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Raymond Johnson Jan 2014
the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right

maybe it's related to the fact that there is no more history on the history channel

and the only thing the discovery channel wants to investigate
is the depth of our bank accounts

the word 'integrity' has become archaic. obsolete. unnecessary, simply, because nobody has any anymore.

whatever happened to learning for the sake of learning?

who was the sick greedy ******* who decided that it was okay to charge money for knowledge?

our youth are being put into ******* for the knowledge necessary to survive in this society

of inequality.

in the 21st century slaves toil away in classroom as well as coal mines.

and those who dare to resist the path of post-modern peonage laid before them are doomed to a life of minimum wage mundanity or constant criminal risk.

there is something to be said about the quality of our reality if we are constantly seeking mind altering substances to escape it.

i too have become a slave. and a large portion of those who read this message have as well.

our souls signed away at the dotted line, sealed within great paper phylacteries adorned with the sinister sigils of Sallie Mae.

the chains of our debt will never let go of us. even upon death our progeny will have to hoist our burdens on their shoulders.

and for those of you who know not of our *******, i bid you welcome, like a Brother greater than I once said:

"welcome to the united snakes, land of the thief, and home of the slave. the grand imperial guard, where the dollar is sacred and power is god."

if your total net worth rests below a cool few million i suggest you stay away.

silly me. silly me, silly me, silly me. after all this country was built on generation after generation of genocide, **** and fraud, codified into the laws we hold so tight and so high, how naive was i to even expect civil discourse and equality from a naturally sinister state?

cloaked in the fog of pure ignorance we the people paradoxically bear the weight of our fraudulent federal government on our backs while simultaneously parasitically depend upon it.

parapets and gaudy domiciles all built with the blood sweat and tears of the disenfranchised. soft music composed of the screams of children dying from predator drone hellfire missiles lilts through the hallways.

news flash: the illuminati and the reptilian overlords are not trying to control your mind.

this is not about pineal gland calcification and third eyes but about the systematic disenfranchisement and subjugation of every man woman and child in this unfortunate nation.

they impose harsh sentences on small time drug crimes and outsource our only sources of economic stability.
left with no upward mobility, we then resort to any means necessary to simply survive.

'the world is your oyster.' they say. and they conveniently fail to mention the fine print which emphatically states that you may only possess the oyster shucking knife if you are white, male, and upper middle class.

this is not about checking privilege and white guilt. this is about the way that this ****** up world works. about the sinister cogs turning behind the scenes.

and if you dare raise your voice in resistance you'll find yourself staring at cinderblock walls, spools of barbed wire, reinforced steel bars, and armed guards for the rest of your sad life. your enclosed inmate existence making the coffers of the prison-industrial complex even deeper.

some say we should raise our fists instead and fight. and i say to them good luck fight the world's most technologically advanced military in its own home territory. Guerilla warfare and armed millitias stand about as good of a chance and gorillas armed with sticks and stones when the enemy possesses satellites that can see your face from orbit.

and i hope you don't mine being despised by the public of the modern world when you're slapped in the face with that dreadful catch-all term that is 'terrorist'.

but we can't just sit here and let the vines of greed asphyxiate our vitality away.

so herein lies the eternal question that i pose to you:

what are we to do?
this is my first attempt at a slam poem
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
oh right... i thought i was on a ****** nod for a minute,
what, a, blank...

she thought i looked like Jim Morrison when met,
i worked out, played squash,
a really healthy example of zoology -
is that, the logic of caged animals?
a bit like the logic of soulless animals
with a god, soulless animals without one,
and the other two 90° variations of the square?
they're inspereble (blah) / momentary
dyslexia, naturally with English - inseparable,
pairing, ah! but isn't much of modern
psychology a bit like zoology? i mean the cages,
the untested theories, stemming from
roots of Jungian and Freudian *******?
Edward Hopper sketched himself with the joke
on visual inferences from these two
molesters of fair game - Michael Myers
just walked in and smashed their heads in...
win win scenario... but psychology is very
much like zoology - keeping a caged animal,
reverse baby onomatopoeia from what the adults
equate mama with... ego... that's their childishness,
babies say *mama
adults say ego,
as if no dead Latin bureaucrat is listening
with a chisel in hand to double-fold missing
the concept of handwriting - it wasn't alive
back when it was all on papyrus, or stone,
it had a brief existence in aristocratic circles
when we wrote with quills and connected pretty well,
we soared with geese! we soared with swans!
we perched on trees like jerky crows!
god, it was beautiful, but then digital came in,
newspaper print, we felt claustrophobic connecting
letters, like jigsaw puzzles put together
some things didn't connect - unless it was a case
of a familial affair, ******, less game of hide & seek
and more a game of lookalike...
we even had perfumed paper back then...
right now you read a newspaper for too long
and you're ready to stamp your fingerprint in a police
station... and i thought money was *****,
newspapers are second-best... ***** currency of
the omni-literate populace - starving journalists
who parasitically feed of of celeb culture,
provided with excess stimulation by paparazzi
nudes... but zoology and psychology are alike,
cages in both cases, restrictions: either no god
or no soul, either some body or nobody -
trained cognitive monkey... does a fanciful trick
sometimes: yep, gets up onto a table in a nightclub
and does a cancan interpretation of the goose step
(stechschritt - all those in favour of the ministry
of simply silly get drowned in the Thames)
as if jogging on a treadmill, in one place -
the mantis in a game of chess - the mantis in a game of chess -
a game kings believed having the earliest known
satellite image from way way above - the best
way of looking at the abstraction of insects.
still, zoology is very much psychology, or vice versa,
cages and prior theories with their guillotines of
Aztec like sacrifice - i told you! those pyramids were
built for capital punishment, excess on architectural side
of what a scaffold could look like, fear inducers,
deterrents, but at least not Egyptian tombs!
and how many bars in this cage of yours can you can
with psychology: the logic of having soul, in practice
the logic of not having a soul, i.e. treatment of thinking -
the behavioural study of a man sitting in silence -
after an hour he folds a leg over the other and continues
sitting in silence - psst... it's called listening therapy...
or talk... 3 hours pass some rain falls... neither patient
or the psychiatrists is any wiser... but the latter gets paid,
the former just looks like a **** clown without makeup.
so she hooked up and wanted to start a band...
she had keyboards in mind... that was already a bad idea...
she thought i was some sort of version of Jim Morrison...
well, if i was, or if i am... i'm doing this thing solo.
Connor Mar 2016
Old Katherine Kimberly had a sty near her eye
it was a bleeding abhorrent electric
dream spilling out her sanity
the sty was not just any regular sty
it was a satyr placed there by cruel forever
just because
why not

