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THE PROLOGUE.

This worthy limitour, this noble Frere,
He made always a manner louring cheer                      countenance
Upon the Sompnour; but for honesty                            courtesy
No villain word as yet to him spake he:
But at the last he said unto the Wife:
"Dame," quoth he, "God give you right good life,
Ye have here touched, all so may I the,                         *thrive
In school matter a greate difficulty.
Ye have said muche thing right well, I say;
But, Dame, here as we ride by the way,
Us needeth not but for to speak of game,
And leave authorities, in Godde's name,
To preaching, and to school eke of clergy.
But if it like unto this company,
I will you of a Sompnour tell a game;
Pardie, ye may well knowe by the name,
That of a Sompnour may no good be said;
I pray that none of you be *evil paid;
                   dissatisfied
A Sompnour is a runner up and down
With mandements* for fornicatioun,                 mandates, summonses
And is y-beat at every towne's end."
Then spake our Host; "Ah, sir, ye should be hend         *civil, gentle
And courteous, as a man of your estate;
In company we will have no debate:
Tell us your tale, and let the Sompnour be."
"Nay," quoth the Sompnour, "let him say by me
What so him list; when it comes to my lot,
By God, I shall him quiten
every groat!                    pay him off
I shall him telle what a great honour
It is to be a flattering limitour
And his office I shall him tell y-wis".
Our Host answered, "Peace, no more of this."
And afterward he said unto the frere,
"Tell forth your tale, mine owen master dear."

Notes to the Prologue to the Friar's tale

1. On the Tale of the Friar, and that of the Sompnour which
follows, Tyrwhitt has remarked that they "are well engrafted
upon that of the Wife of Bath. The ill-humour which shows
itself between these two characters is quite natural, as no two
professions at that time were at more constant variance.  The
regular clergy, and particularly the mendicant friars, affected a
total exemption from all ecclesiastical jurisdiction,  except that
of the Pope, which made them exceedingly obnoxious to the
bishops and of course to all the inferior officers of the national
hierarchy." Both tales, whatever their origin, are bitter satires
on the greed and worldliness of the Romish clergy.


THE TALE.

Whilom
there was dwelling in my country                 once on a time
An archdeacon, a man of high degree,
That boldely did execution,
In punishing of fornication,
Of witchecraft, and eke of bawdery,
Of defamation, and adultery,
Of churche-reeves,
and of testaments,                    churchwardens
Of contracts, and of lack of sacraments,
And eke of many another manner
crime,                          sort of
Which needeth not rehearsen at this time,
Of usury, and simony also;
But, certes, lechours did he greatest woe;
They shoulde singen, if that they were hent;
                    caught
And smale tithers were foul y-shent,
         troubled, put to shame
If any person would on them complain;
There might astert them no pecunial pain.
For smalle tithes, and small offering,
He made the people piteously to sing;
For ere the bishop caught them with his crook,
They weren in the archedeacon's book;
Then had he, through his jurisdiction,
Power to do on them correction.

He had a Sompnour ready to his hand,
A slier boy was none in Engleland;
For subtlely he had his espiaille,
                           espionage
That taught him well where it might aught avail.
He coulde spare of lechours one or two,
To teache him to four and twenty mo'.
For, -- though this Sompnour wood
be as a hare, --        furious, mad
To tell his harlotry I will not spare,
For we be out of their correction,
They have of us no jurisdiction,
Ne never shall have, term of all their lives.

"Peter; so be the women of the stives,"
                          stews
Quoth this Sompnour, "y-put out of our cure."
                     care

"Peace, with mischance and with misaventure,"
Our Hoste said, "and let him tell his tale.
Now telle forth, and let the Sompnour gale,
              whistle; bawl
Nor spare not, mine owen master dear."

This false thief, the Sompnour (quoth the Frere),
Had always bawdes ready to his hand,
As any hawk to lure in Engleland,
That told him all the secrets that they knew, --
For their acquaintance was not come of new;
They were his approvers
privily.                             informers
He took himself at great profit thereby:
His master knew not always what he wan.
                            won
Withoute mandement, a lewed
man                               ignorant
He could summon, on pain of Christe's curse,
And they were inly glad to fill his purse,
And make him greate feastes at the nale.
                      alehouse
And right as Judas hadde purses smale,
                           small
And was a thief, right such a thief was he,
His master had but half *his duety.
                what was owing him
He was (if I shall give him his laud)
A thief, and eke a Sompnour, and a bawd.
And he had wenches at his retinue,
That whether that Sir Robert or Sir Hugh,
Or Jack, or Ralph, or whoso that it were
That lay by them, they told it in his ear.
Thus were the ***** and he of one assent;
And he would fetch a feigned mandement,
And to the chapter summon them both two,
And pill* the man, and let the wenche go.                plunder, pluck
Then would he say, "Friend, I shall for thy sake
Do strike thee out of oure letters blake;
                        black
Thee thar
no more as in this case travail;                        need
I am thy friend where I may thee avail."
Certain he knew of bribers many mo'
Than possible is to tell in yeare's two:
For in this world is no dog for the bow,
That can a hurt deer from a whole know,
Bet
than this Sompnour knew a sly lechour,                      better
Or an adult'rer, or a paramour:
And, for that was the fruit of all his rent,
Therefore on it he set all his intent.

And so befell, that once upon a day.
This Sompnour, waiting ever on his prey,
Rode forth to summon a widow, an old ribibe,
Feigning a cause, for he would have a bribe.
And happen'd that he saw before him ride
A gay yeoman under a forest side:
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen,
He had upon a courtepy
of green,                         short doublet
A hat upon his head with fringes blake.
                          black
"Sir," quoth this Sompnour, "hail, and well o'ertake."
"Welcome," quoth he, "and every good fellaw;
Whither ridest thou under this green shaw?"
                       shade
Saide this yeoman; "wilt thou far to-day?"
This Sompnour answer'd him, and saide, "Nay.
Here faste by," quoth he, "is mine intent
To ride, for to raisen up a rent,
That longeth to my lorde's duety."
"Ah! art thou then a bailiff?" "Yea," quoth he.
He durste not for very filth and shame
Say that he was a Sompnour, for the name.
"De par dieux,"  quoth this yeoman, "leve* brother,             dear
Thou art a bailiff, and I am another.
I am unknowen, as in this country.
Of thine acquaintance I will praye thee,
And eke of brotherhood, if that thee list.
                      please
I have gold and silver lying in my chest;
If that thee hap to come into our shire,
All shall be thine, right as thou wilt desire."
"Grand mercy,"
quoth this Sompnour, "by my faith."        great thanks
Each in the other's hand his trothe lay'th,
For to be sworne brethren till they dey.
                        die
In dalliance they ride forth and play.

This Sompnour, which that was as full of jangles,
           chattering
As full of venom be those wariangles,
               * butcher-birds
And ev'r inquiring upon every thing,
"Brother," quoth he, "where is now your dwelling,
Another day if that I should you seech?"                   *seek, visit
This yeoman him answered in soft speech;
Brother," quoth he, "far in the North country,
Where as I hope some time I shall thee see
Ere we depart I shall thee so well wiss,
                        inform
That of mine house shalt thou never miss."
Now, brother," quoth this Sompnour, "I you pray,
Teach me, while that we ride by the way,
(Since that ye be a bailiff as am I,)
Some subtilty, and tell me faithfully
For mine office how that I most may win.
And *spare not
for conscience or for sin,             conceal nothing
But, as my brother, tell me how do ye."
Now by my trothe, brother mine," said he,
As I shall tell to thee a faithful tale:
My wages be full strait and eke full smale;
My lord is hard to me and dangerous,                         *niggardly
And mine office is full laborious;
And therefore by extortion I live,
Forsooth I take all that men will me give.
Algate
by sleighte, or by violence,                            whether
From year to year I win all my dispence;
I can no better tell thee faithfully."
Now certes," quoth this Sompnour,  "so fare
I;                      do
I spare not to take, God it wot,
But if* it be too heavy or too hot.                            unless
What I may get in counsel privily,
No manner conscience of that have I.
N'ere* mine extortion, I might not live,                were it not for
For of such japes
will I not be shrive.           tricks *confessed
Stomach nor conscience know I none;
I shrew* these shrifte-fathers
every one.          curse *confessors
Well be we met, by God and by St Jame.
But, leve brother, tell me then thy name,"
Quoth this Sompnour.  Right in this meane while
This yeoman gan a little for to smile.

"Brother," quoth he, "wilt thou that I thee tell?
I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,
And here I ride about my purchasing,
To know where men will give me any thing.
My purchase is th' effect of all my rent        what I can gain is my
Look how thou ridest for the same intent                   sole revenue

To winne good, thou reckest never how,
Right so fare I, for ride will I now
Into the worlde's ende for a prey."

"Ah," quoth this Sompnour, "benedicite! what say y'?
I weened ye were a yeoman truly.                                thought
Ye have a manne's shape as well as I
Have ye then a figure determinate
In helle, where ye be in your estate?"
                         at home
"Nay, certainly," quoth he, there have we none,
But when us liketh we can take us one,
Or elles make you seem
that we be shape                        believe
Sometime like a man, or like an ape;
Or like an angel can I ride or go;
It is no wondrous thing though it be so,
A lousy juggler can deceive thee.
And pardie, yet can I more craft
than he."              skill, cunning
"Why," quoth the Sompnour, "ride ye then or gon
In sundry shapes and not always in one?"
"For we," quoth he, "will us in such form make.
As most is able our prey for to take."
"What maketh you to have all this labour?"
"Full many a cause, leve Sir Sompnour,"
Saide this fiend. "But all thing hath a time;
The day is short and it is passed prime,
And yet have I won nothing in this day;
I will intend
to winning, if I may,               &nbs
THE PROLOGUE.

THE Cook of London, while the Reeve thus spake,
For joy he laugh'd and clapp'd him on the back:
"Aha!" quoth he, "for Christes passion,
This Miller had a sharp conclusion,
Upon this argument of herbergage.                              lodging
Well saide Solomon in his language,
Bring thou not every man into thine house,
For harbouring by night is perilous.
Well ought a man avised for to be        a man should take good heed
Whom that he brought into his privity.
I pray to God to give me sorrow and care
If ever, since I highte* Hodge of Ware,                      was called
Heard I a miller better *set a-work
;                           handled
He had a jape
of malice in the derk.                             trick
But God forbid that we should stinte
here,                        stop
And therefore if ye will vouchsafe to hear
A tale of me, that am a poore man,
I will you tell as well as e'er I can
A little jape that fell in our city."

Our Host answer'd and said; "I grant it thee.
Roger, tell on; and look that it be good,
For many a pasty hast thou letten blood,
And many a Jack of Dover hast thou sold,
That had been twice hot and twice cold.
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christe's curse,
For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse.
That they have eaten in thy stubble goose:
For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name,
But yet I pray thee be not *wroth for game
;     angry with my jesting
A man may say full sooth in game and play."
"Thou sayst full sooth," quoth Roger, "by my fay;
But sooth play quad play, as the Fleming saith,
And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith,
Be thou not wroth, else we departe* here,                  part company
Though that my tale be of an hostelere.
                      innkeeper
But natheless, I will not tell it yet,
But ere we part, y-wis
thou shalt be quit."               assuredly
And therewithal he laugh'd and made cheer,
And told his tale, as ye shall after hear.

