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ConnectHook Sep 2015
[Infernal Dialectic of Ongoing Struggle]

Spoke Mao Zedong to Kim Jong Ill:
We languish here in deep red hell—
Let us confer and analyze
What factors revolutionize
The contradictions still.


Replied Lil’ Kim: The running dogs
Beguiled by class and capital
Have overdrawn and overspent.
They bank on debt, and make lament
And flounder in their fogs…


Kim chee does stink, but tastes so good
Do have some more, oh comrade Mao.
Fermented cabbage goes so well
With Hennessey and blondes (in hell)
when
Juche’s in da hood!

The Fearless Leader (now a shade)
Responded thus: Just give them time.
Our doctrines spread, their God is dead
Their sons shall sing ‘The East is Red’
Our party’s got it made.


Ill Kim displayed a wicked grin:
Our rocket-launches make them fear
They scold and cluck, and then they duck
While Hillary tries to pass the buck
I think we still could win…


The Chairman thought and sipped some fire
in communistic reverie, and feeling very clever, he
Replied to Ill: This place we’ll fill
with dead reactionaries still—
fifth columns to inspire.

Now let the thousand flowers bloom
And let one thousand thoughts contend.
Remember **? Remember ‘Nam?
We triumphed over Uncle Sam—
He’s limping toward his doom.


A wizened ghost now drifted in
Because his name had been proclaimed
A wispy beard (as yet unseared)
Revealed the mastermind once feared:
Old Uncle ** Chi Minh !

** **—old friend! Draw near! Draw near,
Spoke Mao: In solidarity
We hail your work upon the earth
You showed them what a war is worth
You’re always welcome here.


Ill Kim and I were wondering
How best to make the forward leap—
conspiring ******* their cow
and smoke their duck and drain their sow
while they are buying bling.

** Chi, old warrior, why the frown?
Upon your wisdom now we wait.
The forces red you bravely led
You staked your claim until they bled
And brought their nation down.


Old uncle **, the sage revered,
did smolder with his cigarette.
Viet Cong thought is hard to grasp
It slithers like a jungle asp…
** paused and stroked his beard:

You speak without the people’s light!
I criticize in strongest terms
Your revolutionary thought.
We need to ask our friend Pol ***
How best to steer this fight.

Such gradual change, a halfway measure
stalls the Bourgeoisie’s demise.
Our true Khmer Rouge was not a stooge
of Kapital. His fame was huge
for plundering their treasure.

True, he had to purge his nation
such is revolution, gents…
The traitor classes see the masses,
through reactionary  glasses.
Death or re-education!

We ought to sow his rural seed
for pure agrarian reform.
The bodies in the rice can rot
to fertilize the harvest plot—
the people’s mouths to feed.


When Pol *** heard his tactics lauded
he flew in to join the jabber:
Take a tip from Kampuchea!
Listen well and I will teach ya!

Kim and Mao applauded.

City folk are useless eaters
glasses-wearing foes and cheaters!
let them slave – and always save
their corpses for the fertile grave
Until they love their leaders.

From the barrel power grows—
(I don’t mean kim chee barrel, boys).
Now learn my way.We’ll have our say
Their weakened states will wither away.

The Red dictator rose.

Prepared to ramble on for hours
(the way Fidel so loves to do)
Pol ***’s harangue now fired the gang
like rockets falling on Da Nang
emitting sparks in showers.

Hell is known for lack of stasis—
Sudden throes of quaking fire;
fitful flares from from Satan’s lairs
and constant similar affairs
the population faces…

Thus Saint Pol ***, still naming names
along with Mao and Kim-Jong Il
while ** Chi screamed, and then blasphemed
were swept en masse, and unredeemed
into the surging flames.

Yet still they plotted in the blaze
with dialectic deviousness.
Philosophizing, strategizing
stinking sulphur brimstone rising;
ghosts in the yellow haze . . .

        ☭ END ☭
http://tinyurl.com/q6uyx34

nicaila May 2021
Cricket sounds echoed
My saliva I just swallowed
Rumors of the devil coming out
Let me tell you what its all about

Deafening noise at 3 AM
Must be Sir Pol again
Parting my ragged curtain
Scarlet drops pattering down the drain

Shutting the windows tight
For Sir Pol just met my sight
Moonlight hungs down, I'm creepified
Meeting eye to eye gave me a fright

Sir Pol looks so dignified
But under the streetlights
I caught a glimpse of a badge
Filled with resentments and grudge

Bang!
Again... screams rang
Surely, It's Sir Pol doing his routine
Of acting like Gods, sentencing mortals into guillotine

Hey, Mister Pol Ice
Hear me, Mister Pol Ice!
The next dawn
Let me lay on my pillow at ease
And the town be in peace
Because police brutality is still rampant and in all sides of the world are voices never heard, buried into the deepest waters pleading for justice. Bullets imbedded into skulls of the innocents.
Michael Marchese Apr 2017
Prometheus ignites to spark this
Molotov to make his Marxist
On swine Fuhrer's Faux News tweet
Hashtag it #GorbachevWallStreet
'Cuz Putin's puppet Pinochet's
Whipped Creme de Kremlin's CIA  
From JFK to Allende
Like Russian roulette ricochet
I'll Trotsky through McCarthy's brains
Leave slain these ****** sugar Keynes   
Discred' the Fed’s six-figureheads
With strikes at dawn more red than Debs  
Still breakin' breads with Mulan Bouges
Makin' men of Khmer Stooges
Seein’ Rouge when Al Spans Greens
Potemkin loan wolf ponzi schemes
Who count the sheep like Philippines
Then Black Pearl Harbor GRANMA’s dreams...

Of Marilyn Monroes in store
Just off-shore ****** who **** the poor
A Glass of Steagall's broken trust
Half emptier than bowls of dust
In rust beltways still spewin’ fumes
As factories become Khartoums
No carbon footprint tax the hint
Of Amazon decays in Flint
Just pop the caps and drown in debt
Like Kent State drinkin' to forget
That cuttin’ class engenders race
Leaves glory, gold and God's disgrace
To slaughter Moor than Reconquista  
From Marti to Sandinista     
With Zapata sharin’ crops  
Till my Mexica heartbeat stops

I'm Pancho infiltratin’ villas
The Magilla of guerillas
In the midst of Congolese  
Same colonies, just different thieves
To me, my breed’s of landless deeds
So how you like ‘dem Appleseeds?
FReeducatin’ caves of youth
Fed Citizen’s United Fruit
‘Cuz now my open eye of Horus
Battle cries Grito de Lares
Che is centered in these veins
So my Ashoka takes the reigns
These Iron paci-Fists pack hits
Like Jimi on some Malcolm ****
Still Hajj mirages I barrage
The Raj with sheer Cong camouflage

Deployin' Sepoys on viceroys
And pol desPots’ in the employs
Of Tweedledums who run the slums
With country clubs of loaded guns
These Betsy Deez bear arms to school
Till no kids fly kites in Kabul
So gas-mask your Sharia flaw
I'll Genghis Khan Sheikoun it raw  
'Cuz refugees are rising
And we're anti-socializing
Subsidizing private party plans
Who take commands from ***** hands
These grand old klans coup klux control
Your diamond minds with mines of coal
An oil Standardized existence
Solar powers my resistance

******* sun of Liberty  
My fear itself is history  
Rewriting wrongs of Leo’s creed
In culture’s blood and vulture’s greed
An alt-right/all-white cockpile   
Stockpilin' human capital
In tricklin’ contests over spoils
Of the cotton-ceded soils
Jingos chained to Cruci-fictions
Swallowin' good Christian dictions
I spit Spanish Inquisition
Trippin' Socrates sedition
Droppin' Oppen's fission quest
For "now I am become death"
'Cuz G-bay pigs in-Fidel's sites
Flew U-2's into my last rights

These Saddamites, I smite Assad
Then spread 'em like Islamabad
Convert for-profit prison tsars
From Escobars to Bolivars 
Like currency in Venezuela
Current police-state favela
Where 9/10th's of your possession's
Worth less than your Great Depression’s
Upscale bail ‘em outs of jail
With Dodd-Frank banks too big to fail
Your FDA-approved psychosis
From Campos’ daily dose of
More defense? Here’s my two cents
These slave wages ain’t excrements
So just say no to Reaganomics    
Got us hooked, but not on phonics

Just that Noriega strain
Of Contras stackin' crack contain
Like MAD dogs who trade weapons-grades  
For Ayatollah hate tirades
On “don’t ask, don’t tell” plague ebonics
Drug crusAID Jim Crow narcotics     
Warsaw rats injected, tested,
Quarantined, and then arrested
Guess the J. Arbenz' lens
Still Tet offends their ethnic cleanse
Still Wounding Knees of Standing Sioux
Till Crazy Horses stampede you   
For Mother Nature’s common ground
My Martin Luther’s gather ‘round
Is hellbound sounds of Nero’s crown  
Let's burn this Third World Reichstag down

Vox populyin’ to remove ‘ya
Like Lumumba then Nkrumah
So some Pumbaa kleptocrat
Declares himself the next Sadat
To hide supply-side Apartheid
Increase demand for genocide
So check your factions in Uganda  
Tune into Hotel Rwanda
Come play pirates with Somalis
Then desert ‘em like Benghazis
Thirst for blood so French Algiers  
It boils mine in Trails of Tears  
My destiny unManifest-
Oppressive Adam-Smitten West
So pay your overdues to Mao
I’ll Mussolini Chairman Dow

Then flood this 9th ward Watergate
With killing fields of glyphosate
I'll redistribute IMF’s
With Left so deft you’d think it’s theft
I’ll My Lai massacre these lines
With sweet Satsuma samurhymes
I'll make these Madoff Hitlers squeal
With that Bastille New Deal cold steel
Now feel that Shining Pathos wrath
Drop Nagasaki aftermath
On Nanjing kings and dragon’s Diems
With ****** bodhisattva zens
To show you how I pledge allegiance
With razed flags still rapt in Jesus  
Laosy liars pogrom psalms
Can’t Uncle Phnom my Penh’s truth bombs

On heroes shootin' ******
My fix is un-American
Tiananmen democracies
To Syngman Rhee hypocrisies  
Theocracies drive me Hussein
With Bush league’s mass destruction claim
So I dig laissez pharaohs graves
With pyramids of Abu Ghraibs
Then nail their coffers closed like Vlad
I AM THE GHOST OF STALINGRAD
My hammer forged in winters past
My sickle reaps the shadows caste
By pantheons of penta-cons
Whose Exxons lead to autobahns
When liberal Arts of War and Peace in
Free speech teach my voice of treason
“Fascism will come to America wrapped in a flag and carrying a cross”
-Sinclair Lewis
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.chris rea: god's great banana skin...

/ such random thoughts are a blessing, esp. after you've been walking for over 2 miles, in the cold and in the rain, with the setting sun... continually impressed by the nature of polyester clothing, how you feel the cold, but aren't cold at all, how you go back home and: you're dripping with sweat... /

the random thought?
about a saying, here's the schematic

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

which statement is true?
within the questioning parameters?
i think it's a trick question...
how else would you be able to
teach these statements and make
replica understandings of
said, statements?

