting its satanic infiltration. Men adorn you with biblical claims of negative revelation. As if your satanic throne was of divine establishment. Claiming a unity that never was. Your foes thinking 'denominations' are a division of Christ's Church. While you knowing that 'a house divided cannot stand'.

Awaken your souls hiding among the farther Eastern 'Church', or those farther West. Separated brethren --or-- imitation Christian may your throne be carried on your shoulders by those observing your divine monarchy. Hail Popery! As you in self-pity's pedestal sight Peter. While the post-Protestant ecclesial coward prey sight Judas.

© S. Wesley Mcgranor
https://aucklandtheology.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/the_papist_devil_ego_sum_papa_i_am_the_pope_-_from_a_reformation_handbill_against_pope_alexander_vi.jpg
plants evolved organic defense mechanisms
when being preyed upon
they send off organic frequencies
that attracts a predator to what preys on them
natives and indigenous humans
have and even more complex
organic defense mechanism
to hurt and torture sends signals
organic signals
evolved humans
so therefore slavery
although the intentions were white supremacy
attempting to subordinate and control
through fear and enforcement of whiteness
because whiteness exists from fear of being tortured
African who are native
indigenous
but also
native
doctors
lawyers
engineers
professors
families
warriors
forcing into slaves
shipping and importing into every space imaginable
of America
conception
thorough dispersion
****** and procreating
light skinned warriors
infiltrated every aspect
of predatory whiteness
and so without meaning to
accidentally
the organic defense of natives
indigenous
humans
those attempting it be predators
are overwhelmed by humans who are still
close to being native
indigenous
so whiteness
in denouncing
native
indigenous
evolution
denouncing blackness
denouncing womanhood
we all came from Africa
whiteness denouncing origins
creates a place that can no longer exist
having invited and imported its own demise
outsourcing its own existence and sustainability
what a terrible mistake
to torture such evolved
humans
who also have the freedom
to perform vengeance
in any way desired
without warning
private and public
invincible
impeccable
predators to the failure of whiteness
to consume humanity
into objects of indulgence
in order for whiteness to continue
it would have had to keep us in captivity
completely
thoroughly
but it couldn’t
it fails its attempt
because we are too powerful
and we charmed so many
of associates to whiteness
and competed with the fear of not being white
making it too dangerous
liable
to keep us in captivity
won them over
to being human
native evolved
evolution is destroying whiteness
through infiltration
conception
procreation
pseudo forgiveness
organization
impunity of whiteness
becomes its weakness
whiteness would have to declare
absolute martial law
and be completely uniform
about its intentions and meaning
to be its group
severely brutal and unforgiving
but it failed to maintain
this status quo
legally
socially
psychologically
institutionally
sexually
Through the window she entered late in to the night
Her infiltration silent, eerie, and driven
Little did I know of my perilous plight
For her eyes were aglow, her spirit was striven

As my head hit the pillow she exclaimed "No, don't nap!"
Stay up with me pal! Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap.
To which I replied "shhh we sleep now"
Then she paused for a moment and furrowed her brow.

She pouted "But why?" and tapped me again
My retort was "fine you cutie, you win, you win"
I'll stay up with you now, no sleep/10
Danielle Rose Feb 2014
I have tried to give birth to a new and improved version of my vision
Exulting blips of exactitude and ambition
Flashes of pretension on a screen of pending dreams
Lacking mobility and projection
Inertia writhes

I'm mainly advertising trying to sell and intrigue
To those who have enough eloquence to persuade my predilection and schemes
Endorsing me providing lifelines and pure consciousness
Lacking the force of extorted themes and exulting worthiness
Cleansing my mind of the mocking bird's trash heap
Help me dissemble the falsified declarations and professions of fiends

I want to be pristine
I beg thee to teach and galvanize me
Endowing me with inexorable sight
Keeping me keen and full of bold might
I am willing to fight

Bring me to the surface of these turbulent seas
No need to mention my frailties and anxieties
All I ask is a breath from the surface of true realities

The urgency constrains my needs for rejuvenation and appreciations
For all those little beautiful things that once meant the world to me
Like pink carnations

Sleeplessness morphs into spells of insomnious hauntings
Stunting my contractions
It's completely and utterly exhausting
A labor deprived of true initiative and wanting
It may sound silly but everything is contradictory

It is these pains that leave me incomplete, ineffectual, and in paralyzing omission
Excluded and feeling great depths of oppression
Despairing and kept in solitary confinement
  
Suffering more than I'd like to profess
Distressing the matters that cave into my chest
An infiltration of insurmountable anguish
Abolished
Untouched by a shoulder or hand of accommodation
Is it selfish to push for this magnitude of isolation?