Notes to the Prologue to the Cook's Tale

1. Jack of Dover:  an article of cookery. (Transcriber's note:
suggested by some commentators to be a kind of pie, and by
others to be a fish)

2. Sooth play quad play: true jest is no jest.

3. It may be remembered that each pilgrim was bound to tell
two stories; one on the way to Canterbury, the other returning.

4. Made cheer: French, "fit bonne mine;" put on a pleasant
countenance.


THE TALE.

A prentice whilom dwelt in our city,
And of a craft of victuallers was he:
Galliard
he was, as goldfinch in the shaw*,            lively *grove
Brown as a berry, a proper short fellaw:
With lockes black, combed full fetisly.
                       daintily
And dance he could so well and jollily,
That he was called Perkin Revellour.
He was as full of love and paramour,
As is the honeycomb of honey sweet;
Well was the wenche that with him might meet.
At every bridal would he sing and hop;
He better lov'd the tavern than the shop.
For when there any riding was in Cheap,
Out of the shoppe thither would he leap,
And, till that he had all the sight y-seen,
And danced well, he would not come again;
And gather'd him a meinie
of his sort,              company of fellows
To hop and sing, and make such disport:
And there they *sette steven
for to meet             made appointment
To playen at the dice in such a street.
For in the towne was there no prentice
That fairer coulde cast a pair of dice
Than Perkin could; and thereto he was free    he spent money liberally
Of his dispence, in place of privity.       where he would not be seen
That found his master well in his chaffare,                merchandise
For oftentime he found his box full bare.
For, soothely, a prentice revellour,
That haunteth dice, riot, and paramour,
His master shall it in his shop abie,                       *suffer for
All
have he no part of the minstrelsy.                        although
For theft and riot they be convertible,
All can they play on *gitern or ribible.
             guitar or rebeck
Revel and truth, as in a low degree,
They be full wroth* all day, as men may see.                at variance

This jolly prentice with his master bode,
Till he was nigh out of his prenticehood,
All were he snubbed
both early and late,                       rebuked
And sometimes led with revel to Newgate.
But at the last his master him bethought,
Upon a day when he his paper sought,
Of a proverb, that saith this same word;
Better is rotten apple out of hoard,
Than that it should rot all the remenant:
So fares it by a riotous servant;
It is well lesse harm to let him pace
,                        pass, go
Than he shend
all the servants in the place.                   corrupt
Therefore his master gave him a quittance,
And bade him go, with sorrow and mischance.
And thus this jolly prentice had his leve
:                      desire
Now let him riot all the night, or leave
.                      refrain
And, for there is no thief without a louke,
That helpeth him to wasten and to souk
                           spend
Of that he bribe
can, or borrow may,                             steal
Anon he sent his bed and his array
Unto a compere
of his owen sort,                               comrade
That loved dice, and riot, and disport;
And had a wife, that held *for countenance
            for appearances
A shop, and swived* for her sustenance.             *prostituted herself
       .       .       .       .       .       .       .

Notes to the Cook's Tale

1. Cheapside, where jousts were sometimes held, and which
was the great scene of city revels and processions.

2. His paper: his certificate of completion of his apprenticeship.

3. Louke:  The precise meaning of the word is unknown, but it
is doubtless included in the cant term "pal".

4. The Cook's Tale is unfinished in all the manuscripts; but in
some, of minor authority, the Cook is made to break off his
tale, because "it is so foul," and to tell the story of Gamelyn, on
which Shakespeare's "As You Like It" is founded. The story is
not Chaucer's, and is different in metre, and inferior in
composition to the Tales. It is supposed that Chaucer expunged
the Cook's Tale for the same reason that made him on his death-
bed lament that he had written so much "ribaldry."
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
thankfully Hamlet is taken to a couch,
that's hardly a sick-bed,
for we all know: psychiatry is half
of medicine, it breeds more ill men than it claim
to have cured.
and there be that thing, that shadow,
that resemblance of a man,
stalking the highlands, and drinking
at the Lochs...
until there are three,
under a street lamp with due walk,
and a brick wall near,
                         a man and two shadows,
one more full than the latter more fog,
    and the sudden thrill, as if being followed
by one's own unsuspecting guise...
           usurper strong, a Judas in a Judea...
asp tongue, wasp thought,
doubly piercing the status quo of today...
as said, by only a single word,
macbeth, macbeth, macbeth,
into the night, shrill of violins, shark-infested
airs of a witch's shrill cry at the black sabbath
around the fireplace...
    macbeth, macbeth: said: deep frozen
into the night...
   to a neared upon usher of equivalent tear...
avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
(and hades resurrect thee!)
...
   against all that encompasses the noun zeus:
and fathering wisdom for care to lose repeated
cohorts of the titans sun, moon, gaia...
  aye, and a bold one, that dare
          look on that which might appeal to the devil
;
have you no care to not flog to these
past expressions, reading them,
as reading our modern undermining into
things of origami consort?
             folded, folded once more,
a piece of paper is a metaphor,
that blooms into the end result of it being
treated as metaphor... a piece of paper
given the status of metaphor, later becomes
   a paper-folded swan, and origami swan...
  that icon of monogamy...
           or how swans like to see it:
in sickness and in health, beyond death do us part...
ever look at a widow swan and not feel
a pang of hope to be given the altar of death
upon the crucifix mound?
        just a little bit?
who may i rather challenge for unkindness,
than pity for mischance!
-
        can one man's love affair be as short
as another man's play,
given the chemistry suggest that the man spent
the four seasons in the stated place of concern?
had i been invited to Erasmus Denmark,
my sparrow would have sung differently...
to a less Celtish drum of heart...
             and the man in question would
remain as curriculum material for a midsummer's
night, and romeo and juliet and shylock...
         here, we keep promises...
  just here... every time i read a philosophy book
of deep under-sea thinkers,
   i am the quasi-acuatic animal, a sly
mammal of the seas, a whale, a dolphin...
  every time i read a philosophy book,
and subsequently re-enter shakespeare...
i am that same old mammal keeping his breath,
to surge back toward the heavens of a sea-level
atmosphere...
                   i say: contend with reading philosophy
books to then reread your choice of shakespeare:
for me, nothing beyond macbeth...
    thus said: learn, to live again...
          as i have done on countless opportunities...
   i can not prescribe a most perfected dichotomy...
  oh sonnet so pale, oh other works so well preserved
that they encourage memory dementia
with a workload of pristine recitations...
     just a chance encounter, when psychiatrists
faded with Hamlet, that Macbeth arose from
the ashes and said: i stand as a sword firm in hand,
and i will not reach the safety of
   lounging in gleba...
                  to merely be a dead entertainer of
some obscure theory...
                     and with every instance
upon seeing the **** thing,
   my eye be blunt, and my tongue be sharpened....
likewise in reverse, concerning the same thing:
my eye be sharpened, but my tongue be blunt...
of these two essences, man first thought...
    and had only thought provided man with
a simple yes, or a simple no, wouldn't
the point of thought be more than if not less
bewildering than arguing from its own existence,
an existence of a god?
        not man, devoid of god crafted this deformity
to later impregnate an icon with...
       but man too bewildered by thinking,
that spawned this horror...
       of thought, thus said, no moral grounding,
but merely the numbing, the selective numbing
of the senses, as ailing man suggests,
the ailing via hearing,
   the hedonism feats suggesting exploration
of seeing...
   of feeling numbed, and apathy creeds to experience
as many people as possible...
   thought mediates the sensual-numbing we
all see... and none of thought, is concerned
with being injected into a moral theory,
since thinking is too simple, and a lie a too great
opportunity to be mislead into mis-use...
  for a simple yes and no - the theta-ought...
would not have spurned the phi-nought
    and if the senses are not duped,
then what story are we to be told?
            that might provide a throng, and an opulence
of a campfire for it to be tought?
to the last syllable of recorded time, said Macbeth.
Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
     To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.


Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
     Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
     Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
     Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
     To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
     Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
     Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
     And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
     Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
     As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
     As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
     As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
     She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
     Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
     Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
     She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
     Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
     Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
     All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus’ train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In Fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while ’tis May.
Out of the poisonous East,
Over a continent of blight,
Like a maleficent Influence released
From the most squalid cellarage of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the abominable--
The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light--
Comes slouching, sullen and obscene,
******* the skirts of the embittered night;
And in a cloud unclean
Of excremental humours, roused to strife
By the operation of some ruinous change,
Wherever his evil mandate run and range,
Into a dire intensity of life,
A craftsman at his bench, he settles down
To the grim job of throttling London Town.

So, by a jealous lightlessness beset
That might have oppressed the dragons of old time
Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime,
A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams,
Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet,
The afflicted City, prone from mark to mark
In shameful occultation, seems
A nightmare labyrinthine, dim and drifting,
With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting,
Rent in the stuff of a material dark,
Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale,
Shows like the *****'s living blotch of bale:
Uncoiling monstrous into street on street
Paven with perils, teeming with mischance,
Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread,
Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet
Somewhither in the hideousness ahead;
Working through wicked airs and deadly dews
That make the laden robber grin askance
At the good places in his black romance,
And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose
Go pinched and pined to bed
Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way
From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey.

Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows,
His green garlands and windy eyots forgot,
The old Father-River flows,
His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom,
As he came oozing from the Pit, and bore,
Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides,
Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot
In the squalor of the universal shore:
His voices sounding through the gruesome air
As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom
With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides:
The while his children, the brave ships,
No more adventurous and fair,
Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides,
But infamously enchanted,
Huddle together in the foul eclipse,
Or feel their course by inches desperately,
As through a tangle of alleys ******-haunted,
From sinister reach to reach out--out--to sea.

And Death the while--
Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile,
Death in his threadbare working trim--
Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland,
And with expert, inevitable hand
Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung,
Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart:
Thus signifying unto old and young,
However hard of mouth or wild of whim,
'Tis time--'tis time by his ancient watch--to part
From books and women and talk and drink and art.
And you go humbly after him
To a mean suburban lodging:  on the way
To what or where
Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say:
And you--how should you care
So long as, unreclaimed of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable,
Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down
To the black job of burking London Town?
Lacey Clark Jul 2016
There was a feeling by the name Romance,
who asked if I would like to dance,
but clumsy I
could not comply,
my legs fell off by pure mischance.
Wrote a limerick on romantic struggles.
I

O fairest flower no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken Primrose fading timelesslie,
Summers chief honour if thou hadst outlasted
Bleak winters force that made thy blossome drie;
For he being amorous on that lovely die
That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss
But ****’d alas, and then bewayl’d his fatal bliss.

II

For since grim Aquilo his charioter
By boistrous **** th’ Athenian damsel got,
He thought it toucht his Deitie full neer,
If likewise he some fair one wedded not,
Thereby to wipe away th’ infamous blot,
Of long-uncoupled bed, and childless eld,
Which ‘mongst the wanton gods a foul reproach was held.

III

So mounting up in ycie-pearled carr,
Through middle empire of the freezing aire
He wanderd long, till thee he spy’d from farr,
There ended was his quest, there ceast his care
Down he descended from his Snow-soft chaire,
But all unwares with his cold-kind embrace
Unhous’d thy ****** Soul from her fair hiding place.

IV

Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate;
For so Apollo, with unweeting hand
Whilome did slay his dearly-loved mate
Young Hyacinth born on Eurotas’ strand,
Young Hyacinth the pride of Spartan land;
But then transform’d him to a purple flower
Alack that so to change thee winter had no power.