(****... quickfire shots of syrupy
*****... **** me... give me the sweats,
and i'm not even constipated,
it must be the ***** doing
the magic... yeah... sober me?
doesn't like thinking...
but oddly enough, the drunk me?
pulls out philosophy,
no, not as some pretentious
high-brow interest...
   i just looked at philosophy as
a genre in literature,
nothing more)...

numbers, like letters...
or in the case of Roman numerals
(letters are numbers)...
i'm unsure whether you can arrive
at crafting them into existence
by analytical parameters,
i don't actually think
that you can conjure up numbers
from analyzing a priori,
given the ad continuum:
but... there was a point in time,
when / where: numbers weren't used...

Kant was a theist,
sorry...
  he says it plainly at the end
of his critique of pure reason...
in the transcendental methodology...
sure... he takes a "schizophrenic"
moment to write a thesis
and an antithesis on subjects like
cosmology...
but he's inclined, as i am,
counter to an atheist...
yes... god is probably a monster...
but a ******* gorgeous monster...
kinda like a femme fatale...
so what's not to like?

    but this thought didn't arrive
randomly,
and my consciousness
didn't hone in on it...
i didn't vector this thought
to an immediate conclusion...
the thought arrived,
and then: i had to make shrapnel
out of it...
the original thought was complex,
i had to make shrapnel out of it,
in order to put it back together,
so that a cognitive 3 seconds
could be rewritten in under 30 minutes
explaining, why the thought arose...

you know... when thinking
is detached from the moral (θ)-ought
you get to experience these "things"...
here's another schematic...

I + Φ (you put a key into a lock),
   Θ (you turn the key), O (the door opens),
hey presto... a free radical iota...
detached from both phi and theta...

i am free from making
a moral ought (i) or the immoral: ought (i) not?
i'm free, hence my concern for...
abstract questions...

back to the original schematic...

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

this actually has a theological
dimension,
supposing i am god...

   if i propose an analytical a priori
with a synthetic a posteriori...
well then...
             i can't change anything,
i can't actually make changes to...
with my omnipotence,
omniscience etc.
i already analyzed, a priori
the Kantian elevation to theology
comes, via me, stating...
if i analyzed the entirety of
creation...
            a priori ex nihil
(from the prior out of nothing)
how can i make a synthesis
in the a posteriori domain,
of the already existing things,
which didn't exist a priori,
since there was nothing,
and i already analyzed the potential
of nothing, and this potential
was realized as everything i would
know to exist... and i went along
with it anyway?

i'm starting to think that
the realm of analytical a priori
doesn't exist for mortals...
the gods can muse this ****-show
of a dimension over and over again...
we're more (being mortals)
synthetic a posteriori...
oh don't get me wrong,
i believe we have the capacity
to comprehend analytical a priori
but it's an analytical a- priori...
we've reached the limits
of the microscope, the telescope,
and the hadron collider...
or on our way to exhaust that...
still being left with an intact mesh of...
the orbits... summer, winter, autumn, spring...
but this thing with this schematic:

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

how can i conjure an understanding
of IV + VI = X...
analytically a priori...
when... i have no hindsight /
prior to understanding of said rubric?
well... with Roman you could say:
analytical a priori,
given the Ancient Romans already
had the letters I, V, X...
but... if you didn't have the concept
of measurements prior,
of arithmetic...
how can you analyze something...
that doesn't exist?
so... you had to synthesize a priori,
working from the letters I, V, X...
to conjure up "numbers"...
  numerals... you had to create these
numbers by a synthetic a posteriori
method...
and the 4 + 6 = 10...
        well... you analyzed the a posteriori
synthesis, and threw I, V, X out...
and began the second wave of mathematics...
and this is where, authentically...
analytical a priori comes from...
based on I (1), V (5), X (10)...
                    came IV (4), came VI (6)...
don't mathematicians treat their language
as that of or equivalent to the gods?

now... for the cultural exchange program
that i promised...

on the great British isles...
you have a variety of languages
& dialects,
i'm so sorry that the Scottish
"forgot theirs"...

but when you have something
akin to

English: red
Cymru: coch

or right... they have their Pict
Gael?

Pict Gaelic: dearg
Irish: dearg
Cornish: rudh

we'll require a second word...
what word, what words..
life!

English: life,
Cymru: bywyd
Pict Gaelic: beatha
Irish: saol
Cornish: bewnans...

back, "home"...
we also have sub-groups
in terms of linguistics...

there are the Kashubians...
and there are the Silesians,
and, there are...
the Kurpie...
akin the Welsh, the Pict,
the Ire,

and their language looks like so...
again, borrowing from
red and life...

Polak: czerń
Kashubian: czôrny...
  but that can be disputed...
why?
     czerwień is not actually
a noun, but an adjective...
a quality of being associated with red...
czerwony? that's a male
adjective...
   and the female adjective
is czerwona...
                ****...
a color has to be something...
the noun adjective that's blood...
Polak: krwawy (czerwony)
Kashubian: czerwiony
Silesian: čerwůny
ah...
   Kurpian... high polish?
Masovian?
harder to find the words...
have to use alternatives...

Kurpian: caban
Polak: tępak
Kashubian: osoł
  Silesian: yjzel...
(idiot, imbecile)

you know how hard hard it is
to find a Kurpian to Polak
translator?
i can't find one to boil down
to the examples or either
red or life,
i'm reduced to choosing other
words...
like...

   Kurpian: chwat...
Polak: chłopak
Silesian: bajtel
Kashubian: knôp...
(boy)

Kurpian: jédło
Polak: jedzenie...
Kashubian: jedzenié
alternative to Silesian:
  jadło, i.e.: it ate...
past-participle in
the verb...
let's see what the Silesians
call it...
Silesians: well.. a variation..
chlyb
godka
mietła
masa... all things you can eat...
(edible food)

only a word, like the Kurpian
word akin to kotnå
reveals that Vikings passed via "us"...
kotnå?
  an impregnated sheep...
with young...

Kurpian: łańï truń!
Polak: nie mów!
Kashubian: ni gôdac!
Silesian: ńy godka!
(don't speak!)

mind you... Kurpian translation
is hard to find...
and you almost wonder...
at the British isles...
you think, us, Polaks...
do not have sub-linguistic groups
in our ranks,
like your Welsh, your Pict,
your Irish?!
guess again...
you had them all along...
and you thought...
the Polaks were
a homogenous culture...
all this time...
primarily because our culture
wasn't multicultural...
oh but it was... but on the subtle side
of history...
mind you...
defenders of the galaxy?
i knew gamora wasn't white...
but... **** me...
even if black or hispanic...
she looked so **** attired in green...
i was thinking:
absinthe cherub, absinthe cherub...
and forgot about glorifying
Zoe Saldana in all that choc...
what?
   a green skinned chic?
                    if i can forget about
the existence of chocolate...
i'll just anything that moves...
but i knew she wasn't white...
i hate chocolate...
          give me an absinthe girl any
day of the week...
       yeah...
only the English have complex
ethnicity encompassing
a single language...
only the English...
                 like **** they are...
at least my linguistic variation
is suited to a bundle of words...
Welsh?! Gaelic?!
  completely different languages...
at least in my part of the world
all that is deviating
is a choice of variant nouns!
but then again, the English
speaking world....
        how's the new pronoun
dictum coming along?
you keeping up with...
   appeasing the new crazies?
oh... you are?!
    well... kudos and applause!

p.s. guess what happens with appeasing
the new crazies... guess...
i'll tell you...
you **** around with grammar,
some grammatical pedant will raise
his head up from the crowd and say
something like:
               what?!
and then the old crazies rise up...
and... your, ahem, little discussion
about changing the rules of grammar
to "ensure" that the language is
kept, "intact"?
      see... mm... hmm... the old crazies?
the old crazies have their own
methods...
they're of the obligation:
let my gun do the talking...
  and then...
  you get pol *** arithmetic,
of skulls...
           being counted in an abacus
of heaping up, "debris"...
         see... these new crazies
are bugging me...
  they're bugging me...
because the old crazies didn't
attack grammar,
and whatever delusion they had...
i couldn't see it...
the new crazies?
they're attacking grammar,
and the delusion they have...
is... associated with something
i can see as being self-evidently untrue...

the new crazies...
******* spinners... fakers...
    i prefer the old crazies...
at least their delusions had ambitions
to deceive in the realm of
the unseen...
       the unproved, and never to be
proven...
these new crazies...
i am supposed to speak asylum talk?!
so... society is the new asylum
with the past asylums being
abolished?!
who gave caffeine to these news
crazies?!
******* sane people's naive pandering...
while the depressed man?
hey boy... hey, hey, hey boy...
noose!
i've lost all sympathy for
the victims of a psychotic
version of a repressed P.T.S.D. example...
the mad have hijacked language,
disorientated grammar...
and... b'a'ah, b'a'ah...
                 no...
                              i'm with the old
crazies...
                    at least they're the ones
that can inflict genuine grievance...
rather this policing of restricting
     the orthodoxy of the use of language.

p.s.
i found only two paradoxes in this
world...
    schadenfreude: feeding a pleasure
from the misery of others...
as...
  finding wisdom in others' own
forsake of an antithesis of
universal application...
  mainly that, associated:
            to a self-gratifying benefit...
the joke ends within the confines
of schadenfreude...
as does passable "wisdom" attached
to instragram novelty of the "maxim"
by your wisened sages
of the selfie...
  
                  i've been among the russians,
i know what the true uber looks like...
you hitchhike...
hitchhiking? forget that?
ponzie scheme albatross thingy
of a worth of a british mensch?
    funny... a people can so easily
forget the practice of hitchhiking...
so easily: entertaining individual rights...
and: innocent until proven
guilty until some next
               teddy bundy comes along...
and then it's all: ooh! ah! woo'ah!

   you know, i don't like the cartesian
chiral dynamic,
the whole: nietzsche take...
sum ergo cogito...
          i don't like the:

innocentes quoadusque (qua esse)
                           reus....    inversion...

an innocent man might hang...
well... if you have the death penalty:
too late to regurgitate the
original statements...

but? where's the element of redemption
for the innocent man?
why are so many people captivated
by the shawshank redemption?
there's a redemption story...
   in the inverted game?
a jimmy saville walks off scot-free...

the continental model doesn't make
sense with a death penalty...
but without one?
redemption... the atlas "paradox"...
one man usually burdens the fate
of a reciprocate of the unit of one...
but not the many...

me getting laid or not getting laid
is as important to me as:
whether i know about last year's
snowfall...
*** *** ***... all that sort of
******* in the western minds...
*** *** but no children!
recreational procreation without...
any procreation... to begin with...

         i'll admit...
english humour is funny...
but schadenfreude is a borrowed term...
hence the lost in translation
element...
           the english are terrible at
appreciating if not simply applying
the original zeppelin bomb...
after a while: the english just became
annoying toy-whips
of ***** replicas...
       the english knew elevated slap-stick...
with monty python...
with fawlty towers...
          they borrowed a term like
schadenfreude and completely lost the plot...
they once, upon a time,
chanced to play a game of linguistic
comedy...
            
                 i'm pretty ******* sure
the germans relate to schadenfreude in a different
way... i'm guessing:
the deutsche are not prone to ridicule as
the english are...
               the aunglisch are prone
to ridicule out of a sentiment of spite
than out of a repose for giggles...
        
          i don't understand the german sense
of humour,
     but understanding the english attempting
to "understand" the german sense of humour
is an enigma in an enigma in a per se...

such integrated back into
the ol' continental ways...
                       kudos to the brits...
bringing back the commonwealth to stereotype
us europeans with a negative "circumstance"...
now them: ******* up to "correct"
their integration policies... for the commonwealth
peoples of the united wordly wealth of
made in china plastic toys!