I crave cultivation
I want to grow into the Giant Sequoia
But the fires of self doubt leave my branches in ruins
Smoke signals sending sirens
A constant affliction
It's all my own doing

Contingency pleading for nourishment
Somehow knowing thee and ye could constitute for something of legends
Tell that to our reflections
Or maybe it's the fear of fire that terminates our pregnancy
Causing us to introvert instead of projecting
Withholding both you and I from mastery
ConnectHook Apr 2016
☪  ☠  ☮  ☪  ☠  ☮  ☪  ☠  ☮  ☪  ☠  ☮

Exporting democracy, whorelets and song
You dwell in the center of endless supply
as customer-king you can never be wrong.
Your choice is the answer—now shut up and BUY.

Gadgets with touchscreens and upgrades to boot –
Distractions and playthings to dazzle the eye;
Your choices are regal, your credit assured;
Your country is closing soon. Shut up and buy.

The Ishmaelite hordes are released from the dam
the sluice-gates are opened, the waters descend.
Our Empire, ignorant, closes its eyes
Babylonian currencies bank on the trend

Mohammedans know that the West is a Beast
and the least of their worries—their Caliph is nigh.
We shop as they’re chopping; expanding their brand.
The muezzin is wailing now: shut up and buy.

They hear and obey while you’re watching the game.
The refugee nations, with time on their hands,
flow over the borders demanding attention
Malign infiltration. Deception expands.

These newest dependents refuse to assimilate
whining of racism, milking the state
Government, clueless, declares them immaculate.
Holy diversity Batman—it’s late !

They wait for their moment. You’re scared to offend.
it’s the Christians you wish would oblige you and die
The Muslims, you know, are committed to peace
and that’s something to celebrate: shut up and buy.

No borders no flags, social justice, no war
(nor knowledge of history, conflict or God)
Universal utopia, scaffolded lies
crashing down (but you’re busy defining jihad)

Poor traumatized victims. Concern never ends
It’s our fault they are here: it’s a charity high.
They laugh in your face with your back to the wall.
Your nation’s invaded so shut up and die.
☪  ☠  ☮  ☪  ☠  ☮  ☪  ☠  ☮  ☪  ☠  ☮
a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
            ✿
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
            ☮
Arcassin B Oct 2020
By Arcassin B

Slash, dangerous,
Break in some glass, I'm your home,
The tranquil place, the happy place,
about to be drowned in blood,
Fixing William Shatner mask,
I carry my demons heavily on my shoulder,
Provoking me, you would also be stupid to get
close to me,
The devil's messenger incarnate leaking through scared and drippy as I ascended the passage of evil,
Be glad I didn't RIP out the pupils,
I'm way worse than messily cabin fever,
The one that snips Roses and tulips,
Like chasing after a relative that doesn't think I exist,
Letting them know that my legend lives,
No dogs live to take a ****,
You could get the blade or the fist,
Halloween is the day of bliss,
A devil on a night like this,
Wake to fulfill demon hour wish,
Wake to fulfill demon hour wish,
A devil on a night like this,
Halloween is the day of bliss,
You could get the blade or the fist.




I could feel as good as I feel , when I,
Let go,
We could make this right in our wills,
Feel free,
I don't know,
I don't know,
The horrors that await you can not illustrate you,
Their aiming to take this world from you,
specifics when theres rent due, they would want to
take you,
No streets , cars or avenues,
The hills definitely have eyes , we call them vultures,
Infiltration in disguise, we are their adventures,
A voyage , a play , a stage to be performed on,
This life is too fake to hold on,
Wool over the eyes of some , might as well put the mold on,
I wouldn't leave you to dry and dye a different color of your love for me, positivity overrules this tree,

Don't you ever think that I, don't love you cause I do, don't **** me,
It would break my heart if you , thought i didn't care, don't eat me,
Don't you ever think that I, don't love you cause I do,
It would break my heart if you , thought i didn't care.