V

Yet can I not perswade me thou art dead
Or that thy coarse corrupts in earths dark wombe,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormie bed,
Hid from the world in a low delved tombe;
Could Heav’n for pittie thee so strictly doom?
O no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortalitie that shew’d thou wast divine.

VI

Resolve me then oh Soul most surely blest
(If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear)
Tell me bright Spirit where e’re thou hoverest
Whether above that high first-moving Spheare
Or in the Elisian fields (if such there were.)
Oh say me true if thou wert mortal wight
And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight.

VII

Wert thou some Starr which from the ruin’d roofe
Of shak’t Olympus by mischance didst fall;
Which carefull Jove in natures true behoofe
Took up, and in fit place did reinstall?
Or did of late earths Sonnes besiege the wall
Of sheenie Heav’n, and thou some goddess fled
Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar’d head

VIII

Or wert thou that just Maid who once before
Forsook the hated earth, O tell me sooth
And cam’st again to visit us once more?
Or wert thou that sweet smiling Youth!
Or that crown’d Matron sage white-robed Truth?
Or any other of that heav’nly brood
Let down in clowdie throne to do the world some good.

IX

Or wert thou of the golden-winged boast,
Who having clad thy self in humane ****,
To earth from thy praefixed seat didst poast,
And after short abode flie back with speed,
As if to shew what creatures Heav’n doth breed,
Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire
To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heav’n aspire.

X

But oh why didst thou not stay here below
To bless us with thy heav’n-lov’d innocence,
To slake his wrath whom sin hath made our foe
To turn Swift-rushing black perdition hence,
Or drive away the slaughtering  pestilence,
To stand ‘twixt us and our deserved smart
But thou canst best perform that office where thou art.

XI

Then thou the mother of so sweet a child
Her false imagin’d loss cease to lament,
And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild;
Think what a present thou to God hast sent,
And render him with patience what he lent;
This if thou do he will an off-spring give,
That till the worlds last-end shall make thy name to live.
touka Nov 2021
a lone something in the sky
flies near, just by mischance
dazed by the smog,
bowing
and diving
downward
into the parting, cracking,
quaking
bellowing of tar
from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps
eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps
of the earth diverging and converging
into the debt of always running clean,
running me
always downward,
as in the deep
deep
tessellations of rock
I become.

too still for my own good,
I guess –
another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of
breath to fill the mosaic
of sinewy
stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone
plating into the deep,
deep,
deeper caverns of the unseen sea
slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention,
as an echo caving downward into  

nothing,

nothing,

more

nothing

polluting the depths from the palisades,
scripture rupturing lowshore into
surrounding tissues like
igneous stone
dreams of clinks ringing,
of noise
a voice
on the ash-flow tuffs
in the always running-clean water
the purity of which I intercept,
the clear-ness of it;
a sinners window.

through what's left,
I see the clam
another mouth for and of the sea
unseen,
the pearl
as unsoiled as ever
This rich Marble doth enterr
The honour’d Wife of Winchester,
A Vicounts daughter, an Earls heir,
Besides what her vertues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More then she could own from Earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told, alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darknes, and with death.                              
Yet had the number of her days
Bin as compleat as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The ****** quire for her request
The God that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce-wel-lighted flame;                                
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might discern a Cipress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorsles cruelty,
Spoil’d at once both fruit and tree:                                
The haples Babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languisht Mothers Womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen som tender slip
Sav’d with care from Winters nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck’t up by som unheedy swain,
Who onely thought to crop the flowr
New shot up from vernall showr;                                      
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And those Pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hast’ning funerall.
Gentle Lady may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore
Sweet rest sease thee evermore,                                      
That to give the world encrease,
Shortned hast thy own lives lease;
Here besides the sorrowing
That thy noble House doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Weept for thee in Helicon,
And som Flowers, and som Bays,
For thy Hears to strew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy vertuous name;                                        
Whilst thou bright Saint high sit’st in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after yeers of barrennes,
The highly favour’d Joseph bore
To him that serv’d for her before,
And at her next birth much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the boosom bright
of blazing Majesty and Light,                                        
There with thee, new welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
Largo e mesto

Out of the poisonous East,
Over a continent of blight,
Like a maleficent Influence released
From the most squalid cellerage of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the abominable--
The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light--
Comes slouching, sullen and obscene,
******* the skirts of the embittered night;
And in a cloud unclean
Of excremental humours, roused to strife
By the operation of some ruinous change,
Wherever his evil mandate run and range,
Into a dire intensity of life,
A craftsman at his bench, he settles down
To the grim job of throttling London Town.

So, by a jealous lightlessness beset
That might have oppressed the dragons of old time
Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime,
A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams,
Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet,
The afflicted City. prone from mark to mark
In shameful occultation, seems
A nightmare labryrinthine, dim and drifting,
With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting,
Rent in the stuff of a material dark,
Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale,
Shows like the *****'s living blotch of bale:
Uncoiling monstrous into street on street
Paven with perils, teeming with mischance,
Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread,
Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet
Somewhither in the hideousness ahead;
Working through wicked airs and deadly dews
That make the laden robber grin askance
At the good places in his black romance,
And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose
Go pinched and pined to bed
Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way
From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey.

Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows,
His green garlands and windy eyots forgot,
The old Father-River flows,
His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom,
Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides,
Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot
In the squalor of the universal shore:
His voices sounding through the gruesome air
As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom
With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides:
The while his children, the brave ships,
No more adventurous and fair,
Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides,
But infamously enchanted,
Huddle together in the foul eclipse,
Or feel their course by inches desperately,
As through a tangle of alleys ******-haunted,
From sinister reach to reach out -- out -- to sea.

And Death the while --
Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile,
Death in his threadbare working trim--
And with expert, inevitable hand
Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung,
Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart:
Thus signifying unto old and young,
However hard of mouth or wild of whim,
'Tis time -- 'tis time by his ancient watch -- to part
From books and women and talk and drink and art.
And you go humbly after him
To a mean suburban lodging: on the way
To what or where
Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say:
And you -- how should you care
So long as, unreclaimed of hell,
The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable,
Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down
To the black job of burking London Town?
Caroline Shank Dec 2022
Your early inborn magic did not
fortell the whirls and winds
of the future.  The shine of
youth ended in turbulence.

Dismania, like fingers, touched,
you.  Ivy on brick, the tendrils
pierced.  Walls of
uncertainty nourished
and you, welcomed the

future.



There were no tomorrows.

Pulling you through the
mirror of myself you tore

into
uncertainty.

No Magi, not even
with gifts of surcease
brought by the force

of love
released you.


Still the running child
you crash into a future
whose spiders claw at you.

Tomorrow waits
protected
by your addiction.

Reach into the future
all you want,

you cannot tear the
crawl of your destiny

away.


Caroline Shank
10.13.2022
Aditya Bhaskara Oct 2012
let silence settle by my side today
else i'd again be driven
into the echo of her thoughts

into the unfinished talks
into the incomplete memories
into her interim proximity

i summoned her as she left
but it went unheard
renegades often turn deaf

let silence settle by my side today
else i'd again be driven
into the echo of her thoughts

i'd claim it elusive mischance
i'd profess on empty hope
i'd even bridle my despair

'one can ail to no avail,
nor tears'll bring respite!'
these were her last words FOR me

let silence settle by my side today
else i'd again be driven
into the echo of her thoughts
MØ Fitas Jul 2021
Once an Elephant was in great need to ***
So towards the restroom he made his flee
But the Elephant did not know he walked to his doom

For as soon as the got into the room
His nose got stuck into the slammed door
     It resembled a schroom

So the Elephant cried for help
     For help did he cried
But no soul would come to help
None would believe nothin’ but his demise.

Thus in despair he looked through the window
But to his utmost strike of mischance
He saw a view most rare
     All had been covered in dough

So the Elephant pulled and pulled
     For pulling was all he could do
And he pulled so much
     And so much he pulled

His nose no longer withstood.

In its place the Elephant saw
His nose was covered in gunk
But beware, beware
     For the Elephant bewared too,
That right there under all that gunk
No nose stood

It was something rather knew

Something like a trunk.
Juhlhaus May 2021
This dry Spring
the parched earth drinks quickly,
every cool droplet precious
as the tears of the bereaved.

The rain furrows the dusty creek banks
like sunken, careworn cheeks.
the timid water hurries
past sandbars and gravel spits,
around balding rocks crowned
with rotting riverweed.
and in the green places that remain
to be sought and found between
the highway noise and the factories,
there the shy ones grieve with us
for all those lost to disease and violence,
miscarriage and mischance.

We round the bend;
the yearlings start and bolt
through the tangled underbrush—
an exercise in their own fragility.
The mother does not run.
she moves warily
a few paces away
and meets our gaze: measured, assessing.
She takes us in, then bows
her graceful neck to the tender shoots
that break the hardened clay,
the gesture her benediction of peace.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Everyday, A New Person

Stop!** Lest you think,
This is some poem, of a nature serious
I warn you with supercilious contempt
This is a mischance, a contretemps,
This is a dumb poem, like Suntan Lotion^
Inspired by that silliness's Broadway success,
About how everyday, I awake,
A New Person,
With a new designer hair styling

O Yeah, I gotta grip the sink counter,
When I see how my pillow friends^^
Have revenged themselves the night prior,
Upon awakening, I contemplate suicide by pills
But more labor saving for the undertaker I usually choose
Setting One's Hair On Fire

It be awful, it be ridiculous
That my hair defies gravity
Standing straight up,
After a night of lying down,
This is the product of rocking out to the
Hardest of hard rock n' roll.

Now I am a man,
Re hair and grooming I ain't usually
Prioritizing and swooning,
But get this,
It takes a tube daily,
Of alcoholic gel,
To get my pop,
To do the 'lie flat down flop'

When my woman strokes my hair,
She doesn't think I notice,
How she subtle slides her hand down my shirted arm,
To dispose of the newly acquired kitchen grease,
I sometimes, on really bad hair days,
Need to employ to encapture my Grayed Fleece

No faking joke, my mind out strokes
When I look at what handiwork
Has worked me over,
Multi-directional, punk sensational,
I swear it also has changed colors!

No unrequited love, just requited hate
For my torqued, drugged, twisted hairy fate,
Two minutes to write this idiotic ditty,
Ten minutes to nerve to open my eyes to look twice
At what the hairie fairies mischievously hath wrought,
Is unbalanced, demand a recount, a fair fight sought

Soon it will be clear, if you think this poem amusing,
Be in readiness for an Ode to the Haircut upcoming,
Be in readiness for an opera, entitled naturally,
Get Thee To The Barber of First Avenue
As soon as I get the nerve to leave the bedroom.
^ see Do Not Economize on Sun Lotion!
^^see First Poem of the Day: Pillows vs. Poetry
jeremy wyatt Jan 2011
A prophet of woe and mischance?
My big white ghost that watches me.
Flies beside in the icy rain,
roe deer running with us in the dark,
to see me home.

It gave that dread unearthly shriek,
Christmas night in the forest, no fright.
Tonight it flew through cars and frost,
to pause at the window as we drove.
To satisfy itself.

No ill omen, no destiny of fear.
Just a spirit,
finding me a course to steer.
Staying near.

He was wrong,
I doubt he ever saw one.
Tyto Alba
Renée May 2019
milky way
provide a way to consign mischance behind to them who stray
earth is but a minor stain in lightyears’ expanse of stratospheric disarray
Maria Feb 8
I’m cold… You think I’m really fluey?
I’m not for sure… Maybe you’re right.
The weather’s nasty by mischance for now.
And I’m not wearing my cozy woolly scarf.