     a **** among the brits has
the audacity to tell a german he's not
supposed to feel at home on these isles...
sure... and i will never feel quiet at home
in Islamabad either!
               so? equal count of hubris!
that's the only thing that ****** me about
these isles... god i love this language...
but... when you get your afghani hounds
on me to do your ***** work?!

      even though i'm not: deutsche?!
i'll ******* pretend to be deutsche!
           i'm not here to mop up your failed
integration policies...
i settled on keeping my language...
they settled on keeping their sharia,
their **** pajamas and curry...
while adamantly rejecting their language...
in order to implement their desired changes
by subverting your language...
and you gave your language on a *******
platter...
    
    by subverting your language
to accept their cultural tattoos...
  let me tell you: if a people don't respect
their own culture,
by way of god, by way of language...
and they are "integrating": without speaking
their native mutterzunge?
they're not respecting either culture...
mongrels ahoy!
   what happened to the african-h'americans
not speaking a word of african?

what will they do, ascribe themselves
to ******* scots,
left with no gaelic and more a finnegans' wake
accent gymnastics of some irvine welsh?
nae for no: some glaswegian smart-***
excess of nouns?
      
hell... they would have never built
a colliseum if they saw:
1 + 4 + 6 + 9 = 20
   i.e. I + IV + VI + IX = **
            imagine... a society where letters
worked perfectly as sounds
and as arithmetic concepts of measure.

lucky for me the roman empire never
conquered
the lands i come from...
always with the brits being...
oh so so proud having been conquered
by the romans...
what's the prize... archeological sites?!

much respect as great britain...
but... *****... please...
don't pucnh below the waist...
importing your commonwealth dogs
to mark you out among all the other
europeans like some prized asset with
an inkling into h'american affairs...
thanks to you: i'm bored of looking up
the telescope of h'american ****
with their waning cultural export
of a worthwhile entertainment of appreciating
their music.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.
Micheal Wolf Feb 2013
Phoenician to  Aramaic 950 BC the start of modern writting for others to see
Then Hebrew to  Moabite then Phrygian as well around 800 BC
The written word was now afoot, oh Ammonite as well

Then a split as often comes between one arab and another
Old North Arabian and Old South Arabian argue with each other
So moving west Etruscan came at 700 BC
Then Umbrian and North Picene you heard of them today?

As Lepontic and Tartessian tried to talk to others
Now we start to get a grip and influence the modern
From Lydian to Carian,  Thracian to Venetic
All around the 6th century BC people started jotting

Old Persian came and went Latins still around
Then South Picene and Messapian to Gaulish
Language now ruled the world and all the ways we wrote it

Mixe–Zoque some say isnt really true
But Oscan and Iberian followed on through
So Meroitic,  Faliscan at 300 BC came next
Then Volscian and Middle Indo-Aryan or Prakrit the Ashoka calls it
Then one thats still around Tamil you might know it

Christianity was on its way as Galatian was used
Pahlavi and Celtiberian al cald pre antiquity
Lets move on till after Christ and language moves full on

Bactrian and Proto-Norse in northen europe common
Cham and Mayan, Gothic and Ge'ez and accepted Arabic
Christs been dead 300 yrs and language starts to flourish

Primitive Irish now exists and an odd one called Ekoi
Try to remember though its still only the 4th century

Georgian now is used in a  church in Bethlehem
A bible is written  in Armenian
Kannada in Halmidi
West Germanic to that becomes  Old High German
English now for the first time starts to rear its head

Old English to Korean  Tocharian to  Old Irish
In parts of southern England they even speak Cornish  
Centuries before Pol *** there is now Cambodian
Others speaking Udi, Telugu and Tibetan
Now language is getting modern

Old Malay in the far east to Welsh in my back yard
It wasnt long before the world was writting many forms
Mandarin and English now are common place
A miriad of people and language in their states

So venture forth to foreign lands and visit as a guest
Take a pen and paper to help you on your quest
If you can cross your legs or draw a beer you really cant go wrong
Remember you dont speak their tongue its you not them thats dumb!!!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
so... i know that i will not be richer than
my parents...
they're heading off for two weeks
to Costa Rica,
while i'm heading back to Poland...
a tourist hellhole,
back to the town of my birth,
a ****-hole (once communism collapsed,
the steel industry collapsed)
to spend five masochistic weeks
with a neurotic grandmother,
who hums a lot,
a song i'm still to decipher...
and a dementia riddled grandfather,
to read a book,
       not drink, not use the internet:
on that point... thank ****!
i'll need about 5 weeks to forget how
**** youtube became in the past year!
it's not exactly a, "holiday"...
when i think of the tropics i think...
that one time in Kenya...
looking for shade...
why do these people travel
to the most obscene destinations
for a ******* suntan?
or some, other **** and *******?!
go somewhere colder...
i said to them... go to Norway...
you'll come back to England...
hey presto! the tropics!
instead, going to a tropical region,
and then experiencing holiday
blues, shell-shocked by the return
to the cold...
   it's like you're in an ice-bath one
minute... foo! into the sauna with
you....           eh?!
but i appreciate the offer...
it's not like enjoyed Kenya that much...
what, a, waste, of, time...
the macaque monkeys and
the pirate baboon were the only fun
bits staying at this tourist resort...
the rest?
bland bland blah blah...
i was so bored that i just pretended
to sleep most of the time...
just give me the ******* basics,
a book to read, long nights,
and two old people,
and enough recipes to cook for them...
i'll be fine...
    i'm not exactly the type
easily distracted like a cat might
be with a laser pointer...
5 weeks? a 3 volume book?
over 1000+ pages?
                smithy...
                   ****... it's more
than a holiday, it's a hiatus...
i can leave this garbage lewd language
behind and turn to the high-brow
19th century *******...
no, i think this time, i'll cut off
the internet completely,
i'll not buy credit...
i'll not drink for five weeks,
i'll certainly not ******* for five weeks...
i'll not smuggle in bottles
of ***** and drink and write
at the kitchen table during the night...
**** it, i'll make this classic...
i'll be armed with 70cl of liquor
for the trip,
that should do it,
the alcohol ought to run out by
the time i'm as Warsaw Western
train-station...
so me cooking dinners for two old
people for a month...
obviously i'll take a book in English,
so i don't, "forget" the language...
Heidegger's ponderings VII - XI...
plus... i sleep better in the fellow
land...
   i don't need alcohol to lullaby
me...
   which is a nice relief...
one thing you find out,
after doing a self-imposed rehab...
you appetite comes back,
you actually eat three meals
a day...
given the day's genesis of
a coffee and 2 hour's worth of reading...
i guess that's why i wouldn't
bother going on holiday
to some exotic location,
sieving through two weeks of
a tourists' resort...
         who the **** expects to read,
on the beech?
  in Kenya i could hardly breathe
in the sun... shade shade... show me the shade!
i almost can't wait...
a hiatus mingling with a reading
holiday...
  a neurotic grandmother
and a dementia prone grandfather...
match made in heaven...
  i just can't wait for the nights
were he attempts to wander out
from the apartment wearing his
pajamas... working on calming him
down and getting him back to bed...
oh, don't worry...
dementia isn't that bad...
it doesn't involve any
   hostile proteins... that eat the brain
away... he's just super-charged
with memories...
that, yes, that flaw of being
mortal...
the cameo cinema floods
the old mind...
                           but i do like
the fact that my presence uplifts him...
i still feel pretty ****** not
bothering to read a book suggestion
he's nudging me to read...
what?
  Leopold Tyrmand's
      book zły,
and i'm like... but when you die...
i won't have any meaningful association
with this country, or these people?
if you're into the vlogging scene
you'll know this...
tim pool / tim cast...
'they're just, economic migrants...
oh? so... that makes me less than
what is a, "genuine" migrant...
a refugee...
you know, the Kosovo refugees
that came to England in the late 1990s...
and were prominent around
the Ilford train-station?
they ****** off!
   but the economic migrants remained,
integrated...
  just economic migrants...
yeah, because economic migrants
were not just the same old migrants
with not language skills they had to learn
as, muted 8 year old kids in
a primary school...
     oh no... economic migration is
privy to all the benefits of...
"other" migrations...
      oh yeah... i was ready, economically...
oomph...
             i had it easy... all the way through,
having my *** smeared with
honey sitting on a laurel wreath!
we're just economic migrants...
           **** it... let's call Pol ***
and get this party started...
we can even groove out
to the brian jonestown massacre's
song fingertips...
                        while we're at it!
god... 5 weeks... no internet...
the rekindled fascination
with the texture of paper in my hands...
this is more than a holiday...
     this is a well earned hiatus;
where i'm going to, isn't my "home"...
all it is, is a memory...
of a child leaving it aged 8...
there is no longing of me for it...
i'm not some czesław miłosz...
who left with a longing...
   economic migration has that aspect
worth its worth...
you... have no emotional investment,
in either the place you left,
or the place you went to...
Poland gave birth to me,
but England isn't a home either...
    this... this language?
this isn't ownership of the British people,
since anyone can acquire it...
conquer it, without even wanting
an inch of the language's geographic
extensions...
  i, i own, this, language...
because, it, is, mine!
this is my home...
            and sure as ****...
Poland is a vague recollection,
the day my grandparents die,
the die when i have no one to speak
Polak to...
                that will be my first death...
i'm, white, you see, i'm privileged,
i get to experience more than one death!
   i really have a vague sense
of identity...
         the best assumption i can
make of myself is... to be... rōnin;
i pledge no allegiance to either camps,
i have a certain critique of both...
i have my reasons...
but it's not like i'm going to tell people
what they are.
Old Deuteronomy’s lived a long time;
He’s a Cat who has lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in rhyme
A long while before Queen Victoria’s accession.
Old Deuteronomy’s buried nine wives
And more—I am tempted to say, ninety-nine;
And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives
And the village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy,
When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall,
The Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My mind may be wandering, but I confess
I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy sits in the street,
He sits in the High Street on market day;
The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may bleat,
But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars and the lorries run over the kerb,
And the villagers put up a notice: ROAD CLOSED—
So that nothing untoward may chance to distrub
Deuteronomy’s rest when he feels so disposed
Or when he’s engaged in domestic economy:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My sight’s unreliable, but I can guess
That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor
Of the Fox and French Horn for his afternoon sleep;
And when the men say: “There’s just time for one more,”
Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep
And say: “New then, out you go, by the back door,
For Old Deuteronomy mustn’t be woken—

I’ll have the police if there’s any uproar”—
And out they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that feline’s gastronomy
Must never be broken, whatever befall:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My legs may be tottery, I must go slow
And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!”

Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles:
together with some account of the participation of the
     Pugs and the Poms, and the intervention of the Great
     Rumpuscat

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows,
Are proud and implacable passionate foes;
It is always the same, wherever one goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say
That they do not like fighting, yet once in a way,
They will now and again join in to the fray
And they
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now on the occasion of which I shall speak
Almost nothing had happened for nearly a week
(And that’s a long time for a Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat—
I don’t know the reason, but most people think
He’d slipped into the Wellington Arms for a drink—
And no one at all was about on the street
When a Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly retreat,
But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind
     feet,
And they started to
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now the Peke, although people may say what they please,
Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the Pekes, when they heard the uproar,
Some came to the window, some came to the door;
There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And together they started to grumble and wheeze
In their huffery-snuffery Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like,
For your Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke,
And his braw Scottish cousins are snappers and biters,
And every dog-jack of them notable fighters;
And so they stepped out, with their pipers in order,
Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof,
But some from the balcony, some from the roof,
Joined in
To the din
With a
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now when these bold heroes together assembled,
That traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled,
And some of the neighbours were so much afraid
That they started to ring up the Fire Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat,
Why who should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs fearfully blazing,
He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were amazing;
And when he looked out through the bars of the area,
You never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his eyes and his yawning,
The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap—
And they every last one of them scattered like sheep.