old KATHERINE KIMBERLY had a
mute cousin who came over for tea
when K.K was feeling down, he wanted to be a comedian
but this wouldn't work out for obvious reasons.
old Katherine Kimberly
had a recurring nightmare involving the world around her inverting it's layout, a backwards realm with backwards chairs and backwards backs
everyone looking like they suffered a dramatic accident
spine snapped but still walking
she was the outcast with her even shoulders and
delicate form but there it was that sty by her eye
wouldn't quit not even with sleep.
She went to see a doctor about the nightmares he prescribed a miracle
didn't work
so she went to church
met some wiry bald-spot
evangelic addict figure who
gave her mysterious bagged-and-untagged drugs
(those didn't work either)
nothing would help.. Kimberly came to the conclusion that the sty and the dreams were correlated in some spiritual, cursed sort of way.
Nobody could see it they promised

"No! no! you look fine, everything is in order god knows what you're on about Kim"

but she scratched and scratched for hours in her bedroom and looked in the faded mirror with microscopic detail and sure enough it was/gone??
since when??
she could feel it there, she was no hypochondriac it was alive and feeding off her still
that HORRIBLE THING!
some months now or maybe more it had always weighed her down but now gone
or never there...?
IMPOSSIBLE!
this wasn't over, old Katherine Kimberly would tear this ****** apart on a sub-atomic level and make sure it would never haunt her in any respect from "this day forth!" she said poetically,
wearing a conservatively fashioned dress with green flowers on it
and green grass, too.

She took to the New York subway on a Wednesday, the time was.......2pm
and she was headed to the drycleaners but not the one closest her apartment, the people that ran that one were pushy and irritating.
She was going to "Maude's" she and Maude had lovely conversations about the Gardener who lived one floor up from her who sometimes allowed a small hello from his lips on the way up, off of work.
She liked what he liked
or at least she imagined that to be true
but then again we all do that
it's a bad habit
he could be a total *******, she thought.
Old Katherine Kimberly walked in and opened the backroom there was Maude listening to Brian Eno
(Cindy Tells me/HERE COME THE WARM JETS/1974)

"THE RICH GIRLS ARE WEEPING"

Maude heard K.K come in and swiveled around in her office chair with the one off-kilter wheel which she didn't do a very good job of fixing.
"Well I don't shop at Ikea, its no wonder why, Kat"

"This sty! I know it looks like it's gone, but it isn't, do you still have any of that herbal remedy stuff you told me about earlier?"

"yeah, yeah.. the stuff you refused take way back when?"

"I admit I was being stupid, I just need help, I'm out of options and I'm kind of on a bad trip right now, see? some ghoul at the church gave me these pretty pink pills, said they were from mars and that they could cure anything! O Maude I was desperate and now I'm hallucinating all sorts of wack. I'm afraid I won't come back from this! I dunno what to do Maude! I dunno what to do!"

"Relaxxxx poor doll, you're always getting caught up in messes like this. It's like I said! you gotta settle down with that Rupert, he seems like a genuine guy, real caring, real. I'll help you, I have that herbal medicine in my car I will be right back"

Maude left hastily with a pat on K.K's shoulders as she went
K.K was going cuckoo
she suddenly felt that on a very metaphysical level her atoms were remembering this drug
always
and that when she died, eventually..some innocent child would be reconstituted with her atoms
to live with this for all time
and to be forcefully admitted into a psychiatric ward
pleading for lobotomy!

"What is this? what did I take? does that Kubrick-looking ****** use this often? how is he even tethered to reality?" she was dizzy, good thing she was sitting down..

Maude came back, shaking her head in sympathetic disapproval
"Jeez.. you've gone down the rabbit hole as far as ailment is concerned, that's for sure"

"What do you mean..?" Katherine Kimberly kept her feet grounded to the carpet as to not sway reality to a snowglobe catastrophe.