This February snows a lot and rages.
I’d like to wrap in plaid and not to leave.
I know it’s blues. I know for certain, sweetheart.
You shouldn’t get a feel for me. I’m peeve.

The spring will come. There will be a revival
Of new ideas, follies and delight.
And I will rise, I will return, my dear,
Better than previous. I will be vitalized!
Rosalyn stood in the castle tower
And gazed out over the plain,
It wasn’t exactly a sumptuous bower
For the drapes were old, and stained,
The furniture had seen better times
In the days of the knights of old,
But the cracked and broken window panes
Had made the bower cold.

She’d shivered as she had got undressed
And donned a filmy gown,
She pined for the sight she hoped to see
As she stood there, looking down,
Three knights stood guard at the outer moat
Their armour was dull and black,
They couldn’t be seen on a moonless night
But were there to ward off attack.

Attack from the southern Baron’s men,
Attack from the western marsh,
They came to rescue fair Rosalyn
For her sentence had been harsh,
Confined for life in that wintry tower
For her love for the Duke of Spur,
Who’d not been seen since the winter green,
Nor asked what became of her.

The rain came down in a sudden squall
He shivered, and scratched his head,
What could he do with the Duke of Spur
If the man had turned up dead?
He pushed his seat away from the desk
And he rose, and stretched, and yawned,
The cursor blinked on the final line
As the moon beamed in through the storm.

How could he save fair Rosalyn,
That was the question here,
He opened the door of the old bar fridge
And knocked the head off a beer,
He sat again at the keyboard then
And stared and stared at the screen,
He didn’t know where to go from there
But found himself in a dream.

He woke in the damp and windswept tower
Where Rosalyn lay asleep,
He thought that he must be crazy, that
His mind made a giant leap,
He saw the screen in the corner where
He sat, as if in a trance,
But here on the other side of the screen
He was caught, by some mischance.

Rosalyn woke from her slumber then
And she held her arms out wide,
‘I wondered when you would join me in
This tale from the other side.
I’ve seen you sitting and watching me,
You watched as I got undressed,
And I know it’s only a story but
In truth, I wasn’t impressed.’

‘I must be asleep and dreaming,’
He replied, ‘but you can’t be real,
I haven’t finished the story yet
But in here I can see and feel,
And there I am on the other side,
I’m sat in front of the screen.’
‘If you don’t shut up and make love to me,’
She said, ‘then I’m going to scream!’

He spent an hour in a wilful daze,
She held him close in her arms,
He kissed her eyes and her silken thighs
Revealed much more of her charms,
And when they were finally done, she said
‘Will you rescue me, or not?’
He lay as dead as he scratched his head,
‘I think I’ve lost the plot!’

He woke as the sun came slowly up
Stiff and cold in his room,
The cursor was dim and blinking as
The only light in the gloom,
He typed that a coil of rope was hid
On the other side of a drape,
Thinking that she could use it then
To make a swift escape.

She saw the rope and she tied it firm
To the leg of the solid bed,
The thought he was going to rescue her
Was the only thought in his head,
She dropped the rope so the Duke of Spur
Could climb and clamber in,
But when he climbed to the window ledge
The Duke of Spur was him!

David Lewis Paget
Kody dibble Apr 2015
A little of every kind of,
Committed atrocity,
Sadly displayed on the wall,
In the peace ability of national standards,

Grains of silent sands,
Keep a drift the ocean floor,

A music mayhem,
Mischance nuscance,
High way 14

Keep right, slow left,
Ok now don't stop
Lights
Eriko Jul 2017
a storyteller, the odd girl*
who rested her head in the cold sand
smiled a weary, weary smile
What is it, she asked
how about a tale, one of the gods
and a gallant hero
She smiled, teeth showing
as the water covered her face
How about one of the sea, she replied
A tale of the sea?
Yes, and how it connects all the continents
With the sea, I can go anywhere
And I'll give you a hero,
Not so particularly gallant
Yet wisdom of Sun
the Sun?
Yes, silly, the tale is the Sun and Light
And how they existed side by side
As two halves meant to be
Yet their cousin, Life
Grew dark and heavy in envy
And became the sea
To drown their love
Yet Sun, in all his glory
Felt pity chip in his fiery rays
And with an explosion of power
Brought the inferno from within
Of Life's deepest throne
And brought forth liquid fire
To spew across that of Life's watery bodice
Oh, how Life was infuriated
And howled with rage
Yet soon...soon Earth began to mold
And soothe Life's churning ways
Earth was beauty of green
And she spoke most eloquently
So that Life began to lap to her shores
And call to her in tune and lore
Yet with an ach to her heart,
A flaw to Sun's sight which cannot be seen
The Wind swept Earth away in howling love
Grieving, Life took the beings
Dwelling in his dreams
And placed the creatures on
Lady Earth's lovely, lovely shores
As gifts to her, so that Lady Earth
Could love instead the expanse
Which Life, the sea, became to be
Wind so then battered the sea
And swept him high in his throne
So by mischance parts of Life
Cascaded unto Earth's kingdoms
Earth, weary of such cruel tricks
And taken aback by Life's otherly touch
Shuddered so that her shoulders
Began to tremble in a terrible fit,
And Life, the sea, soothed her shores
And sang her crashing melodies
So the fright would leave her body...
And to this day, the world remain as is,
Life, the sea, sparring with running Wind
The Wind bold and dashing
Running untethered in great leaps
The relentless affair, the Triangle of Time
An existence of infinite grief,
And streaks of bubbling joy,
Under the heavenly eye of Sun and Light
them why are you here, on the shore
laying down on the eve of Life and Earth
Well, you see, the girl said
The Sun and Light are ancient and wise
And created all that is,
Yet as I lie here in the sand
I sometimes, quite silently,
Feel the aching yearn Life, the sea,
Reach for Earth
and if there is no Earth?
Then the loneliness of Life
Will consume him and turn
Him into ice, as seen
By Great Uncle and Aunt
North and South,
Where Earth does not dwell
can you hear Life, the sea
Yes, and how mournful
Does the music flow
An ancient tune of why
Loneliness fell to the bottom
Of the heart
Marye Minstrel Jul 2017
I was the last served from the dish of good luck
Where I sat at the table of life
The man before scraped the residual muck
From the plate with the edge of his knife

But the last shall be first, and so I was served
The primary course of mishap
I could not comprehend how I had deserved
Such a rich and luxurious scrap

How can one poor person consume such a feast
Of mischance as allotted to me
Others would sink in despair, at least
To see fate their forsworn enemy
violavics Jan 2020
A wall can stand before you
or a curve ball may strike after you;
do not be frightened --
for as long as I remember:

The most painful obstacle
shapes you in the most secure
well-being

If you face mischance,
serendipity will visit and
welcome you gladly in its arms

Reflect correspondingly

Tug tightly and treasure
There is so much more
that awaits you as you glide through
your days

Second mountain exists --
you simply have not
found a map for it yet

Navigating through rip tides
may let you dwindle or spiral
irrepressibly
until you reach upon arrival

Nights of journey can be redirected,
as you carry on with what you held on to
closely and dearly

If you face mischance,
opportunity will knock and
welcome you gladly in its arms

Act suitably

Open graciously and seek
There is so much more
that awaits you as you shine through
your days

This world that you were brought into
will teach, nurture, and cradle you
as you spread kindness around

Greatest gifts may not be discovered
as of now

How will you resonate?
You are courageous.

January 14, 2020
Denis Barter Apr 2018
The faint perception of a friend, you knew
is now an unknown face that puzzles you,
a once familiar moment - an early memory,
is but a fleeting remnant of what used to be!

A glimpsed mirage departs before fully seen:
teases, but denies recall of a long ago scene.
Frustrated and angered when a studied glance,
caused you to wonder if by some mischance,

it was no more than an idle, passing scene?
When further like happenings are seen
to aggravate and leave you angrily upset,
then more irritation is spawned and you get

agitated and unable to control your rage!
When others show no respect for your age,
and the future seems to be a barren waste:
hours drag, though days pass in undue haste!

When those you once knew well,  disappear,
and you no longer recall times held dear.
You live in darkness, and can no more
find the key to unlock memory’s door!

Desperately you seek for the revealing light,
that gives a rational reason for your plight,
but find there’s none you can discover!
Bemused in a maze, unable to recover

those times with which your life was filled,
seemingly lost forever, and your brain stilled
by the curse of dementia, retreats in sleep!
When you finally succumb,  your family weep

for your leaving to a place as yet unknown,
but freedom from the distress you’ve known,
sees you no longer bewildered in dementia state!
Embracing relief, you gladly go to meet your fate.

Rhymer.  April 16 th, 2018.
(Another friend just passed away from this diabolical condition.  Rhymer.
Then thirteen ships came from Ireland to Wales

A splendid fleet, bearing an Irish King,

Noble in their rigging and billowed sails,

Their shields upturned with peaceful meaning.



This sea-king Moir came ashore seeking Bran

The Blessed King of Wales who welcomed him

And asked him what brought them to Albion

And its precious holy land of Cymry.



‘Most revered King, Gentle Giant,

I come to seek the hand of your sister

Whose beauty and chastity are renowned,

And that you may bond another brother’.



Then Bran took aside his sister Bronwen

And asked if she would take this adventurer

Who had chanced the wide grey sea unbeknown,

For island fellowship and love of her.



But she too soon the captive of this fleet

Accepted the warrior’s white gold ring,

Losing her gentle heart beyond retreat,

Gifted in love to Moir the pirate king.



But seldom do the peaceful bring horses -

And Evnissen, Bronwen’s broken sibling,

Saw treachery there, and he was jealous,

Wanting her but hating the saintly king.



Then this would-be incestuous betrayer

Skinned the mouth of each horse to their jaws

Showing no mercy in his hatred there

Blinding the best in fury for his cause.



Then Moir, heartbroken, cast aside his bride,

Angry to the bone at this vile mischance,

And vowing war he readied for the tide

Set to repay dishonour with vengeance.



When word of this came to Bran the Blessed

He was distraught that he should be betrayed,

That his beloved sister should be mocked,

His rule of peace and justice thus destroyed.



And Bran the holy king sought atonement

That Moir should forgive this dreadful slight,

Aside its perpetrator’s punishment,


Pledging his own claim to heavenly right -



Offering a sound horse for those maimed

A staff of silver as tall as a man

Fine plates of gold, and a cauldron, long famed,

That will restore the bodies of the slain.



Then all swore peace as the gods might behove

And Bronwen set aside her tears of loss

For tears of joy and vows of endless love

In token that these ills would fade and pass.



And after feasting the lovers took ship

Coming at last to Ireland and Moir’s keep

With Bronwen soon loved for her fellowship,

And her beauty, and her playing of the harp.



But some of the Irish could not forget

Their losses and their humiliation

And Bronwen became hated and disgraced

Her life demanded in reparation.



Then Moir not wishing to put her to worse,

Made Bronwen the court cook’s scullion

Bidding the butcher, as his killing curse,

To smack her ear with his cleaving iron.



But Bronwen who was pure as first-light snow

Charmed the castle birds which heard her sing

And taught a starling to speak so it could show

Bran a letter she had pinned to its wing.



Then Bran his gentleness and love despaired,

Conspired to conquer Ireland and heel Moir -

And a mighty armed fleet he best prepared

That thus the nations came to bitter war.