And when the Police Dog returned to his beat,
There wasn’t a single one left in the street.
The Yoke of “Freedom”

"We'll cast off the shackles of freedom and the yoke of democracy."
— Vladimir Polyakov


The yoke of “freedom” — dreams turned fiction,
A trap of hope, a blinding mist,
From BEASTS we learned our shallow diction —
And sank below the blackest abyss.

No, that fake yoke will not be lifted —
“Improve the world”? The cost was steep:
Fascistic filth now rules, uplifted,
And drags us down to herded sheep.

The “minds” of dulled and drooling masses —
This world’s long turned a freak parade.
Each day, more twisted horror passes —
It's time to pierce the deeper shade.

That second floor of lies from BEASTS —
A doctrine soaked in veiled Hell-fire.
The mob sees not the Satan’s feast
Behind the Mask they all admire.

We’ll pierce it through — and fall, forsaken,
To deepest Hell — as well we should.
For now, the global camp is taken
By savage Evil, building good.



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




A yoke called “freedom” crushed the mind —
And dragged the world to sheep and slime.



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



The Boredom of Pseudo-Life

Life is dull — it’s no illusion:
This world’s a fake, a grim delusion.
The Realms of Spirit hold the key —
Hints, not orders, set you free.

Commands and “wise” advice are chains,
Spawned by darkness, soaked in stains.
Heed them — rot will soon begin,
And **** your soul from deep within.

A mind without the Spirit? — Hell.
That’s why the world’s a fascist shell.
God’s spark was sold by fools and knaves
For wallets, gadgets, gold — as slaves.

"Just fine!" — the brute declares with pride,
As dumbness spreads, and truth has died.
"Normal" now is mental rot —
Thanks to Satan’s stealthy plot.

Among such fools, joy’s out of reach.
Their numbers grow — they yell, they screech,
And fuel the fascist brute parade
With every shove and block and blade.

They’re gray as mold, a mindless swarm —
Shoving elbows, buying form,
Crowding aisles, consuming lies,
Blindly marching toward new cries

Of Hell ahead — it’s almost here.
This grayness — worse than sulfur fear.
Don’t walk that path with empty eyes —
Just trust your soul, where wisdom lies.



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




“Normal” now is dumb and dead —
The soul is starved, the mind is led.



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



The Commissariat of Sold-Out Verse
(after Bulat Okudzhava's “Commissars in Dusty Helmets”)

"Commissars in dusty helmets" —
Okudzhava missed the mark.
Truth gets twisted into velvet
When you skip the slaughter's dark.

Commissars had shot his kin —
All of them. A ******* crime.
Yet he sang of jails within,
As if rot deserved a rhyme.

To that vile, demented system
Swarmed the ****-ups, proud and loud.
Only slaves would dare assist 'em,
Printing filth to please the crowd.

Went to layout like to slaughter,
Selling soul for lines of shame.
While the honest ones — no quarter —
Tore their shirts but spoke no name.

Commissars in dusty cover
Broke the country, crushed the land.
Those who dared to cry or stutter
Died like rebels — hand in hand.

Now the filth is even fouler —
Worse than them — so rise and fight!
Let your verses mark the howlers,
Sting the traitors out of sight.

Let the verse erupt and sear —
For when fascism masks as “love,”
Poets bleed instead of cheer,
Smearing ink with sacred stuff.

This’s the only path to take
If the End of Times has come:
Stop the sugar, stop the fake —
Write against the marching ****!



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




When verse obeys — the soul is dead.
Real poems fight the lies instead.



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



Answers Without a Question

Immaculate conception?
Just like budding in a jar.
Faith in nonsense breeds deception —
Flood them deep and rule by far.

Drown them in a sweet illusion,
“Sanctify” it with a lie.
Then destroy — through mass confusion —
Mind and Spirit, Truth and Pride.

Use a priestly horde to spread it,
Bolder lies and thicker fog.
Truth will softly call — but let it
Reach the Soul like distant log.

Truth speaks gently, never shouting.
You must seek it, heart in hand.
But the herds are kept from doubting
By a roar they understand:

Wild-eyed sermons, empty phrases,
Words that mimic human speech.
Truth escapes those stable mazes —
Only hearts and minds can reach.

Thinking sharp, not blind believing,
No examples, no "because" —
This alone resists deceiving.
This is how you fight the claws.

All’s within — so why a preacher?
Only business needs a “guide.”
Every pulpit-seller teacher
Is a crook in holy hide.

Intuition, inner sensing,
Critical, creative thought —
These are answers worth commencing.
Ask the question you have brought.



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




Truth is quiet. Lies parade.
Ask your question — unafraid.



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



Outer Goals — The Root of Fools and Control

The light’s within — the fog is outer.
The deeper fog, the darker night.
The world, my friend, is full of doubters —
Find their truths — and lose the Light.

A goal “out there” is mass production
Of mindless fools and marching meat.
They just tweak the goal’s construction —
Same old chains, but now “elite.”

True goal’s within, not in the rubble
Of worldly junk and rotting lies.
Creation’s spark, not learned-through-trouble,
Is where real, knowing power lies.

A goal in “future” is deception,
Crowd control in sleek disguise.
Didn’t reach it? New direction! —
Feed the sick with fresher lies.



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




Outer goals — control the head.
Truth is here, not in what’s said.



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



The Goal Within

The Light is quiet, glowing inward.
Outside — a fog that thickens fast.
The mind gets lost in shifting forward,
And Truth is veiled as shadows pass.

The world feeds lies in gilded wrapping —
A friend, beware the outer chase.
Each "noble aim" is just entrapment —
It steals the Light, it dims your grace.

To chase what’s “next” is mass illusion,
A tool to herd, a game of chains.
They shift the goal — it breeds confusion,
And binds the soul in silent pains.

But in the core, beneath the clutter,
Where matter bends to Spirit’s gaze,
The pulse of Knowing starts to flutter —
No future there, no worldly praise.

No preacher there, no map, no measure,
Just presence — clear, alive, and still.
Not reaching out, but holding treasure
The outer world can’t touch or ****.



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




The Light is here — don’t chase the mist.
The goal’s within... and it just is.



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



No Goal, No Fog

No goal to seek.
No path to win.
The fog is loud —
But Light is in.

Don’t chase the form,
Don’t trust the flame.
What shifts and moves
Will shift to shame.

Be still. Unfold.
No future here.
The Now is vast.
The Heart is clear.



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



Ash of Purpose

No goal. Just ash.
The dream is thin.
You chase the fog —
It pulls you in.

No path remains.
No hand, no guide.
The Light you were —
You left outside.

The future speaks —
It always lies.
It feeds the weak
And blinds the wise.

So sit in dark.
Let all things fall.
The One that stays
Is none at all.



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



Zero

Not light.
Not dark.
Not fire.
Not spark.

No self.
No name.
No breath.
No flame.

No goal.
No fear.
No sound.
No here.

No past.
No start.
Just Void —
and Heart.


---

After Zero

No word —
but pulse.
No flame —
but glow.

No edge —
just space.
No “where” —
but flow.

No “I” —
just this:
a breathless
yes.

It moves
but still.
It knows —
but will?

No need.
No plan.
Just Light
began.



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



Creating Dead Souls with Fear and Lies

With fear of death, they breed the dead—
Believe propaganda’s lies,
And you’ll become a numb misled,
A fool beneath god’s disguise.

They spin their scary tales around,
You swallow all the foolish fear,
Become a coward, dumb and bound,
A puppet trapped in darkened gear.

Once caught inside this deadlocked spin,
Only fear remains to reign,
The mind shrinks small, worn thin within,
The soul dissolves in choking pain.

With broken spirit, all is lost—
The world is canned, rights sold and sealed.
This “citizen” pays the cost
In fake lands where truths are peeled.

CowID showed the Great ***’s face—
He rules through filth and vile ****.
Spreading chaos, lawless space,
Where evil grows and rules become.

The world beneath satan’s throne—
No hope, no future left to see.
When fools infect the masses’ bone,
Humanity fades utterly.

Fear plus folly, now no man—
Just nonsense crowds, dead souls’ domain.



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




Fear breeds dead; lies keep them chained—
No soul remains, just fools retained.



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



True Art

Invite the pain, the fear,
Transform them, forge them strong —
For freedom’s sake, not for the drear
Of fools who play along.

Will you find Light?
Unlikely, friend...
Will you break the blight?
Somewhere near the end.

They’ll write their songs, their lies,
Respond: “Give up the fight!”
But don’t you fall for their disguise,
Hold fast your will and might.

Though toiling “in the drawer,”
Though honor pays no toll,
Don’t trade your fire for shallow roar
Of crowds who clutch control.

So dare! Though vain the grind,
Though hardship chains your path,
For liars rule the blinded mind —
Condemning honest wrath.

The truthful now are rare and few,
Dull pride has taken throne.
In fake art’s stench, the rotten brew
Drowns reason, chills the bone.

Like public pleasuring,
The putrid feelings reign.
Fascism stalks, the decent mute —
Or scribble all in vain.

With zero reach, you slave like ox,
In dark, forsaken pits.
Yet still your soul will break the locks —
True words ignite the blitz.

Among the kneeling, fallen ranks,
The Creators’ spirits rise —
Their genuine, earth-shattering thanks
Shatter the falsehood’s lies.



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




True art bleeds pain, not empty cheers —
It fights alone, but conquers fears.



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



Pseudoscience, Media, and Sold-Out “Culture”

The samples fixed —
“Commissioned” reigns supreme.
Degrees achieved,
But monsters rule the scheme.

Orders flood from foulest lair,
Like plagues that spread in endless tide.
False diseases — viral scare —
They launched a test stone far and wide.

CowID fools command the game,
Masters of deceit and fear.
Pseudoscience, ashes — shame,
Decay grows far and near.

The same decay infects “culture” too,
Though literature seems less oppressed.
Yet devils push their flamed debut,
While honest work’s depressed.

No money — just a worthless shell,
In lying lands, a ghost unseen.
“Vatniks” praised in hellish hell,
The monsters’ “Pecheneg” machine.

“Strongholds,” “Rise up from your knees!” —
They march you straight to slaughter’s door.
Truth’s voices squeak midst howling seas,
Censorship strikes silence more.

No new age — just darkest blight,
The sellouts howl, the media’s flood.
Infernal world sinks out of sight,
A bottomless pit of blood.



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




Lies spread fast — the fools obey,
The world decays in shadow’s sway.



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



Pseudoscience, Media ******, and Bought-Out “Culture”

Samples rigged — the fix is in.
Paid-for lies run deep and wide.
Degrees? Just masks for filthy sin —
Monsters in the world now ride.

Orders flood from devil’s pit,
Plagues of fake disease unleashed.
False AIDS tests? They threw a fit,
CowID fools have lied and fleeced.

Fear and lies — their cruel dominion.
Pseudoscience rots to dust.
Decay spreads fast — no redemption,
Truth’s crushed bones lie in the rust.

Same decay invades “culture” —
Though lit looks less consumed by grime.
But devils hype their ***** vulture,
While honest work’s a crime.