"Well you say the sty has something to do with the nightmares, or vice-versa, so you took drugs from a complete stranger! only made things worse, I'm sure.. and now you've come to me"

"That's true" K.K agreed
"Why do this to yourself?"
"I've been lost, out of tune, completely washed.."
(((((())))(((((()(((((((((())))(())))))))))()()()))))((­(())))))))))
she was going to continue, but felt like vomiting

She lept from her seat and hunted for a bathroom,
A vicious tabla bleached her brain
with supernatural viscosity
her body played like a cosmic instrument
for a higher being in a higher realm.
Next, the frantic sitar which reminded K.K of July and
the humid balcony marijuana, Ravi Shankar melodically spinning in her living room.
This was a much different experience.. as made clear by her
convulsions
the viper's final dose of venom

"The great spirit lifted his hand without much ado, and split apart Flower Mountain's ten million layers." - from Elder Ting Stands Motionless. (Blue Cliff Record)

"-******* that ******* from the church
why I ever listened to him-
-I feel like I am afloat atop the world able to see the stars as vibrant eyes! but I'm wavering without a sense of gravity. I am at once motionless and spinning!-"

A lot more trouble than it was worth,
O the wisdom of consequence!
K.K, poor doll, lucid consciousness
and an acute awareness for her disposition in this Universe
and all alternate universes for that matter.
(Including the version of her that decided against taking those pink pills from that pink-cheeked man, Stanley Kubrick lookalike ******* probably only posing as a religious man, they never met in one reality, they ****** in another. In one he is god! he is the only god! and in one she is god! anything better than this reality now! her lungs foaming up with death)

GLOBE-O-VOOTY/
GUIDE-O/
ME SOFTLY/
GET THIS THREY-WAY/
OUT FROM MY MIND/
(That's VOUT language for you, there. Slim Gaillard's timeless bop language)

after puking up the rest of her morning meal
she wiped her mouth dry with her sleeve and
reunited w/ Maude who handed K.K that herbal
music
and wished her well

"Look, I know it's none of my bussiness.. but if I were in your shoes, I'd make some changes.. that's all I'm gonna say about THAT"

so Katherine Kimberly went home, she wept
wept about her disposition
about her mistakes
about that inoperable mental sty which was more than a sty
parasitically latched onto her for ages
she wept about how boring people were
how after all this protest and bloodshed
we're just the same as before if not less intellectual!
this fever dream of a day hath made her realize
that she SHOULD make a change.
Hell, Maude was right, sometimes insufferable (tho not as much as others)
She couldn't keep doing this, whatever this was.

The herbal medicine was contained in some cutesy vial
a kind of amber-shade
thick liquid.
Just in the fashion of Lewis Caroll she
drank up her prayer potion, with the sensation that the room was expanding around her, shrunk down to the pathetic dreamer once again,
and so she tried to sleep this desperate sickness off.

One floor up, Rupert thought about whether or not he should *******, he decided to make some coffee instead, continuing where he left off on a new-age book about hypnotism.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
try gathering up the marbles with akua naru's the journey aflame, heidegger's ponderings ii - vi, and the sight of lost virginity in trees or at least their mortality to blossom reduced to skeleton... or lungs' alveoli.

there's an acute difference between hip-hop and rap...
hip-hop has the decency to acknowledge the sax...
sure the beat of rap is there: on-and-off,
but hip-hop has the table manners to spin
out a continuum from jazz, it has Darwinistic traits
to engage in a continuum...
rap is like rock when starting off from
scratch and not from pauper blues...
do you want words like kid, yeah,
   and other belittling babushka doll
verbiage? this is me, raw,
          god, the plight of constantly stating
authenticity... art and plagiarism
and that constant need to avoid the latter,
much claimed, much too little deviated from,
even on the altar of pains
from hernia (in my unconscious,
as a baby i had that: intestines out bulging),
acne beyond my teenage years: newspapers
say that it's dying out...
            my mother faked falling down
the stairs today...
               it's called bypassing the n.h.s. queue
off the medical bureaucrat that's the general
practitioner who chicken scratches prescription
and as all medical professionals: has
hands worthy of a butcher's, the only thing tangible
to the eyes as to the ear is the signature,
and that's everyone's Picasso moment.
         hip-hop? i can do drive-by shooting with
that ****, talk ******, talk:
      right now i'm surfing on concrete.
wait... orcs... what's female with that vinyl?
        niggerette? sure, Solomon swine talk
with Sheba from Ethiopia or wherever she was from.
  and the *ger
man said that cultural politics is
the last remembered barbarism...
           some learn english and turn to identity pride
as if they didn't come out of an ant's exoskeleton
stating the menu: all mushy cushiony inside, boyo.
   2011 and we're still ******* that torpedo
that's the chainsaw crazy bulletin of: haircuts you
shouldn't endorse.
            so she faked it, ****, we all know that women
always began lying and men told too many truths,
at least women got a monopoly on what's to come
in d.n.a. tattoos... men ******* into science rather
than fatherhood... gamble here, gamble there...
      this paramedic didn't look the part,
esp. when he started talking, he wanted to shed off
his official attire of paramedic green...
   my mother? the lowercase blood pressure too
high from acting,
                            i don't bother about mine,
i'm drinking while she's in the hospital wanting a
c.t.i. scan... selfish or selfless? i have no antidote
for death's dynamic this afternoon,
   i just wish i was given the precursor insight into
all of this fake... wait... that's really personal...
anyway, this paramedic really hid his inner,
he bred parrots prior to... bombshell: breeding
snakes... pythons 5ft long, 400 or so in his aquariums...
i don't know where exaggerations begin or end,
but i asked him: poor eyesight, snakes.
yep, he taught his serpents to gulp up dead rats,
apparently 25K a year...
apparently snouting out of the shell doesn't
equal pecking out of it... t-rex in the sky
flying high... plop... out comes a ****** for lizard
and mr. birdie...
                    that's one way to appreciate lacks
to what's mammalian and tapeworm,
   hence that desire in woman to 'take this **** out of me!
take this **** out of me!' i understand the panic
                (Prometheus movie style),
    out comes a lizard in an egg, out comes a crow
out from an egg, and here we are, stomach-to-stomach
connect: needless to say, after 9 months parasitically born:
i can understand the panic, it's like being *****
for 9 months and eating strange combinations of foods:
doughnuts and cucumbers...
           i really don't understand this religious
implant that there's a person behind a forming-foetus
when there's still the diaper to come,
the weak bladder and the weak **** not yet formed,
the baby teeth to fall out... all of these physical
foundations and only then, the thought,
     and then after many more years and exposure
to democracy: a debate concerning a soul...
           and of course your interaction with the ****
thing to mould the insides...
             well, that's one side of the tale...
we all know that the other if filled with
conformity, pleasantries and babyshowers: what's
the great mystery there?
   ****... all i wanted to say is that birds are neo-lizards,
where the foetus and the ****** plop out
       from the female, and all that's left to do is sit
on an armchair and **** into it...
                    even i concede the point about
things being too stressful and too weird...
               but that's also about finding your cool...
               and thankfully... akua naru's album is as good
as it had to be... thankfully i can apply the rule-of-thumb
usually reserved for prog-rock albums...
that's an hour of my attention ****, gone,
   the better part of a magic trick entrapped in realism...
hardly that thing we know today: 3 minutes snap!
    3 minutes snap!      breaking points for the top 40
chart successes... i count listening to an entire album
a success primo:
   (concerning my mother? something happened prior,
it was as authentic as was required to get past
n.h.s. bureaucracy) -
            people get so panicky these days,
and not a single islamic extremist in sight...
odd: i take it that mortality is worth being considered
a boiled egg being juggled among hot coal...
   well, hip-hop isn't rap for the sole reason: jazzmatazz.
Connor Thomas Aug 2013
psychic infantile bopping
play silent drum kits in ear canals.
screeching like whales
in caverns of sea and stalagmites.