Of which so much is sung by the minstrels

Who tell of endless triumph and defeat -

And how the Irish opened a thousand hells

Feeding the sacred cauldron with their dead -



And how Evnissen staunched the warrior flow

By breaking apart the massive grail’s bands

But died in agony as he came to know

The fullest fury one’s own hell commands -



And how Bronwen died of a broken heart:

All hope for peace dying with her son Gwern,

Whose life unified what was torn apart,

The boy immolated by Evnissen -




And how they severed the head of King Bran

Burying it at the white mound in London,

To warn of civil strife and be the guardian

Of every peace the just might swear upon.
Dedicated to my friend Bronwen Jones.

Being a retelling of Branwen ferch Llŷr (Branwen, daughter of Llŷr) from the  Welsh medieval classic The Mabinogion, as translated and popularized by Lady Charlotte Guest (1812-1895).
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2020
the remains of the day, of lost chances, opportunities gone astray
and now irretrievably demised, a quiet day, of writing, thinking,
letting emotional waters fall over me, draining away the oils of mischance and in the few minutes before the morrow commences, the eyes tear, and the heart too, for there is so much pain and confusion that cannot be done away...and there are needs unmet...one feels lost by a wayside, at a remote railway station, awaiting a once-a-day train, that is always late...

Accused of being generous, and my guilt at this false accusation, makes me tremble, for what I wish for all of you, is the small and the greatest, both be satisfied, but not by taking, but by giving...my poor clarity pains me, but I compose not knowing the secret chords required to please...but my thoughts are of you, alone, solely, my concerns have fallen to a siding. We are all so far from each other in physical distancing, yet so oft, when you write in poem, in message, in shotgun short comments, you evoke my depths, provoke my raw, unprotected, unmasked emotions to rise up from gorge and abyss...hear your cries, the spoken and the ones between the lines, well hid in the spaces between the words, where the kernels and the residuals of the important things exist.

it is almost 11:59pm, July 8th. it is already tomorrow for many of  you who race ahead of time’s relentless measuring, and for some the evening young, you puzzled at this nearly midnight missive, will wonder what has.overcome me.

pure unadulterated emotional fluids, many flavored, washing away the veneers, the coverings, and wanting to fix things that my intelligence says you cannot, yet the urgency of my desire is so great, that I can barely swallow.

perilous close to revelatory disclosures, I will cease here, seize here, what cannot be spoken of, and to think upon the notion of a successful life, it’s constitution, composition and break off pieces of me, that I can give away to you freely to patch the holes, mend the readings, via the ether of skin comforting even if imaginary.

I am drifting into the tender part of the night, when deceit is pointless, and I argue with conviction with myself that in our lives that it will never be too late, but I know I contradict my prior musing...somewhere between the fact that time is a wasting commodity, precocious and precious, lives this idea within, that there is nothing that cannot be navigated, recompensed, even forgiven...the argument goes on, the tide of battle switching back and forth, and for now I must be satisfied with the meagerness of I can’t give up, be at ease by acknowledging defeat, not just yet, and the fast arrival of a clean slate is a chance, a draw, a ticket to ride, and, reaching is a wonderful idea, full of compromise, extra effort, and tomorrow I may yet reach one of us, by reaching inside of what churns within, and have the perfect words you require, desperate need, come forth easily...
Nika Vovich Apr 20
I heed no mortal woes or pleas,
Yet share the planet’s silent pain.
Volcanoes spew their molten seas,
But still, men fail to comprehend.

They cannot grasp the full expanse
Of truths concealed in fated days—
They take our doom as cruel mischance,
Yet might it yield a higher grace?

Human tragedies—a fleeting jest;
The ocean claims but those too weak.
“Inhuman?” Perchance I but attest
To what no heart can hope to tweak.

I feel the wind’s untamed caress
And taste the thunder’s potent roar;
Feel Earth’s deep tremor’s harsh distress—
Deserving rescue? Lost in lore.

The elements’ scourge lies swift and blind,
Its crushing weight defies reprieve.
Embrace the fate that binds mankind,
And heed the seas’ relentless plea.

The seas’ great roar, the wind’s lament,
Earth shaking free from every chain—
All may deliver your descent
And send you to the endless plain.

To that eternal realm of rest,
Where seas lie still, no waves to crest,
And where, alas, no leaf is stirred—
The earth shall wake no more from dreams.

Within those silent halls of time,
No evil shall again pursue.
Only the lyre’s soft, haunting chime—
Perhaps… this is the perfect world?
The Global Zoocircus

“Moo-moo” and manhood don’t align
When all is shrouded deep in blight.
Around you — stumps that used to shine,
And hamsters hiding from the light,

And packs of dogs — not strays, but trained
To serve the Dark, obey, attack…
When all Foundations are profaned,
The void rewrites all meaning back.

To hell with “bravery” so fake —
When sellout morons march on minds!
And “wisdom” means how well you take
The ****, then hoard what comfort finds.

To call such habits “clever ways”
Means Spirit’s spark has long decayed.
Mind’s task is service, not to blaze —
The Soul should lead, and not be swayed.

Forget that rule — you’re pig or mutt,
A "strong one", sure — but just a tool.
A cat’s more noble in its gut —
At least its eyes still carry soul.

And so — soon comes the cleansing blaze,
Through Sunlight born of Higher Fire.
That “spark” — it lit some fifty Mays
Ago. Look out — the glow climbs higher…


---

Variant of the last stanza:

Then comes the purge — a holy flare,
Sun-fed, but not of solar breed.
It strikes the dumb-beast hive-lair —
And burns their training to the seed.



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




Zoocircus, burn!
The Soul returns —
Through Light, through Flame,
To break your chains.



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




The Flame descends — the Mask is torn.
No beast shall rise. A soul is born.



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



To the Summits...

A tropic night in Moldova glows,
By day — near forty, burning sky.
Perhaps the Sun will melt the chains —
For minds awake, it’s do or die.

The traps are set for every Soul —
A war for spirits, fierce and vast.
While traitors, like well-oiled guns,
Strike truth with lies — direct and fast.

They fire fear and reek of rot,
They breed soullessness through WAR.
This world’s become a seething pit,
A stage for Gorky’s Lower Floor.

Tsvetaeva saw it long ago —
This world is hell, pure, tight and black.
The noose became her way to go —
Only a fool would want it back.

But tropic nights reach Alps as well,
The solar fire begins to sear
This HELL ON EARTH — it soon shall fall,
Its dust will take the lies and fear.

And through that dust — a path shall rise,
Beyond this realm, beyond its screams.
Just few shall climb, escape the fire —
Those who kept Soul, and kept their dreams.



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




Hell burns. The blind obey and rot.
But Souls unchained — they lose it not.



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



Worse Means More,
More Means Worse

Worse means more,
More means worse:
Lies grow thick
In liar's curse.

Venom rises
In obscene lies —
Mind grows thinner
Where evil thrives.

This vale of fear,
This night of dread,
Where Will is chained,
Where truth lies dead.

Once — the whip,
Now — the lie,
The world’s a cage —
No wings to fly.

No flight upward
Through the grime,
No Light breaks through
This putrid time.

Just one choice left —
To drown or fight,
In death or claws
Of dark delight.

The deadliest poison
Lurks in deceit,
But shameful slaves
Still kiss its feet.

So fades the question,
The choice decays —
Death alone
Now clears the maze.



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




Truth is banned,
Lies flood the land —
No wings, no flame,
Just Death... and Shame.



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



The Scab

The one in charge won’t crash or fall —
He hides while puppets play the role:
Grotesque buffoons in full display,
Whip lies like batons every day.

The puppetmaster waits in shade,
Dreams of the strings forever laid.
While idiots — in dumb despair —
Curse clowns... and never look back there.

To stop all thought — that is the game.
And yes — they’re winning. What a shame.
Each passing age more dull, more blind —
Degeneration now refined.

And since the masses are this dumb,
To rule this herd is not so glum.
The Beasts grow bold — they want their hell,
A slaughterhouse run smooth and well.

CowID revealed how quick they build
A Global Camp — and none were thrilled.
The world now crusted, scabbed and dead,
By mutants void of any head.



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




The world’s a camp. The minds are gone.
The Scab has won. The Herd moves on.



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



Tragic Themes

They shun all tragic themes —
It helps them rot in Hell.
Mute souls, in shallow dreams,
Where lies and numbness dwell.

If tragedy won’t break
The Mind or stir the Soul —
Then madness takes its stake,
And chains you to its role.

A servant of the Dark —
Where fake hope’s been ingrained.
Your mind reduced to mush,
And thus—the Beast is trained.

Fascism feeds on fools —
It always needs the weak.
It eats what Honor leaves,
And silences the meek.

Not always with a gun —
They **** through slow decay:
Crushed poor, unheard by all,
Drowned in demonic play.

The media’s all theirs —
CowID showed it clear.
With newer, sharper fangs
Fascism grins near.

Now lies become the blade —
The Dark prefers this route:
To strip the Soul from Man,
And birth the Beast throughout.



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




When truth is banned and lies command,
The Beast returns to scorch the land.



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



Propaganda

Propaganda — pure Uganda:
That’s the level. Pure collapse.
Ruled by **** — the filthy handler,
Spreading Satan’s toxic scraps.

Dust of darkness rains on numbskulls,
Down their scalps and through their minds.
Still they sit and bear the poison —
Though it rots them, though it blinds.

**** pulls strings — the clown is dancing,
TV howls its circus lies.
“Politicians” triple falsehoods —
Long as cash keeps flowing nice.

Goebbels spins in hell, convulsing
In his cauldron, caked in flames —
Demons screech absurd distortions,
And folks worship **** with names.

Some half-Führer on your screen
Rants his crap with dead-eyed glee —
And though it’s clear the “tsar” is fake,
No one cares. They let it be.

Cloned-out Führers, empty faces —
Still, the ****’s control expands.
Propaganda now erases
Truth through undeclared war’s hands.

The world — ears wide, brain shut tight —
Has forgotten how to think.
And the prize of this great slaughter?
Souls that let the demons sink.



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




They fed you filth. You ate it whole.
Now **** controls your mind — and Soul.



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



Pyrrhic Victory

The media lies, barefaced,
Erasing minds in haste.
And we obey the orders cast
By Darkness — off to waste.
The world lies drowned in total fiction —
A global sea of thick deceit.
The Beasts now rule with no restriction,
Their triumph — dull, submissive meat.
And nations? Gone — in full deletion feat.

No fire awaits below —
This Earth’s the Hell we know.
No doubts remain, it’s plain to see:
The **** that feeds on souls so low
Will always feast and grin with glee.

What wakes the herd at last?
A signal — “Sic them!” — fast.
For fascism reigns where Mind is numb,
And Truth has breathed its last.
CowID revealed this creeping blight,
Then war confirmed the game they play.
They softened minds with AIDS in flight,
Now rule with lies — and with a tray.
Of needles, drugs — to herd the brutes and slay.

The world lies under Sin.
A ******* grins within,
As **** march millions to their cage —
A concentration bin.
And since we let the Evil in,
We’ll pay the price without delay.
The victory — Pyrrhic — carved in sin:
The slaves and Beasts all burned away,
To clear this ground for… other tests to play.



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




The Beasts have won — the slaves don’t care.
Let fire cleanse this mad despair.



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



The Luciferian System

No matter the trials you face —
Forget the “barriers” they cite.
If you bow to the System’s grace,
You’re just a mutt — not fit to fight.