©abpoetry2020 ©arcassinburnham2020.
https://arcassin.blogspot.com/p/demon-hourz-ep.html
Joshua Vincens Sep 2012
Evil, Veiled with Silk
Infiltration, They, with Us
Love, Evil shut out!
My first Haiku! Inspired by the many intriguing and excuisite Haiku's of David Alexander Walker.
A Simillacrum Nov 2018
Shower, you
touch me, still,
hotter than
clumsy fingers.
Clumsy advances.
In the water,
I see shapes
rising in steam
built by the
confidence
I can manage,
alone with you,
when I sing.

. . .

Lights out, cast a dark net.
Got the      yellow lights outside,
though,
catching my plans
on the
unbalanced heel,
but the      assisted glow
just makes my. . .
my aura cut out
a visible,
protective shape.

More than this,
in the music,
wearing my skin,
proud, yet naked,
I
      bravely emanate.

Oh ((oh)) Oh ((oh)) Oh ((oh))
I won't live forever.
Oh ((oh)) Oh ((oh)) Oh ((oh))
I just want some      infiltration.
I just ((just just)) I just ((just)) ((just))

I just --
wait. It's no meager thing.
I'm no meager thing.
The public debate
a political *******
reminds me
why I hate.

But that's Eton and Harrow not
Toxteth or Jarrow.
I leave the politics to them,
the Southern gentlemen

Up in the shires where men walk on tight wires
and dance to a different song is
where I belong,
from the Midlands to the Tyne where
they drink beer and leave the wine is
another place in time
a place for me.

And while Atlanta burns the gentlemen shall all take turns to **** upon the fire.
but when the hands of 'Ben' unlock and count the votes there'll be a shock when some old lady gets the keys to number ten,
we all remember them old days, the three day week, the hide and seek, the suss', the stop and search, the powers that interrupt, corrupt and end in a debate,
a state of the nation more infiltration, less liberation, more *******,
the public schools have fooled us all,
we're *******, but we don't know it yet
we'll get the letter in the post,
the most that we can hope for.
Nathan Pival Sep 2015
Because of the past
I had become afraid to love
After all of the hurt and pain
That had come before
The walls I had built around myself
Were tall and strong
My heart was guarded
Safe from infiltration of the love kind
And I walked along through life
Imperious to affection for the longest time
One day, however
You came along
And like a thief in the night
You slipped past my barricades
And stole my heart
I was helpless to stop you
Because I was the one who let you in
Now that you are the keeper of my heart
It is your job to protect it and guard it from harm
To show it the world and what it missed
While I hid it behind walls
Patrick Keane Nov 2011
Tomorrow's rush of craziness
leaves today's feeling sane.

We face the repetitive waves-
Thus, is this our day?

We all find ourselves along these roads-
the mental shorelines of time.

Behold our subtle conscience,
our infiltration of rhyme.

For the early morning's majesty
will wake the setting sun

and while the clouds will blanket the moon
I know we all are one.

The laughter, the love and the high-
Our cries filled with tears lost of joy-

These are words from another place-
Truth's beauty whose thoughts could employ.
One day, I was digging on the complications and absurdities of everyday life. Meticulous insight like second nature knew to build the foundation for the eclectic ambush of otherworldy thought as I sat upon the sands of a familiar beach, contemplating its waves. For an instance, as fleeting as the momentous ingenuity of a taken snapshot, I came to know myself as a scattered seed of knowledgeable indifference
Joe Satkowski Oct 2013
if sleep is the cousin of death
why does it seem so infinitely appealing?

crimes of passion committed against the moon
when searching in the wrong realm
there is an urge to outsource your remaining affections

scars will never get through to you
how things are or what they were
my scars will never see through you as i want them to

with the sun comes heat
with the moon comes cold
unity of opposites
causes stagnation

infiltration of the human condition
knives with dull blades

save me
but do not help me
ever
Mick Dec 2014
she is my inspiration.
motivation,
concentration,
my rejuvenation,
i will make a declaration
for this infiltration
of exhilarating exaggeration,
of our joining corporations.
while your vibrations
trigger my salvation of
sensational temptation.
like a starvation that you feel on
a beautiful vacation.
this flirtation of adaptation
that we take into notation
without any negotiation
of our confirmation that we
apply in applications
in calibration
with our wildest aspirations.
our conversations make me
feel dehydration
like my education is an exclamation
its not an estimation of our escalation.
this desperation
our correlation is stronger than any  confederation.
you're the most beautiful creation,
and you deserve one hundred standing ovations.
i love you

— The End —