servantile shrapnel leaking into abyss:
feeding on skin and bones,
parasitically.
eating through biting cries,
viciously.

gumdrops streaking sidewalk
in musical rhythm stain glass windows
and blurry red eyed sun high in the sky
shines down crystalline tear drops
over your singularly secular shadow.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
symbols, some just say zodiac, with Gemini at my lowest ebb - ebb, funny word, unravelling nouns from the cauldron of onomatopoeias, say knock on wood precipitated into a privacy of owning a door - whereas the Irish and the Poles encoded dialogue (like in Ulysses) with hyphen for snappy convo; in a pub, Charlie and Harry spoke:
- pint's on me.
- aye, on you the one and no more.
- why not more on me?
- i won the lottery, i'm goonah buy half of Cork.
- so who's this Yorrick fella'h?
- apparently a resurrected maxim.
- travesty...
- indee- doodley oh.
which beckons the question why the un-imaginative encoding of sounds gave English narrators too much power... the supposed ditto / invert comma wasn't expression of approx., nuanced, why wasn't the interpretation that of nuance? we can all use the unit Sartre chose to nuance, instead of "ego" the ref. point of conduct ~ego, i.e. approximately me, living with my mother but nonetheless womanising... unimaginative narrator, speeding, never gave his characters a chance, "i went to the market today", he said; that's the narrator masquerading - call this a dubbing mechanism? i would... like i'd hope for the centimetres and miles and nanometres of pause differentiating a comma from a hyphen, a hyphen from a colon, a colon from a semi-colon... and a semi-colon from a fullstop (exampled a germanic word with missing hyphen not authorised by the Oxbridge dictionary of couture, disassembling a navy sweater and toad-green jeans)... i mean, **** me, give me the precision tactics to read without invoking an αsθmαtιc imitation of a sailor's last breath; are those dots above i and j really necessary? it just rained down y y y y y y y y y y on top of them, enzyme activity? yep, ιoτα; otherwise just inert *******; and no, it's not a language these days, English has been reduced to pixel graffiti.

well... mandrakes and sparrows
aren't exactly androgynous...
maybe a mascara advert went missing
along the way... maybe.
here the piano... here the broken
fingers of Liszt... you poker me,
it's worth the gamble...
well ontologically *sprechen
what
the hell is a natural appropriation
of waiting for water to boil,
or an egg to be poached in shell
for a runny yoke? me neither,
i'm as dumb as a doughnut concerning
such affairs... i said there's no androgynous
behavioural patterns in sparrow and mandrakes,
you choose you adaptability whenever you
choose to stress a chequered flag...
parasitically i'll march with telescope
ants and flies of what alienation did
to the food-chain - yeah, aliens with an
enlargement syndrome -
bathtub of hydrochloric acid -
i just imagine the newly beloved painting
unseen, a squid cleaving fat and muscles
off a skeleton in the same light
as seeing a ******* - artist or pervert?
i guess both go hand-in-hand;
the hyphen, equal parallel usage with the inverted
coma / well... it used to be known as a ditto
                                                           ­            "
                                                               ­        "
                                                               ­        "
but mind you, before Oxford accepts a german
sounding word compound it requires a hyphen
in english - pistachio shells and shrapnel -
yep, as the above - unravelling of fictive tactics
of the bothersome nature for the narrator not only
loßing the plot but also the characters;
hey, english is perfect, i can apply whatever stresses
of φoνo i want... it's stark naked Adam & Eve...
i can put a ballerina's leotard on this encoding,
and no one will truly mind.
Olivia Oct 2015
I would call this a virus,
Definitely something you don’t describe as alright..it’s
Infectious, unnecessarily a mess…it’s
That cold and rainy day you lock yourself out of the car
While the umbrella is locked in the house

You can no longer fathom being in this limbo land between those two shelters
Limbo: the type of nothingness that exists when there is no rooftop made of mom’s forehead kisses
You can’t allow the world to let you feel that type of cold again…so dismiss this
Because this world can make you feel whole again.
But I would still call this a virus