A terrier chasing scraps and lies,
Obeying every barked command.
For safety’s fakes and feeding highs,
You’ll **** the dream of Freedom’s land.

Prepare as well for slaughter’s den —
They cull old dogs without regret.
There’s younger brutes — more quick with fangs,
And numbers rule their cruel roulette.

No matter the mask of pain —
Just guard your Soul through all deceit.
Though ancient truths remain,
Their light now fades beneath defeat.

The System’s core is Blight —
Its sharpest blade — the lie.
We live in End-Time’s night.
Grow Spirit, or you die.

To reach the Realm of Soul —
You’ll need a heart set free.
If trained and tamed’s your role —
The Pit is your decree.



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




A dog that kneels, obeys, and dies —
Won’t reach the truth beyond the lies.



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



The Making of Führers and Sub-Führers

Sub-Führers — they don’t grow with ease.
They’re forged in monstrous lies and grease.
The crust of falsehoods spreads and thickens,
While hollow “ideas” breed like sickness.

“Progress” takes years — the careful plan:
To drive the people into pens,
Reduce them first to beasts — then send
To slaughter, ruled by shadowed men.

From deep behind the veil they write
The scripts for every staged world war.
All’s rigged — no truth is left in sight.
Just price tags now, and death by score.

The question’s this: How many more
Can we destroy, and stay on track?
The trick? Just lie a little more —
It’s budget-friendly to attack.

History loops, begins again —
But this time, we are near the end.
Collapse is brewing, vast and fast —
The flood has come. Nothing will last.

The tenth great wave of brazen lies
Now rises — final, full, intense.
The System feels its own demise…
And lies its guts out — in defense.



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




They lied too much. The world will choke.
The final flood’s no metaphor — it spoke.



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



Lavandos and Pindos

Lavandos, Pindos — endless shows,
News ***** pouring nonstop,
Distorted nonsense, endless blows —
A total, steaming pile of flop.

Brains boiling in this endless stew
Of worthless garbage, dull decay.
And worse and worse — the poison’s true:
The end is near, no light, no way.

Dumbing down by endless lies,
By zombie screens that rot the soul,
Degrading minds with stupid cries —
A festering, corrupt black hole.

Add schools and colleges to this,
Where forgetting is the rule,
And what you get is just the ****
Of swine who swallow every fool.

Beasts that crap into your ears,
And **** inside your very heart.
This world? No peace — just rotting fears,
A graveyard where all hope departs.

Only few — a vanishing breed —
Escape the idiot parade,
With Spirit strong, no poison’s seed,
The rare, pure souls not yet decayed.



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




They feed the herd with poisoned lies,
While only few still see the skies.



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



Diamond Mine

You can’t cram in filthy lies
When years are given to the mind.
If you care beyond your skin,
Falsehood won’t so easily bind.

At first, deceit may slip right through,
But turn on reason’s guiding light —
You’ll see the brazen lies in view,
Expose them all, and set things right.

But only if the system’s built
On truth and intuition’s reign —
While beasts recycle hollow filth,
Refilling nonsense once again.

To dumb us down — their cruel design,
Means endless lies and false parade.
Their memetic chains entwine —
A prison forged from masquerade.

The lies are vast, a cavern deep —
You’re miner in this twisted pit,
Searching for gems you can keep,
Sifting mirages bit by bit.

Most ore is empty, dull, and gray —
Rare diamonds flash through chaos wild.
Among the mad, they call cliché
A “talent” that is so reviled.

Methane pockets build and swell,
Soon the mine will blow apart.
Yet stubborn fools just lie and yell,
Piling waste — no end, no start.

True art’s to forge the diamond pure
Beyond the mine, outside the lies.
Not mere facts, but Light’s allure —
If you’re bold, the gem will rise.



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




Beyond the pit, beyond the pain —
True diamonds rise through honest flame.



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



Literary Tastes, or Hell’s Rebuilding

"Ahead of the herd goes a horned ram with a bell.
The sheep believe he knows the way.
But the ram just wants to lead —
Dust-free path and better hay...
Many men are like sausages:
Whatever fills them, that they bear."
— Kozma Prutkov


Kozma’s words for serfs,
“Zarathustra” for the few.
Chains amass inside the mind —
Believe the lies? You’re pierced through.

Not just lies — but forged deceit,
A writer’s well-known cheap device.
The Prologue’s done; lies repeat —
A flood of falsehoods, cold as ice.

The Final Act? A Hell,
A ninth circle’s lot for most.
For many — traitors swell
Ranks from first to last, by ghost.

The ninth circle’s just one ring,
But thousands more must fill that pit.
To pack the beasts who serve the king —
By rank and merit in their grit.

Rebuild Hell anew — who cares
For matter, toil, or dim despair?
Foreman leads, no time to pause —
The dark will raise its walls with flaws.

And Earth itself becomes the pit,
A subcircle, dark and grim.
As filth and rot begin to spit —
With lice and **** exalted slim.

Where is protest in the words?
Counterpropaganda’s lost.
The pointing finger’s broken sword —
Midst dung and lies it’s tempest-tossed.

There are exceptions, sure —
But they don’t prove any truth.
Drive the lies out — pure and pure,
Read what’s clean — the “Veche” booth.



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




Hell rebuilds, the **** arise —
Truth’s voice drowned by endless lies.



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



Themes

What stale old themes remain
Above the sharpest, bleeding core?
“Poets” now are mute, in vain —
Only nonsense, memes, and more.

And all that “cutesy-mushy” stuff,
Takes priority in the fray.
To write the truth? That’s way too tough —
In madness, reason fades away.

The world lies steeped in shared decay,
A plague that spreads without control.
Time’s short; the end won’t stay at bay —
Cataclysms cleanse the soul.

As centuries of fascist blight
Oppress the mind, distort the truth.
They shift their names, their roars and fights,
But **** the Spirit’s lasting root.

This is the inhuman goal,
Almost done, the curse set fast.
Yet cataclysms bring the toll —
So bottom’s never reached at last.



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




Madness rules — truth’s left to drown.
Cataclysms burn the ground.



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



Stockholm Syndrome

More die here from cancer, stroke, and heart —
Than from the cults of Stalin’s dark,
Or ******’s ghost — compared, it’s naught,
Yet worse is what the mind’s been taught.

Stockholm Syndrome kills by billions,
For Evil’s grip is not the fall
Of Spirit or of Reason’s millions —
But turning man into a mule.

These beasts, burdened to the brim,
Mock creatures once with God’s own spark.
They bear the weight of every sin,
While Evil’s triumph leaves its mark.

This syndrome is the root, the cause —
Where fighting kin, not the true foe,
Is praised as strength without a pause,
And blames the wrong man for the blow.

The World’s great Scapegoat is Satan’s kin,
And all the vile, the twisted herd —
In this dumbed-down fascist den,
A mountain built of lies absurd.

Fear fills donkeys’ empty minds —
They “love” their makers of the dark.
To cast out fear from deepest folds —
That is courage; not for fools or barks.



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




Fear breeds slaves who love their chains —
True courage breaks those bonds and reigns.



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



Stockholm Syndrome

Billions fall — not from old tyrants’ cults,
But from the poison in their heads.
Stockholm Syndrome’s grip insults —
It turns the free to slavish dreads.

The mind decays not by pure evil,
But by the leash it learns to wear.
Beasts burdened, hollow, primeval —
Lost sparks once bright, now stripped bare.

They praise the fight against their brothers,
Blind to the true Devil’s reign.
The world’s scapegoat, Satan’s others,
Rule through lies, control, and pain.

Donkeys crushed with fear and blindness,
“Love” their masters of the dark.
To purge this dread — true boldness,
Not for fools who bark and bark.

Break the chains, confront the lies,
Courage wakes the spirit’s flame.
Only those who cut the ties
Rise above this deadly game.



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



Stockholm Syndrome

Not cancer, stroke, or mortal strike —
But deeper wounds within the soul,
The silent cult of darkness’ psyche,
That shatters minds and steals control.

Stockholm Syndrome, vast and blind,
Kills billions through unseen decay.
Not Evil’s form, but false design —
That twists the Spirit’s light away.

These beasts, once sparks of sacred flame,
Now burdened souls beneath the weight
Of shadows that they dare not name,
Enslaved within their fear and fate.

They wage their wars on kin, not Shade,
Confused, they worship false disguise.
The world’s great Scapegoat, demon-made,
Behind the veil of whispered lies.

Fear is the prison of the mind,
A veil that blinds the inner sight.
To cast this terror out, and find
The courage born of Spirit’s light —

That’s the true path beyond the dark,
Where chains dissolve, illusions fall.
Awake the soul’s eternal spark —
And break the deepest Stockholm thrall.



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




Fear blinds the soul — but Spirit sees,
And breaks the chains to set us free.



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



The Mob-Mouthed ****

Mob-mouthed **** have bred like germs —
A monstrous, soulless spawn of Hell.
Huge bellies swell with evil terms,
The spawn of Darkness where they dwell.

For centuries, the work went on
To breed these heartless, hollow breeds.
A breed of dogs that serve the con,
Dragging the wise down with their deeds.

They drag the honest, spirit-strong —
That’s why they came to be designed.
No use to talk, it’s all too wrong,
They’ll burn your nerves, leave sense behind.

You cannot teach or reason there —
Just waste your breath and feed their hate.
They multiply through lies and scare —
Your truth makes them more animate.

They’re tuned to lies, bred to fear —
Now lies are louder than before.
The final years are drawing near —
A reckoning is at the door.

A Higher Power will destroy
These worms that gnaw and burn the Earth.
The heat foretells the coming joy:
The Sun grows stronger with new birth.

Who said that God means only “tolerate”?
With **** like these, we’ll part our ways.
Worlds differ — some rise, some wait —
The beasts go Hell’s eternal maze.

The mob-mouthed **** are battle slaves,
The servants of the foul and vile —
In line with darkness, death, and graves,
A ****** and broken, bitter pile.



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




The mob-mouthed **** will face their doom —
The light will burn, reclaim the tomb.



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



Scorching Sun

The scorching sun — here lies the chance:
To burn the filth from Earth’s wide face,
The lesson missed — mankind’s advance
Became a plague upon this place.

Consuming Earth and Spirit’s light,
Defiling all with poisoned hands,
The vile servants of dark night,
With rotting minds and evil plans,

Must be boiled off like lice, a pest —
This world a plague-ridden barn.
Only lies advance the rest,
Beneath wild waves of brutal harm.

Honor, conscience, shame — all lost,
Forgotten in the endless void.
For swine, the trough becomes the cost,
When reason’s spark is thus destroyed.

The few who stand — no longer counted —
Weak, scattered, fading from the fray.
The gluttonous fool soon mounts it,
And sends them all to breakaway.

Yet sun’s harsh blaze will save them too —
Better death than Hell’s slow blight,
Awaiting when the madness through
Will knock to end the endless night.



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




The sun will burn the rot away —
Better death than Hell’s decay.



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



False Religions

The "Scripture" is the slaughter
Of sheep — a shepherd’s trap.
Everywhere the mind’s disaster,
Soul’s torment — where’s the map?

All true news comes direct,
No filthy scribbles, lies,
No "heirs" of dark defect,
"Spiritual thieves" in disguise.

Go only inward — there
The answers you will find.
Readers mock the written fare,
Cheap poison for the mind.

For poison it remains —
Spiritual venom’s grip,
Else evil’s endless chains
Would never feed this script.