No cash — just wrappers, worthless ****.
In lies’ swamp, you’re ghost and waste.
“Vatnik” trash rules every bit —
Monsters feast in savage haste.

“Stand up!” they scream — to slaughter’s field,
Where truth’s a squeak drowned by the wolf.
Censorship’s a steel-clad shield,
Silencing all honest proof.

No bright dawn — just blind damnation.
Sellouts howl through total lies.
This world’s a pit, an abomination —
Infernal hell beneath black skies.



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




Lies feed fools — truth’s on the run,
The world’s a pit, no light, no sun.



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



Pseudoscience “Experiments”

"To defend a theory,
One can conduct enough research."
— Arthur Bloch, Murphy’s Law

"The more knowledge,
The deeper the ignorance."
— Buddhist Saying


The “scientist” works tireless,
To prove his sacred creed:
He runs “experiments” ceaseless,
Rejects what breaks his feed.

Facts and tests that don’t align
Become “artifacts” at best.
Thousands warp the grand design —
A rotten, false contest.

Built to serve some dark agenda,
Foreign to true knowing’s light.
Cash and lies fuel the propaganda,
Just to cloak the wrong and blight.

The world’s trapped deep in madness —
“Science” wiped the soul away.
Logic cramps the mind’s gladness,
Without intuition’s sway.

Dry reason without feeling
Leads the self to slow decay.
“Just prove that nonsense, no big deal!” —
The fool believes the play.

Direct Vision — mind’s true core,
Healthy psyche’s shining base.
“Science” hunts that truth once more —
To sink it to disgrace.

We’re at the bottom, sinking fast,
Science’s tank runs dry below.
Its echoes keep us trapped, aghast,
Like sea cucumbers, minds won’t grow.

When you buy their lies in whole,
Killing your intuitive spark,
You open evil’s door to soul,
And plunge into the dark.

More “knowledge” means more ignorance —
Remember well this bitter song.
Pseudoscience leads the dance,
To the madhouse all along.

Two thirds of earth’s locked in the cage,
Believing “science” lies and games.
Is “science” just an axe and rage,
To hack the living soul in flames?

“Science” forged by soulless fiends,
For evil’s simple, cruel demand.
They need dull slaves with cracked-up minds,
With “knowledge” hammered, not to stand.



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




More “science,” more the dark unknown —
Pseudoknowledge kills the soul alone.



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



Worthy...

"Worthy above all —
To not let those who give out favors
Drive you to the stall,
Or shut your mouth with hay."
— Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1976


Worthy — even if all’s a wreck,
Sometimes the only way is death.
If chances fail, then die unchecked —
For “living” means to lose your breath.

Only death can purge the flood
Of filth that floods your weary mind.
The Beast through ages breeds its mud —
A mockery of soul confined.

Suicide’s a coward’s game —
Die fighting if you’ve got the might.
You cannot crush the World’s own shame —
This chaos is the “law” of night.

But only by the fight alone
Can you your spirit hope to save.
We all dream crowns — but stand alone,
Not heralds, not the brave.

So “dance away from fire’s glow” —
That’s how the battle’s truly won.
Be but a bad forerunner’s show —
And fate of slaves you’ll overrun.

Slavery and dullness reign —
A poison foul, unfit for men.
Create, resist — let not the stain
Of wretchedness consume your ken.

**** every fear — it’s late to scare,
Armageddon’s world awaits.
It comes with wrath, a grim affair —
We stand within the End of Dates.

The Sun shines stronger, magma flows
Beneath Antarctic’s frozen crust.
The world — spawn of Marasmus — grows
Drowned in the Beast’s relentless lust.

Fight Evil worthily, with calm,
Meet your poor fate with steady heart.
Your choice: fake plagues, or war’s alarm —
Or Cataclysm’s fresh start.



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




Worthy fight, though all decays —
Choose your end, and not the haze.



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



Mocking Troops, or False Reasons to Not Fight Evil

Marines for sport —
The real foes lie within.
Those beasts hold court,
Their victories are grim.

Don’t fool yourself — you don’t feel
The filth you thrash inside.
You "justify" the seal,
Diving deep in lies’ tide.

They teach those “foundations”
Since cradle to the dumb.
The fools flock to stations —
To cops and troops they come.

Men join communes —
A new fight’s born this way.
But fools swarm like ruins —
Slaves stuck in decay.

It’s time to unite
With minds that still can see —
Or sink into the blight
Of rat holes endlessly.

Rat holes, not rabbit dens —
A stupid world confined.
All “ideas” chain the lens —
Slavery’s harsh bind.

The end is coming — cataclysms
Will wipe this fake world clean.
But for fascism’s schisms,
The sheep still play the scene.



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




Troops for show, fools abound,
Rats will sink this sinking ground.



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



The “Sailors” Have No Questions...

The **** have lost all questions;
The fools have killed the light —
Their Honor, Conscience, Soul,
Drowned in verbal spite.

A flood of words —
Dark forces scream and crow.
No questions left — just lies,
Commands that never show.

The world’s last song is sung,
Its end is set, not free.



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



Pharisee’s Odyssey

Bend yourself much deeper still,
Lie more stupid, lie with spite,
Be the cruel to weak at will —
That’s the way to win the fight.

No need to roam or stray afar —
You’ll fit right in where villains dwell,
If you become a selling scar,
Forgetting honor, truth, and hell.



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



Questions Without Answers

Is there a lyre inside the latrine?
Is wisdom needed ‘midst the fools?
Is this a den, a humble scene,
Or just a chain that binds and rules?

Chains of lies, submission, fear,
Of treachery and twilight mind.
Is this the world — a scaffold near,
Or heaps of filth for us to find?



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



View from Hell, or Another Armageddon

Pol *** waits not —
No place in Hell.
A wretched mob,
For beasts, their hell.

Building here
A New Inferno.
The fool cheers:
“All for peace, you know!”

Protective lies,
The creatures preach.
All calm and smooth —
In False Land’s reach.

One “Pol ***”
We always hear.
Fascism walks —
Lies sharp and clear.

The pitiful crowd
Listens quick.
Soon only wise
Will face the wick.

Obedient to Darkness,
They profit well,
While dust in noose
Keeps burning hell.

From Hell to Hell —
A world’s bleak road.
Corrupt fiends,
Abundant load.

Not Pol *** —
Much worse they be.
Darkness descends
Through them, you see.

The people burned
Like ****** sheets,
Calling evil
“Good” with deceit.

That Darkness half
Has crushed the spine
Of “peoples” — or
Are monsters in line?

Like wheels of grief,
No end in sight.
We wait again
For doom’s dark night.

Armageddon looms —
Hell’s paradise —
The final fall,
The coldest ice.



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




Hell builds hell, the fools obey,
Another end, another day.



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



From Hell’s Eye, Another Armageddon

Pol *** waits not — no room below,
In Hell where shadows coil and flow.
A pitiful herd, dark spirits’ dough,
The forge of beasts, their world of woe.

They build anew the fiery gate,
A New Abyss, a cursed fate.
The fool rejoices, deaf to hate:
“All for peace,” their poisoned bait.

Whispers veil the silent grave,
False calm in lies the darkness gave.
In False Land’s maze, the lost enslave,
One voice: “Pol ***,” the reaper’s stave.

Fascism breathes, a roaring flame,
Striking lies in endless game.
The herd obeys without a name,
Only wise shall face the blame.

Bound to Night’s eternal claim,
They profit while the embers maim.
Dust in noose, the burning frame,
From Hell to Hell — the cycle’s same.

Not Pol ***’s shadow, darker still,
Through cursed veins, the darkness spills.
The people scorched on broken hills,
Call evil good, the lie distills.

Half the dark has bowed the spine
Of “peoples” lost, or monsters’ line?
Wheels of sorrow, endless twine —
We wait the final, cold design.

Armageddon’s breath draws near,
Hell’s embrace, both dread and seer.
The end unfolds without a tear —
A sacred death, a timeless sphere.



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




From depths of Hell, the shadows rise —
The final dawn in darkened skies.



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



Into the New Hell...

Staged performances—
A fabricated little world.
Only lies make it so dense,
Its time draws near, unfurled.

The point of no return long passed—
Into the NEW HELL we go.
The **** were ready, standing fast,
Glad for crumbs in shadow’s glow.

Into the New Hell — debts unpaid—
It’s just beyond the rise.
Once thieves alone, now fascist made,
A hero in disguise.

A bureaucrat, a tyrant’s hand,
A wicked propaganda mouth,
A teacher rotting souls like sand,
A doctor sold to south.

The Earth’s Kunstkamera,
Save rare few escape the gloom—
All march inside this prison bar,
While paradise’s myths
Are for donkeys’ doom.



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




New Hell waits — no debts to pay,
Fascists lead, thieves fade away.



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



The Pit of the World

"And so this street,
Or rather, this pit
Is named for
That Mandelstam..."
— Osip Mandelstam, “Mandelstam Street,” 1935


Mandelstam! The PIT! Oh, Mother,
Don’t bear children into Hell:
To call things straight — three quarters
Of the world’s a den of hell.

Among the beasts, the Pure at Heart —
Like Osip’s shining Light —
Perish, nowhere to depart,
Beneath the brute’s harsh blight.

The brute will call white soot black,
And poets evil foes;
The beasts will rise in vicious pack —
To jail or madhouse goes.

They shot Gumilyov down,
Said: “Serves him right,” no shame.
Fools sunk low beneath the crown
Of TOTAL lying’s flame.

And Marina Tsvetaeva —
They crushed her to the noose.
If here the beast is led from man —
Stay silent, lie — abuse!

Mandelstam’s pit? Exactly:
A world that bows to Evil’s throne!
Be wise and stubborn, act exactly —
Create, defy that groan.

Mousetraps with rotten cheese —
The fools’ “good” they prize so much.
Be lone, if your mind’s at ease —
Among beasts, you’ll lose your touch.



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




Mandelstam’s pit — a world in chains,
Create, resist — break Evil’s reins.



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



In the Mousetrap

Nature’s more complex than “pure logic,”
Math’s cold rules don’t always fit.
Pedagogy drives the crooked spike
Into minds, to dull their wit.

The builder—cruel—commands the build
Of World’s dark Fortress of Evil.
The “scientist” speeds up the drill,
“Proving” what fools find feasible.

“Proof” misses spiritual flows—
To donkeys, the world’s quite plain.
The beasts, through media’s loud throes,
Preach the free cheese — a poisoned gain.

All mousetraps—fictitious lands—
A pen for fools, a herded crowd.
Another metaphor — sheep at hand,
Led to slaughter ’neath goat’s loud shroud.

The worst revealed by CowID —
A world a spawn of Evil’s might.
Ruled by beasts, and traitors feed
The goat’s commands to blind sheep’s plight.

The World’s Great Goat, Satan’s face,
Set false science’s wheels in motion.
In slaves’ minds, chains of disgrace—
Proofs fool’s faith, a blind devotion.

Idiocy’s no random fate —
Stupidity’s plague, worldwide spread.
Beasts control through slow decay,
A herd of cattle, numb and dead.

Their goal: to turn men into beasts,
Erase what’s human in the soul,
Make simple all — without a feast —
A digital collar, a control.

To the World’s Concentration Camp,
Sheep led on by programmed score.
AI rewards in cruel stamp—
A shame upon Earth’s core.

Construction plans face doom ahead,
A vile Cataclysm will sweep.
While Lies’ Ocean floods instead,
Foul fascism crawls and creeps.