Because everyone contracts it at some point in their lifetime
But there are only a few who are purely mute about carrying it
Not seemingly aware of it
They infect multiple people, definitively uncaring for them
This virus is a fickle *****

Statistically there’s a 98.732% chance that it can make you feel like ****.
Oh wait
I didn’t admit to this
It’s the virus

It’s been attaching, penetrating and assembling in my brain
Preparing me to fit into this perfectly squared peg game of mundane *******
I am a ******* carrier of this mischief


I’m the ******* host
I am this virus
And I let the virus parasitically invade, like spreading almond butter on my toast
It seeps in the pores and spores of all living things
Hi, nice to meet you, I call myself a virus
****, wait sorry that wasn’t me  
Personifying the virus from it-to he-to him- ya see- he
He’s now attacking my bloodstream
Contacting old friends like a telephone ringing
He’s contracting old wounds, from old dooms, I used to cry about in my old room
-Like the memory of calling mom from my locked room when she was four states away, crying because I felt shame and blame, because Dad told me they only fight about me…I’m the reason for their divorce…but I’m only ******* 8-

Recalling that memory, now older, I know it wasn’t all it seemed to be
There’s an awareness you acquire when you feel close to our maker
The virus tries to push me in the other direction
But now, I can confidently say, my cuts don’t bleed on anything but paper 

Let’s still call him a virus (if you’d like)
And now I really don’t mind it
Because it is in all of us
It is in all of you

It CAN punch, bleed, hit, yell, keeping you sickly ill til your pride is crushed inside calling for help
Embrace and be aware of the fact that it is in you

With this virus
You must understand that being a carrier of this thing gives you 98.732% chance of making others feel like ****
But….
You better ******* choose to be
The 1.268% chance of the virus that won’t
Because the choice is yours

It’s going outside on a sunny day or staying in to feel the sluggish pain
Because sadness is sometimes comforting
Don’t do it anymore

We numb ourselves into perpetual delirium
With routine, fear, and small-minded bigotry
We allow ourselves to come accustom to the lack of exhilarating
We binge watch and binge drink ourselves into binge eating because
Life’s too boring without binge seeing through that dark tunnel

We have a ******* virus
It’s called perpetual delirium…
Some call it a euphoric glee
Only because that definition allows you to embrace your routine
Not hate the routine
See the difference between perception and reality?
And your next store neighbor tommy says its okay to cry yourself to sleep because he does it willingly
And what that means is that there is too much  
Comfort in numbers
Fact: unhappiness is less scary when everyone is feeling it
Fact: that is some unnecessary, humanistic behavior *******
Because we’re too weak to blame ourselves for creating it.
This unhappiness, this virus.
Are we fooling ourselves? We’re ******* psychotic
When will we wake up from this infectious disease?
You have the ability to wake up from this infectious disease
You’re the 1.268% of euphoric glee
I see it in your sparkling eyes

Wake yourself up from your perpetual delirium
Because you are the anecdote that cures any lack of equilibrium
In our universe.
I call it 1.268%-vaccination
1.268% of no medication.

People are looking
You are all looking at me
And I’m staring at you
Hoping
You gain something from this interaction
I assume you are happier than you lead yourself to believe-
So let yourselves believe and see those capabilities
Because
I, too, am fragile, hostile, accomplished, and mad
We’re inappropriate, seductive, obnoxious, and sad
You’ve got a heart of gold that weighs 1.268 ounces
And it’s the size of your iron fist
You are people
I am people
We are people
Let’s get out of this perpetual delirium
Because it’s a virus, and once you get it…the infection won’t miss.
Chano Williams Apr 2014
Looking up at the night time sky
wishing I could be that high
I k­now that I will someday
when I seize the chance to fly
Get away f­rom these lonely people
For their entire lives they’ve strayed
De­sperately searching for love,
but selfish in every way
Never will­ing to take a chance
so everything remains the same
Never using t­heir time wisely,
so they never step up their game
They just beco­me dependents
upon other people’s souls
Parasitically sapping the­m
until it’s finally taken its toll
This world is full of zombies­
Most people can’t help themselves
They see you’re content with l­ife,
so they won’t ever wish you well
Find your piece of heaven
w­ithin this world of hell
Learn to take care of yourself
without h­aving somebody else
Know that you’re not alone
Someone else has f­elt your pain
If you learn to open up
then you have everything to­ gain
Keep your chin up high
because it’s known that love soars,
­but if you choose to stay down low
so, too, will your hopes of so­mething more
VERNARTH
Monastic  Cell

Vernarth begins to describe:
"This magnificent monastic complex dominates the island, and the old settlement of Chorá, associated with it, is home to many religious and secular buildings, where the famous pressurization of the inspiring forces of the Beloved Disciple is present, in this place he will reside in the sacred year 95 AD. AD, with his Gospel and the Apocalypse. A monastery dedicated to the "beloved disciple" was founded there in 1088 by Hosios Christodoulos Latrinos and has been a place of Greek Orthodox pilgrimage and teaching ever since.