Exceptions — just a grain,
Lost in the dumbed-down praise.
To seek in hollowed vain
Is wasting time and days.

Ideas for the slaves,
Who gulp the fools’ delights —
“Religions” — traps and graves
Of many blinded sights.

This false world trades in lies.
The seeker stands alone,
If honest, brave, and wise:
"Test all!" — your solemn tone.

The only path to find —
Intuition’s flame will guide.
Cut lies loose, leave fog behind,
Or in deception’s swamp, you’ll slide.



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




False faiths are poison’s art —
Seek inside with open heart.



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



False Religions

The "Scripture" is a ritual —
A slaughter of the meek,
A shepherd’s whispered cruel,
Where truth is faint and weak.

True tidings come unfiltered,
No scribbles from the night,
No heirs of darkness, wilting,
No thieves that steal the light.

Seek only deep within,
Where silent answers glow —
Beyond the veil of sin,
Where only seekers go.

The written word’s a poison,
A venom cloaked in ink,
An endless dark horizon,
Where souls are made to sink.

Exceptions, grains of light,
Lost in the fog of praise.
To seek in blind delight
Is to waste endless days.

Ideas forged for slaves,
Who drink the bitter wine —
False faiths, unholy graves,
Where spirit fails to shine.

This world trades in illusion,
Deceit its sacred art.
The lone seeker’s resolution:
To test with open heart.

Intuition’s flame will guide,
Beyond all crafted lies,
Cut through the mists that hide —
The path where freedom lies.



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




Within the veil, the Spirit wakes —
False shadows fade, the soul remakes.



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



Slave "Labor"

"They burn themselves at work" —
But souls should blaze instead!
To toil, or boredom’s ****,
Endure dull pain instead?

Since childhood we’re trained tight —
“Futile labor’s art,”
A proven blight and blight,
That crushes mind and heart.

When slavery lasts for ages,
How can you truly burn?
Patience in cages,
And stubbornness to learn.

But here’s the catch: the slave,
Mad drunk on his own chain,
Counts crowds as free and brave,
While hoarding worthless gain.

Their idol’s clear and grim —
“Work hard, collect your dust.”
Lie, fat, and slime grow dim,
In cycles of disgust.

“They burn themselves at work” —
Well, serves them just the same:
Riding fools in yoke and ****,
Trailing after goat of shame.



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




Burn at work, yet lose your soul —
A slave to lies, a broken whole.



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



Failures

“Disappointment’s the finest chariot
To ride along the Dharma’s way.”
— Buddhist Saying


Is “bad luck” just mischance?
Failures shape the soul’s own course:
In crushing blows and tears’ expanse,
Don’t rush toward success’s force.

The crash of hopes, dismay’s embrace —
The Dharma’s path is hard and bright.
A soul’s dark sacrifice in place:
Remember this through day and night.

What price will you pay for luck? —
Wasting strength on hollow gains.
Before the soul, you’ll be struck:
Balance lost brings equal pains.

Pure strength and aims against the dross —
Money, “glory,” shallow praise,
Opinions of the mindless gloss —
All vanish in the Dharma’s blaze.

In the end you gain but dust —
Corrupt, decayed, a hollow bluff.
Upon the soul, clouds gather just —
The ruin’s deep, the fall is rough.

Failure is the task at hand,
If in this crooked world you dwell.
Success belongs to Spirit’s land —
You’re lost if all your longings quell.

To understand oblivion —
The vital art upon the path.



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




In failure’s grip the spirit grows —
Forget to fall, and truth you lose.



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



The World’s a Fool’s Delirium

The world’s a freak’s mad rambling thought,
Shaken blind with deepest fright.
Yet all its woes are falsely bought —
A monster sets the tasks outright.

A beast, both stupid and corrupt,
Executes commands with zeal.
CowID shows how firmly gripped —
Officials for their bribes congeal!

A single order — and the fiend
Will do whatever evil’s made.
But only bribes will set the end,
While rot has long since overplayed.

The madness of this world is deep,
So camps arise to hold the fools —
If idiot’s meek, believes the creep,
And propaganda’s cruel rules,

The task will be fulfilled in time.
Yet here’s a sneaky twist to heed:
When beasts grow bold beyond the line,
The time to wipe them out will breed.

Cataclysms approach to strike,
A reckoning for fear and greed —
A new fascism’s deadly spike
Has turned the world to dust and bleed.



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




When beasts grow bold and rot the land —
The cleansing fire is close at hand.



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



Mountains and Holes, or “They ***** Us, Yet We Grow Strong”

“Only mountains can surpass the mountains...”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, 1966


Only holes can trump the mighty mountains.
No hole to hide — you’re doomed to fall:
All eyes will judge with harsh misgivings,
You’re lower than baseboards after all.

Drag yourself into your hole, keep silent,
Believe the lies, just blindly dream.
“They ***** us...” — steel yourself, be silent,
Only in your hole can you find your dream.

No flood will drown those holes around —
Just lies that flood and seal them tight.
No flood — just global **** abound:
These years bring forth that sorry plight.

Only bunkers beat the holes, you see.
Be Judas, build your bunker deep.
Examples stand: ******, Putler’s spree —
Work thrice as hard to sow deceit.

Become a bunker rat, then future
Will mark your name in history’s book.
The first step: let the **** surround you,
Let them lead, let fools have the look.

The path to “success” is thorny, rough —
Only thick-skinned, bought fools survive.
Throw all culture’s remnants to the bluff —
With it, you’ll never truly thrive.



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




No mountain beats the hole’s grim throne —
*****’d and steeled, you stand alone.



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



Stupidity

Clip, picture, meme — it’s pure disaster!
Is this the end of dumbed-down progress?
Hardly so — the crush grows faster,
Pressing beasts in lies and fear’s excess.

Torturing minds with tightening lies,
Year by year the methods grow,
Meaner, crueler, their disguise —
The dumbed-down masses don’t even know.

A stupefied, weak-minded crowd
Can’t dream of freedom’s face;
Words alone control them loud —
Threaten, oppress — no time to waste.

The evil swarm’s relentless goal —
Soullessness in grand advance;
Since cradle age you lose control,
Drowned in lies and fear’s grim dance.

This world of crooked mirrors’ shame,
The idiot now obedient —
Completes their tasks with no acclaim,
Like ******* mocking — insolent.

CowID showed the truth to all:
War, disgrace, and utter shame.
The world rushes to its fall —
End of the devil’s wicked game.



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




Dumbed down deep, the masses fall —
Endgame for the devil’s call.



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



Weightlifting

Train your ears with weighted bars,
Prepare yourself for what’s to come,
For propaganda rules like scars —
In Evil’s world, the mind’s undone.

Just trust and never analyze —
That’s how you drop out of the herd.
At bottom fall the shameful lies,
Where truth is crushed and hope deferred.

They’ll chew and feed the empty words,
To swallow nonsense day by day.
Less drunk on ***** than on herds
Of lies they learn to feed and sway.

Everywhere they lie and sell,
And Judas fools grow dull and blind.
“This world is doomed!” — their battle yell:
To crush and raze all they can find.

The Sun has started burning clean,
To purge the filth that taints the Earth.
No place for fiends, for souls unkeen —
No honor left, no mind, no worth.



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




Train your ears to bear the lies —
The sun will burn their dark disguise.



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



If Only We Didn’t Know

If only we didn’t know the mind
Is crap discharged by mental drones,
No PhDs can make that kind
Of truth from lies and hollow tones.

The brain’s complex but just a tool —
Consciousness’s spark, the soul’s own tie.
The “scientist,” a cheating fool,
Feeds spirits fables, frauds on high.

Though Spirit reigns supreme, they shove
Their fictions in its sacred place.
For them, honors fit like a glove —
But truth and honor lose their face.

They hack a child’s mind in half —
Yet consciousness will rise again.
Those hairy paws impose their craft,
Commanding silence o’er the plain.

The hairy paw rules over all.
The “scientist” bows, a craven *****:
He’ll slander, praise, or make you fall —
If money comes on time, and more.



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




Mind’s just crap from mental drones —
Truth’s crushed by greedy, lying clones.



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



Idiots of “Dark Thoughts”

Idiots discuss destruction,
As if fighting Evil’s sin
Were a burden, an obstruction,
Or a fault they’re caught within.

To find hell real, to dwell there,
The “dark thoughts” bright start appears
Like a block for fools who swear
That decay’s the way through years.

Rot in hell and call it “heaven” —
Can you purge that vile disgrace?
Beasts who mock, provoke unbidden,
Urging Evil to embrace.

“Optimism,” “positives”
Sown like weeds by fools betrayed.
The idiot buys their lies, deceives,
Their doom in falsehoods laid.

Directly lost, yet indirect —
Forget bright thoughts in hell’s domain.
In this place, no tears correct,
No whining ends the pain.

But “dark thoughts” hold light’s true spark,
Guiding paths through hell’s abyss.
Those who spread false cheer and lark —
Before God must answer this.



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




Dark thoughts bring light to hell’s abyss —
False cheer serves Evil’s cruel kiss.



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



Kim Il Suns, Kim Jong Irs, and Maos

Kim Il Suns, Kim Jong Irs, and Maos,
Grant us strength to wipe away
All the Pol Pots — those idiotic foes
Who seek dictatorship’s sway.

If we don’t purge their rise,
At the start of their dark quest,
Only slaughter waits our eyes —
No peace, no place to rest.

“Democrats” are close behind,
In lies’ Sixth Chamber trapped.
A hidden rule, cruelly designed,
Where culture’s soul is snapped.

Without it, all is lost.
Strike lies down, confront the Night —
To be yourself, whatever the cost,
Is freedom’s shining light.

You’re no slave when you strive
To cast off darkness’ chain.
Anger is where awareness thrives,
In hatred’s righteous pain.

Forever fools are led
To slaughter in foul lies.
Awareness raises strength ahead,
And lifts the spirit’s rise.

With knowledge comes the cataclysms
That crush fascist realms to dust.
Then you may flee to other prisms —
New worlds where light is just.

The foolish go to hell anew.
No fool is fit to roam
In worlds of Spirit, pure and true —
Fools are the Light’s true foe.



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




Fools breed tyrants, fools decay —
Strength and wisdom clear the way.



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



In Pieces

Take it all apart to pieces,
So you never build again.
First to shred is “happiness” —
Its core is woven lies and pain.

You’ve learned well how to deceive —
Lie to others, lie to self.
Soul near broken — hard to breathe,
And the homeland turned to shelf.

Smoke and stench fill cursed lands,
You revere the foolish, blind.
Look beyond the foolish plans —
Horror there you’ll surely find.

For that “happiness” you chase
Is poison deep, a toxic sway.
Don’t delay — dissect the base,
Throw the lies and masks away.

Only deep inside you’ll find
Answers pure, without deceit.
Throw the falsehoods from your mind —
Consciousness is incomplete.

No advice, no easy key —
Alchemy’s the inward quest.
Light within will set you free,
And with it, shed the dreadful rest.

The terror of the global madhouse
Grows with every passing day.
Fools grow bolder, spirits drowse —
At the end of all decay.



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



Disassembled Souls

Take it all — dismantle, shred —
So it never binds again.
First to sever: hollow "joy,"
Whose root is spun from lies and pain.

You’ve mastered art of falsehood’s breath,
Deceiving self, betraying soul.
Almost crushed beneath that death,
Homeland fades — a smoky hole.