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




Trapped in lies, the herd obeys,
Digital chains seal all our days.



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



Within the Mousetrap

Nature’s threads—far beyond cold logic’s grip,
Mathematics fails to bind the spirit’s flow.
Pedagogy drives nails that choke the mind’s bright ship,
A twisted forge where sterile shadows grow.

The builder vile commands the darkened spire,
Raising walls of the World’s Eternal Hell.
The “scholar” quickens lies’ relentless fire—
Proofs forged to bind the donkey’s spell.

Spirit’s currents pass the “proof” unseen,
To fools, the world’s a flat, dull stone.
Through media’s whisper, the beast’s machine
Sings of free cheese—an abyss unknown.

Mousetraps lie in phantom lands afar—
Pens for sheep, a march to doom.
Goats shout loud, the final war—
The flock moves blind toward their tomb.

CowID’s veil reveals the cursed ground,
A spawn of darkness, ruled by fiends.
Beasts command, and traitors bound,
The goat’s dark will in silent means.

The Great Goat, Satan’s hidden face,
Set false science’s sacred rites.
Chains of ignorance enslave the race,
In shadows cast from endless nights.

Stupidity’s a sacred blight,
Spread like plague through mortal clay.
Decay’s throne rules out of sight—
Beasts herd men who lose their way.

The last design: to break the soul,
Erase the light, impose the bind.
A digital collar takes its toll,
The cage for heart and mind confined.

To the World’s cold camp they lead,
Sheep numbered, marked, and scored.
AI feeds the hunger’s greed—
The Earth’s lament ignored.

But soon the Cataclysm’s breath
Will sweep the cursed plans away.
Till then, the Ocean’s flood of death
Drowns hope beneath the grey.



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




Shadows weave a silent snare,
Souls confined in dark despair.



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



Moments of Decay

"I remember a wondrous moment:
Before me you appeared,
Like a fleeting vision,
Like a genius of pure beauty."
— A. Pushkin, “To *,” 1825


No need to seek those wondrous times,
Or guard them like a holy spell.
The ascetic walks rough paths and climbs —
Decay’s around, a stench of hell.

You’ll always fail, when passions reign,
Forgetting reason, “being’s” core.
Live through the PAIN, endure the strain —
Don’t rot and crawl in putrid gore.

Decay is everywhere, each breath
Is tinged with rot’s unholy scent.
Only Creation cheats slow death,
If madness' prison’s not consent.

The madhouse world — CowID
Revealed the dull fascist scream.
Three quarters in this rotten sea
Are **** that sell the broken dream.

Love’s a fetish, often doll —
No human there, just empty shell.
In greed and lust the spirits fall,
Dark holes in “consciousness” dwell.

Remember that wondrous flash,
When inward you retreat alone;
Where rot and nonsense fail to lash,
If still the Spirit burns like stone.

Legions of soulless beasts abound,
Stupidity—a plague that spreads.
Megatons of lies surround—
Shield not your head; disease embeds.

You’ll fall ill, like many do—
Idiots now the majority.
Warrior propagandists brew
Demons led by Goat’s decree.

The beasts grow wild, their madness deep—
A sign the End is drawing near.
Yet total lies still make fools leap—
Blind led by one who’s lame and queer.

That “distant” path ends in a cliff—
Where all the rot will be laid bare.
But all is “fine” in false belief—
Moments of “joy,” illusions rare...



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




Decay’s all around, rot in the air,
Spirit burns — if you still dare.



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



Endless, Boundless Despair

"O spring without end, without bound—
Endless, boundless dream!
I recognize you, life! I’m found!
And hail you with shield’s gleam!"
— Alexander Blok, 1907


O boundless, endless, aching woe,
Endless, boundless grief and pain:
In hopeless depths I fade and go,
So weary of the slave’s cruel chain.

Since youth, I’ve scorned the labels pinned—
“Freedom here”—I send them all to hell.
Only pain and weariness have sinned,
Passed down by beasts whose souls fell.

Poverty, a legacy of ache,
Passed on through every slavish frame.
No hope for Reason’s dawn to break—
This world is sick, and none to blame.

Madness handed down through years,
To new generations it is sworn.
With fear and pain, the seed appears—
The many lost, the fools are born.

O boundless, endless misery...
Only Cataclysm may disperse,
But not a path to paradise—
A New Hell comes for fascist curse.

A few may pass to realms apart,
Unchained, unbound, fierce in fight,
Free from Hell’s deceiving art,
Defiant in eternal light.

True freedom lies beyond the lies,
The fruit of struggle long endured.
But fools, too blind to recognize,
Reject all truth, forever lured.

Such freedom dwells in minds of few—
A doomed world clings to rot and spite.
Tortures go on, though time is few,
To strain the mind in endless night.

And boundless, endless sorrow guards
The rage of Darkness, deep and cold:
Now only pain can keep the shards—
In lies, the beasts control the bold.



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




Endless grief, the spirit’s fight,
Few are free within the night.



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



Marching in a Howl...

Idiots know—the Führer’s best.
Idiots trust—he’ll save the rest:
With just a glance, he’ll crush the foes,
Blow every storm with mighty blows.

Idiots march in rigid line,
To crush the enemy’s design.
Propaganda’s howl, like whip,
Drives them on—no chance to slip.



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



Science Madness

The stubborn way they mock and scorn
Life’s riddles deep and vast —
Is but a sieve that filters scorn,
“Science” lies from first to last.

In name of saving reason’s flame,
They smother all the strange,
The irrational, the same
That makes fake science change.

Their logic’s warped beyond all bounds
Where miracles draw near,
Not trivial things, but sacred grounds
They crush with scoffing sneer.

There’re countless such examples told,
But this is not their tale:
In minds corrupt and spirit cold
Beliefs doomed to fail.

Only fools will trust the lies
Of orders pre-designed,
The bogus science’s disguise—
Rot that’s long declined.

Rot where spirit’s scorned and crushed,
Pure soul dismissed as fake;
Their leader, horned and foul and hushed,
Small souls he loves to break.

Master, corrupter, priest of lies,
Science’s dark facade,
Tempts with his deceiving guise—
Drags all to death’s façade.

The CowID’s wicked game
Dragged fools into the pen.
No doubt—the lies give power’s name
To warped and twisted men.

“Scientific” freaks and fiends,
And propaganda’s roar,
Will bring us down by evil means,
While spirit’s gone before.

They purge the soul, their only aim—
Science as executioner.
From every place, this wicked game
Was planned by sinister cur.

The mystery of life’s true light
They’ve turned to slime and fear.
And those who bear God’s spark so bright—
Are slugged and dragged down here.

All gray and bleak, the final cost—
Darkness’ ruthless attack.
Fake science launches every shot
To keep the world off track.

Those ******* sell their poisoned lies,
Our enemies in kind.
But reckoning shall surely rise,
When soul leads mind.

Mad science madness fades away—
A sickness, stale and vile,
And reason’s light shall claim the day,
Free from that dreadful trial.



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



Personality

“A question hangs: does true self exist,
Or just a mass of conditioned twists?”
— Jiddu Krishnamurti’s voice insists.


A nested doll, all cracked and worn,
Paint running off, truth torn,
Lies overflow, with poison born,
Darkness feeds this world forlorn.

Under pressure of deceit,
They **** the mind with fear’s deceit—
Since childhood trapped in dread’s defeat,
Crunch-crunch, the lies repeat.

They prize submission’s empty claim—
Consume the rot, remain the same.
Feed your fears, then bear the blame,
Become dull, a dim-lit flame.

They piece together you and me
Like matryoshkas endlessly—
Schizophrenia’s layered spree,
A tangled mass, a misery.

It spreads so fast—a chaotic stew,
Seeming solid, yet untrue.
Nothing whole inside for you,
Unless pure Spirit holds it through.

No lie or full and selfish gut
Can bind the shards, the shattered cut.
Today from filth they mold anew—
Fascism’s cups are filling through.

Drink deep, drown out your soul’s own cry,
They give it free—just sip and die.
Blood drunk down, the spirit’s sigh—
Killed gently under painted sky.

No need to ****, just keep the peace—
Silence builds the foul increase.
Become a worm, the rot’s release,
While propaganda’s howls never cease.

Lies fall heavy, never slight,
In these last days, a fading light.
Fascist Hell looms in the night,
Soon shattered, skies regain their height.

Cleansed by cataclysm’s harsh hand,
This shameful Hell, this cursed land,
Branded fascism, vile and grand—
Few escape its grasp or stand.

Strengthen Spirit, hold the flame—
Only thus you’ll break the chain.
Cataclysm’s no myth, no game—
It’s coming soon to cleanse the pain.



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



Men and Rodents

Here tiny men gnaw at crumbs —
Each other’s scraps, their petty sums.
Minds so poor, a chaos thrums,
A maddened mess where madness drums.

**** reigns supreme, the traitor’s king,
While worthy souls have lost their wing.
Stupidity’s a rock that clings,
Unyielding, crushing all bright things.

From coal to diamond through the years,
Yet dullness breeds and feeds on fears.
In jungle dark, the talent clears —
But bends to **** and disappears.

If to the filth you bow your head,
Forget the Light you once had led,
You’ll rot in muck — the cursed bed,
Where all the world’s lost hope is fed.

Patience of freaks, their dull disgrace —
A monstrous, ever-growing plague.
So many madmen fill this place,
Darkness thrives and wins the race.

Total chaos, boundless fools,
War’s bloodless now, no ****** pools.
Fascism’s needle kills and rules,
While tiny men play petty duels.

These tiny men, the worthy hate,
Forget the books that idiots state.
Trash and lies—they pile the freight,
A cesspool filled with poisoned bait.

You are the Spirit, hold it tight—
In this madhouse, it’s your light.
Answers come from Spirit’s height,
While fools deserve disdain outright.

The End approaches, war with Mind,
From the abyss, salvation find.
Cataclysms cleanse the blind,
And end will come for those unkind.

The worthy saved if Spirit leads,
While creatures tremble, dread proceeds.
The foul stench from media feeds,
For it knows shame will drown their creeds.



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



Men and Vermin

Small men gnaw on scraps like rats,
Minds are weak, a chaos spats.
**** rules — traitors, kings of slime,
The worthy crushed by rocks of time.

Coal to diamond, fate’s design,
But dullness thrives, devours the spine.
In jungles dark, the gifted fall —
Bow to filth, you lose it all.

Patience of monsters, sin profound,
Madness everywhere abounds.
Darkness wins — the fools comply,
War bloodless, fascists’ syringe nigh.

Tiny men, foes to the wise,
Burn the books, embrace the lies.
Trash and venom feed the lie,
Spirit’s flame alone can fly.

Fools deserve the harshest scorn,
End is near — new war is born.
From abyss the saved arise,
Cataclysm clears the skies.

Those who fight with spirit’s sword,
Escape the dark, embrace the Lord.
Beasts tremble, smell defeat,
Media’s lies meet their heat.



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



Men and Vermin

Small men gnaw like rats on scraps,
Minds starved thin in chaos’ traps.
****’s the king, the traitor’s throne,
Worthies crushed beneath the stone.

Coal turns diamond through the pain,
Dullness guards the cursed chain.
In these jungles, sharp will fall —
Bow to filth, you lose it all.

Monsters’ patience, sin’s deep scar,
Madness rules both near and far.
Darkness wins, fools march in line,
War bloodless — fascist’s sign.