Spilaion Apokalypseos (Cave of the Apocalypse) Many architectural changes have undergone over 900 years, adapting to changing political and economic circumstances. It has the outward appearance of a polygonal castle with battlements flanked by towers. It also houses a remarkable collection of manuscripts, icons, and liturgical objects and works. The primitive elements, which date back to the 11th century, are the catholicon (main church) of the monastery, the chapel of Panagia and the refectory. The north and west sides of the inner courtyard are surrounded by the white walls of the cells, and on the south side stands the Tzafara, a two-tier arcade in dressed stone, built in 1698. The outer narthex of the catholicon forms the east side. . Halfway up the steep path from Skalá to Chorá is the Cave of the Apocalypse (Spilaion Apokalypseos), where, according to tradition, Saint John dictated the Book of Revelations and his gospel to his disciple Prochoros. This sacred place attracted several small churches, chapels and monastic cells, thus creating an interesting architectural ensemble. ”
They continue in this set of phenomena towards the definitive mediation of the cavern by means of the inspirational illumination of the conduit of the ****** of the hundred doors or church of the hundred doors, declaiming the Panagia with the hermit and his disciple Prochoros, with remarkable whispers of the Blue Cormorant that he brought from La garriga; from a nearby ecoregion with plant formations emerging in the biomes of the Mediterranean forests, to incense all the white walls of the cells where the hermit led them walking together with two monumental candle torches. From here this cormorant will transport all the bioclimatic zones of the ecosystem, to constrain the Tytillinus embryo to be swallowed by it, predominantly to forget about its concept of egg as an oviparous generation of temptation and to be anchored to the plant site as an original species. . This blue cormorant is a superlative factor in the context of changing the cephalization of this demon-monster in the collective consciousness of the grotto and its shed.

They transpose the Tzafara, where the cormorant perches lavishly moving its head like a spasm in its neck to the northern north, illuminating its crimson green eyes. Destining his penances for the narthex as an open portico until the exonarthex, here the multiplied figure of Tytillinus would increase, appearing to be dominant before them, but all remained cohesive and closely united in paleo Christian rosaries, to re-infuse the forces of fear transferred to this invader.

Thus being able to reach the hemisphere of the mound that comes from Skalá, in front of them the Spilaion Apokalypseos grotto in Katapausis. You could see how the crystals of unhappiness turned into high-grade psalms of translucent stained-glass crystals of extremely shameful colors. Vernarth carried in his hand a Sheesham box with purisms and essences of the temple earth that he was building, he carried his magnificent thoughts inside the catholicon tied in his arms of the quarterdeck, where the raw solvents of the past wars as Military Commander oozed.
In front of the cave they all perch. Vernarth will inaugurate the Quadrivium whose four paths; They would group disciplines related to mathematics, geometry, astronomy and music as a study curriculum for the uprising of species and their preservation for centuries and centuries. Linked to the tracks or roads; grouping grammar eloquence and helping to speak, with dialectics to help search for the truth, and rhetoric coloring the words. Thus they understood the grammar, dialectic, rhetoric and its elementary figures and the three Trivium routes attached as a whole on this pilgrimage as they were already in front of the hermitage of the Saint. Raeder, Petrobus and Eurydice move their anxious feet with a few bars of Laziko, thus throwing from the ground with their feet the particles of thousands of years inseminated by the adjacent atmosphere towards the theological philosophical goal of the spirits satisfied to join them in the masses in proportion to the weight of their mobile talents, applying makeup like millennia to each other ..., parading before them.

Orpheons of the lowlands of Patmos were felt entering through the holes of the roof of the cavern, in communion to join them in the compas of this beautiful melody that diverged from all the original immaculate accents of the gifts along with the original of the Holy disciple. The petrified lotophagous mushrooms walked swiftly along the walls through the deviant Trojan ships, towards where the Trinidadian music descended from the roof, bruising the oversized apricots of the candlesticks, dazzling the other walls full of figurative tapestries of conceptual and iconographic images. Vernarth sang the Almara, an insistent retrograde song that invoked the entire community of Skalá and surroundings to join them through the arena sliding down the face-to-face gorge of the Katapausis, imbued in the mega center of the redoubled canticos of their own gorges, cloning the flat voices of the unknown mezzo vocal origin. Saint John only Vernarth allows him to enter his monastic cell, the others remain in the anteroom, pouring holy water and touching the hyper-curled walls of Chytridiomycota mushrooms that became voluminous in the immortal reflections of the vivid glow, to gather them to follow his insistent pastoral voice to a meadow of prominent demarcation step with its dynamic Laziko. Vernarth places in his hands a thick and heavy sacred medal, which will allow him to cease his lamentations and processes of Excessive occultism, before the heavy solitude procreated on his new face in rictus of joy and smiles in rounds of healing, beyond all predictions of his avatars and proselytes.


Vernarth goes on to describe:
A large amount of stress accumulated due to damage to the mitochondria that respond to the DNA that preserved the genetic material niche itself in a different way from that of the nucleus in the cavern, managing to dissipate after auscultating with the Quadrivium, detecting that a large part of the volumes manuscripts and iconographies were reactivated to other books as guests, to make them a living portrait for the tissue of the organism that parasitically inhabited the cavern walls. Inquiring an organized mitoconuclear communication. If they fail to resolve the mitochonuclear mtDNA breaks, before the radiosities of the celestial diaphragm, a dysfunction will be triggered that will affect the cells and tissues of the host, on all manuscripts and iconographies. These mitochondrial genomes will examine their function in the area of organic cellular spatiality, therefore the ideas obtained of incompatibility will remove all the saprophytic material from the rough trails of the demon granule Tytillinus, to exile it to the confines of its eco-region, where it lives unnaturally abandoned.