In this realm of fetid haze,
You worship shadows, blind and blind.
Peer beyond the veiled malaise —
A terror waits to seize your mind.

That cursed "happiness" you chase
Is venom deep within the core.
Wake, discard the wicked trace —
Cast deceit from your inner door.

Answers dwell not in the noise,
But in silence deep, profound.
Shatter all the falsehoods’ ploys —
In the void, truth will be found.

No guideposts lead this sacred quest —
Alchemy within the heart.
Light ignites the soul’s unrest,
Tearing veils of fear apart.

The world’s madness thickens fast —
A swirling storm of blight and blare.
Fools grow fierce; the darkness casts
Its final shadow, grim despair.

Yet from this ruin, light will rise —
Born inside the deepest night.
Soul reborn, beyond the lies —
Emerging into boundless light.



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



Locked Away

Psychiatrists lock them up,
And prisons do the same.
The world—a theater,
Or madhouse ruled by shame.

Who dares to stand against,
Gets punished without cause.
A global mental ward,
Where madness sets the laws.

Fools believe in freedom’s lie,
That slavery is gone.
Madmen feed the idiot’s mind,
Those “above” stringing on.

No place for traitors here—
Only filth lies deep below.
Spies are watched with ruthless eyes,
But in the gutter’s stench they go.

A worldwide stench—propaganda’s breath,
Dumbs down fools, commands their fate.
Protecting skins while spreading death,
Killing mind and soul with hate.

Fear’s driven forth—then guarded tight:
“Two in one” — the deadly game.
By lies and poison in the night,
They slay the mind and shame.



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



The Many-****** Camel

A camel’s sometimes single-******,
Sometimes two humps rise in view.
But proud **** sapiens thump,
Spewing nonsense as they do.

They fail to see they’ve grown so plump—
A camel with a humps’ brigade,
Leading caravans to dump
At cliffs where Judas’ debts are paid.

Those humps exist inside the mind,
Built from fear and layered lies.
Though simple truths you’ll surely find
Behind what Judas’ venom buys.

Just see the motives, clear and cold,
Of those fiends through falsehood’s veil—
But then you won’t be “happy” sold,
Nor find your place within the tale.

Reason’s growth will squeeze away
What’s human left inside the shell,
And souls will burn in terror’s sway—
Leaving herds that blindly dwell.

Soulless flocks, to fiends aligned,
Marching blindly in a chain.
Count the many humps that bind—
Camel hordes spread far and plain.



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



The “Servant” Man Beneath the Fiends’ Command

Creativity flares up in rage—
Hard to bear its burning weight.
No poet’s charm or ancient page
Can prove what’s lost to fate.

Not proof that’s sought, but soul’s fierce cry,
Bursting forth in angry verse.
If “cute fluff” is all you spy—
Your mind’s reversed, a curse.

It’s out of order, 'cause the doom
Is creeping close and near:
The meek, dull masses meet their tomb—
Reduced to nothing here.

The “servant” man, a tool and pawn,
For vile fiends who rule the game,
They’ve made him weak; his spirit gone—
These blocks believe the shame.

They trust the myths, the lies on screens,
In total falsehood’s reign,
Fearful, angry—those fiendish scenes
Where traitors hold the reign.



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



For Every “Wise Man,” Simplicity Suffices

Does autumn only mow the leaves?
No — it cuts your strength as well,
If motionless you freeze and grieve.
Awake! Simplicity’s your spell.

Swim in summer, run in fall;
Year by year repeat the fight.
Stillness — not just empty thrall,
It’s stupor’s prison, blind to light.

Reject the lies that suffocate,
Stand alone, create, persist.
Though your efforts dissipate,
Chasing “fame” is just a tryst.

Fame among the fools and clowns?
Shameful dust, a hollow blight.
They’re content to gnaw their crowns —
Captured in the web of lies and spite.

“Cute fluff” is all they treasure,
Strengthening falsehood’s grasp.
If you serve the crooked measure,
You’ll feed illusions that will clasp.

Better to drown in lies and fog...
Or run in terror’s endless maze.
The horror’s real — no mere dialogue —
It circles close, sets hearts ablaze.

Race along the winding path,
Lines of “duality of being.”
Though fragile life invites the wrath,
In stupor’s grip, you’re just unseeing...



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



Rotten "Apple" Films Its Lies

Rotten "Apple" shoots its flicks,
Pushing globalism's scheme.
Outside phones, it drops the tricks —
Pride pulls downward, kills the dream.

Gates, the so-called "doctor" grand,
Filled the world with worthless trash.
How we fell for this bland scam,
Turned the Earth into a trash.

Now the Artist must code tight,
Or starve in markets false and cold.
The "market" is a hollow blight —
Nothing there, just bought and sold.

They spin the web through “Hu-yandex” —
Censorship its iron hand.
Got a domain? Then just expect
Your visits to be rather bland.

But for all depraved extremes,
Open roads stretch wide and far.
Negative selection schemes
Made this world a rotten scar.

This has sealed its dire fate —
Soon the ashes will arise.



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



Lies and Madness — Two Sides of One Coin

“Show me a sane man, and I’ll cure him.”
— Carl Jung, truth unmasked.


The sickness in the freaks’ own minds
Is viral — keep your distance, friend.
Madness now is "normal" kind,
The common folk — submissive, penned.

That madness shoved through media lies,
And books that chain the mind in place.
False knowledge, forged with cunning ties,
The strongest shackle on the race.

You, Pure Spirit — heresy.
False faiths that poison and debase.
Preachers bare their teeth, decree
To drag all down to hell’s embrace.

Freaks in white coats serve fascism —
CowID revealed the truth.
If brave and honest, shirk their schism,
Their "expertise" is dead, uncouth.

Only mind that serves the soul,
Not one that twists and crushes whole.
Else demons lodge within your brain,
And lies infest you like a stain.

Today, lies and madness fused
Into one medal, cruel and cold,
Given to the fallen, bruised —
Transforming worlds to rot and mold.



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



Warrior Tomatoes

Tomato’s primal reign o’er protest,
While sausage sits as king and god.
The people knead like docile dough—
Mold what you will, as long as nod.

Only warrior tomatoes
Hide behind usernames, speak loud,
But softer still the harshest blame
When Hell grows mad and storms the crowd.

Soon one brave act will burst the juice—
The few who dare to fight the lie.
Till then, Hell rules and crushes those
Who stand and won’t be bowed to die.

And juice will flow in floods and tides—
Tomato’s primacy will rise.
So far it’s been a pitiful scene,
Feces-formed by cops and lies.

Propaganda grinds them down,
Until they’re bricks in fascist stacks.
Tomatoes’ screams fall on deaf ears—
Fascism answers all attacks.

Fascism’s grip is global, vast,
Tomatoes cannot change the game.
The world’s become a constant scorn—
Reason’s pyre awaits the flame.

And now the End is on its way,
To hug the **** and slaves alike.
Not poisoned by the lies, it thrives—
This is their grim, dark spike.

Will mercy come? Perhaps, some day...
A purer world might rise anew.
Through Spirit, souls as thin as air
Will pierce the veil and break on through.



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



Just Listen to Your Own Soul!

Alien nonsense, dark as night,
Creeps on souls like blackened stain.
Only listen to your soul—
The world’s enslaved by evil’s chain.

Just listen to your soul alone—
Lies are total, evil vast.
Traitors, zealots, fools abound—
Most are lost within the past.

Heed the beasts, become their fool,
First among the mindless throng.
Bend before the rabble’s mob—
You’ll be just a broken pawn.

The common fool’s the new “norm,”
As madness rules the land today.
A flood of lies that breed our woes—
The root of all that leads astray.

Dulling minds, diseases spread—
The cruel spawn of wicked hands.
Better blind and deaf they want,
To keep control and crush the lands.



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



Consumerism’s Curse

I eat, yet shun the slippery slime —
Consumerism’s sick disease.
For shallow minds, a twisted crime,
A rule: avoid that cursed ease.

Where blows come hard upon the skull,
And cash is never found or stored.
If every crossroads you’ll appall,
You’re worth no more than filthy horde.

You stand, though fed and stuffed your fill,
In Spirit’s realm, a foolish clown.
Your tales of wisdom? Just a **** —
Decay that drags your soul down.

That lame excuse, “Like all, I stray,”
Throw down to Hell — that’s where it fits.
You serve the beast, you play its play!
A lackey? Just a dough that splits.

To be a pawn, your mind must grow,
Consumer sickness breeds no light.
It leads you only to the snow —
Burn up that plague, escape the night!

Consumerism cuts both ways —
It feeds on you as you consume.
Amidst the lies and stinking haze,
You’ll never grasp what love resumes.



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



Traitors

They’ve bought the salt and matches —
Ready now for war’s grim dance.
In lies and fear they’ve always dwelled,
Just scraping dregs in dark expanse.

The lowest pit belongs to “folk,”
While traitors climb the upward tier.
To beasts they sell their very souls —
Those freaks, for “success,” trade dear.

They crush the meek, serve Devil’s will,
A breed of hellspawn, vile and bare,
With stubby “minds” like stumps of wood,
No conscience, just a poisoned glare.

No order met with refusal —
CowID revealed the truth:
Remember history’s shameful page,
Genocide’s relentless ruth.

Fascism shifts its wicked mask,
Yet ever stays the same foul game.
Serve infernal beasts — your path
Leads fast to Hell, fueled by your shame.

While breathing lies, they sow their seeds,
The people reap their harvest: fear.
They spew more nonsense every day —
The world drowns in a flood of sneer.

Will it end? Hardly, they’ll destroy
The entire valley of the world.
As **** just breed more lies and pain,
In endless shadows, horrors twirled.



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



We Howl — Fight!

Third-rate like trash,
Falsehood’s brutal crash.
Here’s the twisted game:
The louder the scream,

The cruder the lie,
Yet multiplied by fear —
Falsehood sharpens high,
Harder to deny.

Hard to find the truth,
But lying’s learned by proof —
A full paradox.
Fear and lies detox.

Fools drown in the madness,
Crushed beneath their sadness —
Complete idiots all,
As deeper lies fall.

Where fools once stood,
Falsehood grows like wood,
Spreading thick and fast —
Truth’s been overcast.

CowID showed this well:
Minds slain in a shell.
No chance left to save —
The world’s a mad rave.

Clinic! Alarm bells ring!
Fascism’s just a sting:
Now global, worldwide.
Ears go deaf — we howl and fight!



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



Light on the Path

From "Mother God" is born anew
Another walking myth for view.
Believe the nonsense? Then you’re cursed —
A mind diseased, almost like worst.

Conception must be called a sin,
A blasphemy that lures within,
And this falsehood firmly stays,
To drive the fools in cruel ways.

Above the violence they spread
Rotting nonsense, dark and dead.
For hellish fiends, it’s sheer delight —
To scare, to crush, to blind the sight.

Satanism’s the root of all creeds,
Buddhism lags but still proceeds.
Atheism adds its books of lies,
Confusing minds, and dulling eyes.

And widespread stupor reigns supreme —
The fiends keep watch, they scheme, they scheme.
“Religions” weigh like anvils hard,
Atheism’s hammer strikes them scarred.

Since childhood fed on varied crap,
You’ve lost the art to think, to map.
To find your mind and soul anew,
Discard the fog, the total untrue.

Thought serves the Spirit — intuition
Must always guide its recognition.
This truth lies at tradition’s heart:
A Light that leads the seeker’s part.

— The End —