Tiny men, the wise they hate,
Burn the books, embrace their fate.
Trash and lies breed venom’s sting,
Spirit’s fire alone can sing.

Fools deserve contempt and scorn,
End approaches, war is born.
From the abyss the saved arise,
Cataclysm clears the skies.

Fight with Spirit’s flaming sword,
Escape the dark — obey no lord.
Beasts now tremble, taste defeat,
Media’s lies face their heat.



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



Banana-nyama

The monkey’s full, the monkey’s drunk,
But bananas? Nope — just junk.
Total lies — a stinking stew,
Building cages, brick by glue.

Filth spreads out — yet devils build,
Claiming food, and “bonds” fulfilled.
This poem’s truth, the world’s disgrace —
Both absurd, a sick disgrace.



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


At Full Speed…

The secret’s out, the Devil rules,
The world’s a pawn, the Devil’s fools.
Faster, quicker — all aboard!
Rush to hell, no time ignored.

This fragile world’s sent off to camp,
Where reason dies — the final stamp.
There lies flow like magic’s wine,
“Care” a scare, betrayal’s sign.

Falsehood reigns, the ruling shame,
Their rule defiles the soul’s own flame.
Soullessness — the only goal…
At full speed down the darkened shoal.

Then, as the last speck turns to dust,
The little ship will break and rust.
From dust will rise the fiery pit,
While Spirit fades — the fiend will sit.
irinia Apr 2015
I am ashamed that I am Spanish because of Franco
I am ashamed that I am French because of Algeria
I am ashamed that I am Algerian because of France
I am ashamed that I am American because of Bush, Iraq
and the bloodshed once among brothers
I am ashamed that I am Russian because of Stalin, Gulag
and recently of this and that
I am ashamed that I am German because of ******, clearly
(Pol *** appears more and more seldom in the lists, but one is horrified, humanly ashamed, remembering)
I am ashamed that I am English because of football etc
I am ashamed that I am Polish — only when I am not proud
I am ashamed that I am Turkish, but then there are Kurds...
I am ashamed that I am Czech and allowed myself to be stifled

(I am just as ashamed myself — some say, who feel
shame in its extremity and hide weapons in pantries, waiting for that moment
in which they wash away their shame with the blood of traditional enemies)
I am ashamed that I am Orthodox or Catholic and I wedge and split
the mountain on which Jesus bled — before others made even smaller
pieces out of his Golgotha below
I am ashamed that I am Indian because... well, it’s no matter
I am ashamed that being Macedonian I let the Greeks be even more
I am ashamed that I am Korean and one of Kim Ir Sen’s
I am ashamed that I am Korean no matter where, as long as
Kim Ir Sen’s Koreans remain
I am ashamed that I am Serbian, but... let me think
I am ashamed that I am Chinese because: ‘You’re Chinese?’
I am ashamed that I am Romanian because of Ceausescu, Dracula of course

and now, God, all these Romanians all over the world...
I am ashamed of my nation even when I am not ashamed
— but each of us seeks to forget something
I am ashamed because .......... [Everyone: fill in the blanks, write yours here!]

but you, but you — you, only you
you, whose nation filled the desolate earth with life and kindness
you are the man who begins the new day
today
with your first step

*Ioana Ieronim
Ken Pepiton Sep 2020
In any future this is instant,
in real life these thoughts once fitted into words by a mind,
fit into the spirit of Christmas in 1984,
I am betting my
cred -- wagering my very defined sould idea
it was the real 1984
eleven days after my first born child…

-if I yet have credit, having spent all my own attention on
finding the evil
lurking somewhere in today, waiting to pounce,
seeking with legendary,
fabulous, monstrous civil strife level pride events
reason to call
provocation to devour
my soul, my unsouldout soul, my held
breath of life,

waiting for this surface to break, patient as any
app attempting to become
Gibsonian ICE!... in your patience you possess…

Ah, cotcha. This quote is from a stream of words -emanating-
in the global pool of streaming
news of bygone days. Dec.23, 1984 on accusing voices…
Satan the idea…
A message:
The people who will experience the fullest meaning of Christmas on Tuesday
are the people who know and feel that there is something
in them that needs to be destroyed.
It is true, as John said (John 3:17), that
"God sent the Son into the world not to condemn the world,
but that the world through him might be saved."
But he saves by destroying.
Like a doctor who amputates a foot full of gangrene or cuts out a cancerous lung.

From <https://www.desiringgod.org/messages/the-son-of-god-appeared-to-destroy-the-works-of-the-devil>

Right. So far. Now. Who whets the edge?
I care less if you guess my name,
stranger,
works; if you find you may entertain a stranger with no sense of pending danger,
see,
afore mentioned cutting,
was mistaken instruction. A missed meaning,
hamartia aitia sort of glitch in the interpretation, privately,
by the muckety mucks,

(by the hair on my chinny chin chin we must shave away the fungus)

The torn flesh
of realities with actual purpose was, intending to repair it self,
using, right, a single stitch.
In a word.
Yet, wait…
Usury found a way to own the story of the act. So,
early autumn, fires raging, smoke obscuring meaningful
right observation of the arrival of Christmas Decorations at Walmart,
in the memorable year,
2020, I heard a sound,
bah trumpa trump trump,
in September,
the one all connected minds shall never remember not
having,
we made up our mind to act on the original anointed mind idea,
let it spread,
like calmin' balm on truly chapped hide.

We all got our differences, 'n' all, viva la

la la la
but we all have right use, too. The idea is not so hard to imagine,
unless you mind is broke, I get stuck in first person,

being broke and woke is a zeitgeistical joke.
We see our neighbors on Hulu,
even in Beijing, if we have the proper world citizen VPN.

Do you hear what I hear? Is this that brat with the drum,
again? Bahtrumpatrumptrump…

merry anointing message, may it trickle through your beard,
and tickle little ears with hope unimagined,
before 2020 made mental time travel so common.

{go tulsi, go, go, go}
Joke. Ok. A joke yoke. As I have no other thing to think about at the moment. Neither did you apparently, if y read this far. Right, thanks, it helps/
Let’s learn a Social Science subject called Pol. Sci.
It is not something that just passes by
Political Theories & Systems stand & remain
They exist & endure in every domain
We must all abide with the Public Law
To Public Accountability we are all below
Public Administration is the eyes & ears of rulers
Public & International Relations encompasses the universe!

-04/25/2017
(Dumarao)
*SSN Poems
My Poem No. 549
Emily Fay D Feb 2011
the world is a stage
but here i am the critic
a cold beer and smile.

life is quite easy
written in english haiku
we're not symbolic.

it feels like summer
but only inside my thoughts
i think i'll skip class.

it all dies right here
responsibility loss
**** i hate that word.

i mean it has like
six syllables in one word
**** ******* haikus.

but you know they're fun
easy to write and polish
polish, not polish.

so i'm skipping class
seriously, what the ****
am i doing now?

absolutely squat.
i'm missing a test right now
crap i ******* ****.

but i did a test
in communications though,
which isn't bio.

i think i'm going
to go play world of warcraft
and worry later.
Written February 7, 2011
Santiago Jan 2015
FULL TIME DEAN'S HONOR
PHI THETA KAPPA SOCIETY
PRESIDENT'S HONOR

0944 ENGLISH 103 3.00 C SU
0174 MUSIC 111 3.00 A SU
1682 MATH 115 5.00 B NDA
3041 SPEECH 101 1 3.00 B SU
1619 MATH 125 5.00 B SU
4040 SPANISH 1 5.00 A SU
0271 THEATER 110 3.00 B SU
0845 CAOT 064 1.00 P CS
0939 ENGLISH 211 3.00 A SU
3448 HISTORY 043 3.00 A SU
0941 ENGLISH 102 3.00 A SU
1569 HEALTH 011 3.00 A SU
1696 MATH 112 3.00 B NDA
3450 POL SCI 001 3.00 A SU
3479 PSYCH 001 3.00 A SU
0921 ENGLISH 101 3.00 A SU
1550 GEOLOGY 001 3.00 B SU
1812 PERSDEV 020 3.00 A CS
2920 PHYS SWIMMING 1.00 A SU
4542 GEOLOGY LAB 2.00 A SU
4652 MATH 105 3.00 B NDA

Assessment: Completed
Orientation: Completed
Counseling:  Completed

Consumnes River College
Transcripts Not Included
Matt Sep 2014
Oh Henry
What a star you are!
You always loved to be at the center of attention

Your accomplishments in diplomacy are well known
You brokered the peace treaty between Israel and Egypt
You effected detente with the Soviet Union
You opened up the way for Nixon in China
You negated the Communist threat in Chile

You said it yourself      
"Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.”

You have admitted that mistakes were
"Quite possibly made"
By administrations in which you served.

You have questioned whether, 30 years after the event,
"Courts are the Appropriate means by which determination is made".

And Cambodia Henry?
You were complicit
In the illegal carpet bombing of neutral Cambodia
Which sowed the seeds for the murderous Pol *** regime

Pinochet was indicted for human rights violations

Diplomacy is a ***** business
You did what you thought needed to be done

You remain cold and secretive
Do you have any remorse or regret?

The old Russian proverb is wrong Henry
Time does not heal all wounds

There is blood on your hands
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_depth/uk/2000/newsmakers/1952981.stm
"Give 'em what they want to see,
and only what they need to hear."

GOOGLE
/päləˈtiSHən/
noun

"A person who acts in a manipulative and devious way,
typically to gain advancement within an organization."

li·ar
ˈlī(ə)r/
noun

"A person who tells lies."



Give 'em what they want to see,
and only what they need to hear.
Give 'em what they want to see,
and only what they need to hear.
Give 'em what they want to see,
and only what they need to hear.

!LIAR!
Laurel Leaves Nov 2017
There's this wire I keep tripping on
the string that lays parallel to current divisions of reality
a plane of moments
strategizing time fragments that correlate with the general population
but keeps me cloaked behind a veil of
they call it
dissociated
the illusion that I cannot fully connect
my atoms don't seem to just align properly with the whirling visions around me
and I slip into the seconds of grandiose prophecies
consumed with the mentality that I will never be enough
that my moments will never really
quite line up.
Munch Gee Nov 2017
A bowl of Rice,
Soft, simmered
And milky white.
Evenly shaped,
Each one like the next.

Rice was this abundance of
Easy going grain.
Wholesomely predictable
But comforting all the same.

The Pol Sambol had double his fury
A haphazard mix of harsh spices
Woven into soft textures.
The tangy taste of lime,
With a sweet coconuty crunch.
A burst. A passion.
An unevenness. A pattern.

Palatable extremes
That Rice had grown to love.

Their journey never began,
So there journey will end in never.

Rice was the base.
And Pol Sambol was the taste.
And so they lived forever.


Pol Sambol- A spicy coconut grind based sambol
caught up in a sa of altrd imags
alcohol flowing
   rd pupils
from all th slfis
   ****
scroll up /// scroll down
m8 u waz wastd
   vryon at ach othr
voics scrambl;ing
for pol position
#popularity laddr
a flck of jalousy
   slic of malic
   *fyi
grn lights signal
sombody cars rite??
hr bgins th dz-dss-
   the dscnt into pixls
primary colours
   '*** **'
night grows old
   plot unravls lik a ball of string
coagulats thick and bad
let fingrs do the talkin' 4 u
  nams bcom strangrs
bcom nams bcom strangrs
TTYL
:)
Written: January 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time.
I have just finished watching a recent powerful UK TV film called 'Cyberbully', which highlights how an unknown culprit can attack others through the Internet. This got me thinking about how today's society is so Internet-based, it's quite shocking. I notice everyday how people can be rude or offensive to others online, and yet nobody thinks anything of it, and as a result, nothing is done. The culture of those aged between 15-22 online is a thorny topic - selfies galore, attention-seekers, terrible spellers - not all, but a lot.
This poem deliberately omits any use of the letter 'e', contains brief 'cyberspeak' and punctuation in an unorthodox style (but the sort of thing one may see online from time to time). Feedback as always is appreciated.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
aggression must be denied.