An evanescent canonical source alluding to this stay in Patmos will reveal to them through the roofs of all the houses of Skalá, mentioning through the mouth of the Eremita: “I, John, your brother and partner in the tribulation, in the kingdom and in the patience of Jesus I was on the island called Patmos because of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus. I was in spirit on Sunday when I heard behind me a great voice like a trumpet saying: '' Write what you see in a book and send it to the seven churches (Rev 1: 9-11). Moist winds licked all the roofs changing the nuances and morning faces, proclaiming the new secular kingdom. ” The most detailed source, continues to deny his parchment although already in late popular event, on his stay in Patmos are the apocryphal Acts of John, attributed to his disciple Prochorus. In them it is told how Juan and his disciple looked for a quiet place with a cave where they spent ten days of fasting. Subsequently, John sent Procorus to buy papyri and ink, and for two days dictated to his disciple the text of the revelation. Later the saint would entrust his disciple with a noble copy on parchment. The Golden Legend makes practically no reference to these moments, except for a mention that "he was entrusted with having confidentially known some arcane and profound things, such as the divinity of Jesus Christ and the end of the world".

The apostle appears on the spot presenting Vernarth with writing as a sacred office, also to commission future parchments for his future prophecies, and ink on a scroll or codex resting on his knees or on a desk. He also boasts showing him the writing tools (calamus, inkwell, rasorius, cornua) that are usually also reflected in considerable detail in the decals of his fingered golden fingers, accompanying the eagle, symbolically within the set of the tetramorphs of the old testament. Here Vernarth takes his face in compassion when he learns that his hermit master acquired the appearance of an octogenarian appearing accompanied by his disciple Prochorus, showing him the streaks, singing to them with the ninety years since he was exiled. It is a subject of late consolidation, very frequent in the late medieval manuscripts that contain this book or fragments of it, especially the books of hours where the image of the saint abounds on the island accompanied by the eagle, allusion to the apocalyptic living, and with much Frequently, of an imp that throws the inkpot or hides the calamus and that many authors have identified with Titivillus, a medieval demon who was credited with spelling errors in books and mistakes in prayers in order to win souls for Lucifer. The first reference that is had of this terrible demon is in the Tractatus of Penitentia of John of Wales, which dates from the year 1285, which will be evidenced in the framework of this stratagem entrenched in Vernarth's career as a Macedonian warrior, and that he would bring with this odeón the detuned song that would rule those who cultivate the art of sound near luminous beings prone to lose faith, as well as those who represent here as Tytillinus, vast evil oppressor of those who look at sacred scriptures affecting their eyes, as a sign of peeling of degraded human eye skin.
The others appearing were outside in a shed, all very close to each other, just waiting for the order to leave. Suddenly they see a brilliant blue waving light, which was coming down on them, it was an eagle coming towards them as a signal to tell them that Vernarth was coming back, to go to go with them to their rooms and continue with their daily tasks.

Under edit / continue
MONASTIC  CELL
Aaron Mullin Nov 2014
Organically evolving
Intermingling
With deviants
Parasitically
Just in caste systems
Capitalizing
On the leverage
Of love
Homogenizing
Allowing the parasite
A taste of something
They don’t recognize:
Truth & Beauty
Allowing those
Elements inside
Tormentee bleeding for tormentor
And eventually both parties change
The parasite spurs the host toward strengthened
Resolve
And Love is no longer a foreign language
To those most in need

Innoculate them with kindness
“Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I am kind to everyone …” ~~Al Capone
Mary-Rose H Sep 2017
My heart
crackles
with an indecipherable
something
which gives it
shape,
yet seems to simultaneously,
parasitically
siphon
all
joy
and
will
from within it.

Maybe it's just
my heart
masquerading,
pretending substance
to cover up the overwhelming
nothing.

After all, nature abhors a vacuum.
This, too, shall pass.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
oh believe me,
whatever i should, or shouldn't do,
i've the backing of
making claims to being
criminally insane as a defence
mechanism...
the sort of Darwinism they
hardly consider to teach
schoolchildren;
i've basically parasitically adapted
for journalism as anti-history;
you really didn't care to
inspect human ingenuity to
forsake the monkey, did you?
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
If I could save even one person, maybe I would speak.

、、、、

Her flesh wrapped around her like kudzu on a tree, parasitically engaged in what others yearned for.

If you can't rely on blood, who do you have left?

So I stayed. Because no one would come near. How kind she was. How gracious and loving and loved.

、、、、

Her skin became cold. The very ***** dedicated to masking her advanced structure became like a marble slab left in the snow. That flesh that cradled her meaningless meanings hardened like the exoskeletons she imitated.

She was an insect through and through.

、、、、

And even if cold was the absence of heat, the left-behind contraband someone else came to cherish, she emanated the very invasion that enveloped her.

She radiated her icy salvation.

、、、、

And so when the time came that I was able to touch her...
When it was upon my own flesh I would feel what she refused to feel, she grasped onto me.

As if she longed to drag me into her abyss with one last throe, one last labor of love for her blood.

、、、、

My fingers never fell off, but I was frost bitten. My organs never failed, but I was shredded apart by the sting of the sobbing wind.

、、、、

I didn't become her marble carcass like I should have.

、、、、

She didn't take me with her.

I couldn't save her anymore.

Not even if I had devoted my life to doing so. Never again. She left me behind, and I was cold too.

、、、、

My skin is not chilled to the touch. My muscles are not the remnants of a frozen cicada shell. My skeleton is not made of the icicles left to melt in the sun's triumph.

My tendons ache in the wake of an ancient breeze that blew by far too late.

、、、、

I am not a slab of cold marble.

、、、、

I am a starkly darkened visage to behold and not be held, forever turning over and over,
never ceasing and always yearning for that which never was, and that which will never be.

I was only for their sake. Never mine, even if I pretended.

、、、、

This endless daydream that expands before and behind me, that twists in tendrils that are deplorably mine and

soak in the oily water that inisists on being my keeper... I will not let go of the ribcage it offers to my grasping hands.

I will bear who I am. I am my sickness.

、、、、

I will plunge into the needy and engorged expanse of shifting flowers and lodged viscera.

I will continue to encase and cease.

、、、、

Forever in my head.
Forever in my skull. Forever tapping in my cage. Forever clipping my scrawny wings. Forever sincere.

、、、、

I loved her, and I couldn't
save her.

She was dead, and I couldn't save her.

She was alive, and I couldn't save her.

、、、、

What remains?
Irreparable me.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
perhaps they'd like these linguistic albinos, but there is a greater allegiance to the tongue, than to the flesh, to the flag, to the geography... there's a transcendental allegiance to the soul... i hold my allegiance to the tongue, even if it's imported and a parasitically gloating bud akin to cancer... i still hold my allegiance to the tongue, but not, to the people that imbue it materialistically as flag & flesh first... i have an allegiance beyond the diadem of the crown... i will speak the natives tongue, but i will not bleach myself in order to sink to their level of despair... hence i kept a dual allegiance to another tongue... nation does not come before tongue... and tongue is what is inserted to animate the soul; forget your roots, forget whether there was ever you in the first place; ******* can't bleach me into being their circus ******* that constantly tend to invent slang!*

how often i find myself wishing to speak
a third language, other than english,
**** it: even german!
but i sometimes come around thankful
that there's a cushion for the ear
to recline on...
          a song in finnish, in french,
norwegian, faroese...
         russian...
           and i'm suddenly satiated...
they might have forced out the tongue
of the africans...
but then again the skin colour
disparity, and sure, the africans
managed to climb over their loss of tongue...
problem is... they're white,
i'm white...
                my tongue is the only
thing that differentiates me from them...
i can't forget that,
       i simply can't accept the Islam
of the english language...
given that it has mutated in america
and is hardly represented by the authentic
natives... if we're going to be
so, ******* blunt;
   there has to be a middle...
  you even know how intimidating it is
to be visiting paris,
and not knowing an ounce of french?
you get to play a deaf person...
unless you find an Italian or
a Canadian girl to be your tour guide
in a hostel...
otherwise?
      cut my tongue out and start calling
me Pierre, the village idiot.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
i woke up with a thought...
funny...
   so Louis XIV
built a palace...
yes, a non-defensible
                     versailles...
while            Пи́тер
founded
Санкт-Петербург
                   on a whim...
and...
               some variant
of my own included "other"...
kin...
              the stamping,
the footwork,
         the tirade of tango...
     right...
       so... "where's my money"?
crypto...
              comment section
banter...
                 the people expecting
to be paid....
  paid... for... what?
vulture journalism?
     eastern european work
ethic started to climb its way inot
the general stratum...
        "we" already know
why Britain left the European
Union...
   keep the **** paedophiles...
limit the entrty of eastern
european workers...
          imagine if Kiev joined
the club!
           w'ooh ooh h'oo!
smashing a mirror
7 times before
the superstitious maxim
started to kick in!
    i might be considered
hibernian...
   outer-land outside
the statrum of the Benelux
dictum...
           me? fame?
i can tell you what uber looks
like in russia...
          the make-shift taxi
you're taking?
  it's not driven by
a serial killer...
   the first time i ever took
sight of the Baltic sea?
when i was visiting Stockholm...
so from Sweden,
everything appears
far away...
             me, Europe...
a congested space...
a constipated ideology
ready to be born mongrel...
of counter nationalism
with its continentialism...
     i could be worse off
being a tabloid journalist
blank space basher....
   fun, free...
              me and a blank
space... or for clarification's
worth of a canvas...
              raz, dwa, trzy...
   nibbling on the germanic
psyche...
        like an invasion
of the asiatics
without the tokyo
inhibitions of
actor, faked, politeness...
an answer by a satellite
people,
    having to celebrate
a century of independence...
my bad...
       i forgot to celebrate
such an event...
  lodged myself into
the use of english...
       can i simply be the person
who forgot to ask
people for money?
           money, what?
writing poetry?!
huh?!
   doktor zhivago?!
sure:
and the song too
by neon neon...
     great movie...
what?!
         vulture journalism?
         people are
allowed to sieve through
the crap of others
and expect, an expectation's
fee?

              hello,
  slander,
hello "riddling" the "other"...
the plateau...
and the skint...
  hello basis: membrane
and... buffer zone...
  hello...
                
        i already know my status:
alien...
                 against
the polyglot invitation...
yeah... i am alien...
  foreign, parasitically ridden...
is it just me,
or too few polyglot
geniuses
ever leave their
metaphysical confines
and experience their
ability as tourists?

             Louis the 14th
only envisioned a legacy
via a construction
of a palace...
                Peter the Great
decided to make
his legacy,
  worth the sediments
of a city...

               guess who's being
overlooked;
   let's overlook this
lazy affair,
of sore words,
to a wounded realism
with no alleviation.
America's tattooed youth, who were not whipped and caged and denied food as children, are taught by tax-funded schools that they're of a lesser value to mother Earth than animals—parasitically-weakened animals that eat fleas, excreta and their offspring, meet and greet by body odor and drink fetid water.
Jade Lima Apr 2020
No sense in the hate.
No sense in this neverending game.
It's all lies, and it's parasitically insane.
What's the point in all of these cover ups?
There was never a reason, only their bluffs.
Isn't it clear that i've always had enough?
Of all you people's petty chaos, and my need to ******* erupt.
If this is life then you can count me out.
Because this petty belligerent tragedy, has more than worn me out.
So as you all keep the lies going with no regard to anyone at all,
I'll hope this ******* sequence crashes, burns and falls.

— The End —