******, Pol ***, The Duke,
Kim Jong, Mugabe, Fidel Castro,
Saparmurat Niyazov,
the living bad the dead.
XiJinping
proudly announces in
November 2013,
the year of our lord,
they are doing away with
labor camps in China.

******* total,
renamed them
drug rehabilitation centers.

evil must be refuted.
who will call them out?
not us.

coming home from the opera,
some big **** SUV,
played chicken
with me.

I refused to let
him cut in the line.

He followed me
for ten blocks,
honking his *******,
till he quit,
cause I would not give
the satisfaction of letting him
spit and sputter.

Took the woman home.

Went out looking for him.
searched hundred blocks.
found him, took out my jack.
(trust me I did not key his car).

when he saw what I had done,
I quoted him Verdi's Rigoletto:

He is crime, I am punishment.

you see opera ain't for *******.

aggression must be denied
locally, before it becomes
a national treasure.
Act III
RIGOLETTO: No, no, I want to do it myself.
SPARAFUCILE: All right. His name?
RIGOLETTO: Do you want to know mine as well?
He is Crime; I am Punishment.
[He leaves; the sky darkens, it thunders.] -

See more at:

http://downwithtyranny.blogspot.com/2002/02/2262012-first-third-of-act-iii-of.html#sthash.oDHnh3kJ.dpuf

who among you will have the courage to like, love
or hate this by name?
Brandon Sep 2011
***blebee* buzzing
From flower to my shoulder
Don’t pollinate *me
Yenson Apr 2019
They weren't born with a silver spoon
only an umbilical cord tied round their necks
alas this stopped enough oxygen getting to their brains
creating minds full of mumbo jumbo ideas and fantasies
and a bleeding wound that gives them pain without relief
reminding them all the time they are low and never good enough
cause they were born without a silver spoon on a dusty ***** track

It's a blemish that can never be erased
even with a million lucre they still feel small and stained
you can take them out of the manger not the shame out of them
they always believe and know that those others are better than them
with stunted-brains and raving-angst they never see the world right
its us and them burns the burning passions in conflicted sad minds
life long struggles for the struggle to find that silver spoon never had

Their leaders had a brilliant idea in time
mind without a silver spoon their brains always suspect
find all the silversmiths and **** them all and then nationalize silver
one called Stalin killed millions because he saw silver in their teeth
one Pol *** decided he saw silver in the educated and killed them all
this Chavez took all the silver and gave it all away now they are poor
and Fidel says we'll share equally but I and my brotha will only give

The Silver searchers in the some of the West
decided, we should just fight and talk and hold rallies and hate
all those born with the silver spoon must be punished to kingdom
but look says some, you can have silver if you only apply yourself
that's a trick says them of the befuddled minds and complexes bad
let's just be nuisances and hate and holler and torment and harass
Looking closely all their leaders had silver spoons but that's OK
Come on, don't be a sourpuss all the time, you gotta laugh while the revolution rages, We may not have silver spoons but at least we should keep our sense of humour, ain't it so, comrades.  Down with the Royals, no nookie for them, except Harry, Charles, William, Andrew, Edward, definitely NO to Philip and ehh......that black one......
My high school ethics class taught me so much
For example, the fact it is completely fictional
Reminds me that I shouldn’t care
About the world we inhabit or our gaseous air
Why worry that we’re ****** every single resource?
Why worry about dying breeds of animals or melting polar caps?
Should we bother helping honey bees, or consider our affect on bats?
Would it be ok to take a person’s land then tell them what to grow?
When we took the land from natives, was it generous to tell them where to go?
Have you wondered why people living even now think it is ok to **** like Pol?
Or why some think we’re better off to be completely baffled by the genome?
When do embryos become humans, and what does that mean?
Is it ok to grind up cows in machines, or change their names to “Beef”?
Should we ignore terrorists sincere qualms?
Or refute their “strife” with nuclear bombs?
Are we making the planet a more peaceful place?
What a success my education has been!
Apparently school district officials were just challenging me
Because I would have found a purpose
If I knew there were so many chances for improvement
And I guess I should be thankful
That my dawdled years were not interrupted by concern
That one philosophy teacher might create
Because the way of life they placate
May just be in jeopardy
The day we learn that ignorance is greed
MMX
SøułSurvivør Nov 2015
though the mills of God grind slowly
yet they grind exceeding small
though with patience
he stands waiting
with exactness grinds he all.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


for the wicked there's comeuppance
yes, for plagiarist and troll
it may not be in present tense
but evil has its toll

for the greedy human tyrant
for the fat politico
the rich are as a vagrant
trudging through the snow

******, Pol ***, Stalin
Napoleon's Waterloo
in disgrace and fallen
into hell's external stew

the world is a millstone
it grinds fine, or so it's said
born here crying and alone
finally we're dead

don't envy the deceiver
or those who perpetrate
they'll be the receiver
meet poetic Fate

God has a sense of humor
those who blot society
may end up with a tumor
in the end will not be free

those who think they're "first"?
pity the poor fools
they're actually cursed
to be the *devil's
tools

there's no skating through this life
they will all be doomed
the scepter is a poison knife
the coffer is a TOMB.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/23/2015
"Vengence is mine, sayeth the Lord.
I will repay."

---
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.slipknot's (sic) "vs."
  stone sour's get inside...


don't know,
sunglasses in the night,
beginning with a crescendo...

i'm pweetty sure that these
pro-life hags...
ever be presumed schizoid,
spending time with
fellow psychopaths
at some outskirt
London allotment...

     with a bunch of:
pick up, take elswhere,
    put down,
watch "it" dribble...
then expose itself
showing off a ******* *****...
and then,
a dave rubin,
finds it weird,
making an interview
with a pro-life advocate...
    well at least the mad
are not brain dead...
compared to these:
'here, by the grace of god',
wonders of the world.

sure thing, chief.

this, this...
pro-life advocate,
is going to suddenly turn around,
and play the priestly role,
of not being
the cabbage-kid caretaker?
really?
you know...
   when i was digging out
these potatoes,
i've seen more humanity,
when sheep were being
herded,
i've seen more humanity
when, even in their "claustrophobic"
setting laid eggs...
what i came across what:
wish you were in aushwitz
readied **** nurses...
about to shoot in
the back of the head
with these vegetable worth
of humanity...
    
        **** me, if they asked:
i would have brought an axe...
and this, pro-life chick,
so deluded from her experience
of the cabbage-patch kids,
well, sure as **** she won't be taking
care of these deviances,
will she?
                         it's somehow "life"
once the ***** passes the *******
"criteria",
    prior to? dead-tadpole...
something that would
resemble frog mating...

  people would rather prefer
petting three-legged dogs,
than any physical / mental
abnormality of humans...
   they would rather...
feel less of the "love"...
  and...
             squint at the spring blush
of a tomatoe...
         because people,
tell trimmed,
perfect nails...
expect others, to be "human"
when caring for the outliers,
like my grandmother said,
talking to an outlier
neighbour...
     so how do you feel...
with a heavily disabled child,
needing to express
his only ****** capacity,
you putting on the ****,
him jerking off...

while your healthy one
is roaming the rooftops,
readying himself to jump?!
i'm suicidal...
              claustro-**** or what?
like yahweh wasn't the purge,
the god of the purge,
against moloch?
    or beelzebub
                       or belial?

honestly, people who are pro-life,
don't even stratify in my screetch
at watching pro-life to its fullest
extent...

             cabbage-patch kids are far
from even hearing the arugment,
you have remnants of auschwitz nurses
herding them,
  i've see more tenderness
associated with herding sheep,
than what these people endure,
   and i call them "people"....
sure, the shape is there,
until the tongue and freelance
genitals come out with
a speech best associated with
onomatopoeia...

        it's always "pro-life"...
once you've made your argument,
and then did the Pontius Pilate
token of reply...
                    always the responsibility
of the argument,
but never, the responsibility
of the care...
              nice...

i've seen them, pretending to eat,
drool, strapped to what
euthanasia would have done
much simpler, ethically...
            you'd guess a *******
tapeworm would have more
existential focus to continue...

because... it's... not... supposed...
to... be... fun... or... easy...
              mind you, they're not kids...
30+ and almost brain-dead,
i've honestly seen humans
herd sheep with more humanity
than these, "people"...

           that's the "glorifying" aspect
of humanity,
it abhors abnormality,
i've been taught the lesson...
****** tatoos
over chernobyll birth marks
and subsequent scars...
   mediocre: rules!

              pro-life my *******
just became fused with a chilli-esque
rash...
        i wonder how it would fare,
if i just kept shooting blanks...
and women were shooting
out fertility,
   waiting for my shots of void...
would i "feel" less like
just doing a pol *** genocide
into a tissue...
more like: ******... better own that...

next thing you know,
you'll be placing your mortage
on a single roulette spin...

        i'm not laughing...
i know how the dichotomy of man
contra the inverted ontology
of nature prescribes relief
when subjected to the outliers...
it kills them off...

but these, petted,
prettied...
nail varnish....
   primmed hair...
       you think these arguments,
from these kind of people,
will solve the "problem"
of the cabbage-patch kids?
   ask me a different question...
like i said,
i've seen dogs treated with more
dignity to these half-brain-dead
outliers...
              and look how close
i'm standing on the ledge...

               hello england...
             hello the fwee wowld.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i still managed to catch a whiff of britpop...
i was going to st. augustine's
and all the boys were all about the oasis
look... so ben sherman shirts...
          never tucked into the trousers...

but this was in the 1990s...
             of course the celebrations were short-lived...
sooner or later a prog variation of brit-pop
had to come about with radiohead...

i kind of skimmed over the early stuff...
there, there - from hail to the thief is my stand-out
track...

having just watched a movie about
the iceman... a one ryszard kuklinski -
well... if the icecream truck:
mongrel dutch-irish and this one ******
would never make into the guinea club...
or the elder fathers of zion...
guinea? seems i was misinformed...
rome's best wops... or donatello goombah...

i'm having trouble with all these
anglo-saxons slurs...
     back in dandy ol' england...
             it's not a great period piece:
happening right now...
to be in the protected class of citizentry:
no mosque... oh hell:
protected status with a falafel?
exactly... where's the falafel?

             but from the movie... wow...
it is: but it isn't... a racial slar...
the one word from skiing these oomp'ah-
loomp'ahs *** 'ight...
                        
and in mewwy ol' england i come across
the natives... almost for a second time...
not the same sort of natives
i met prior to my 1997 / 1998 interlude...

perhaps 7/7 happened?
                      i really don't know...
                  but no great cultural export...
no oasis was sang on the continent
after oasis songs were sung...
it's not like kasabian made it into that
transcendental meaning on offer...
    
      hey! variations: pollack!
   paul-lack! st. paul's lacking? what?
a head... in athens... ah ha... dry martini of
a joke...
    but who am i?
        profession? pole / paul...
       ******* in my spare time, jackson jr.,
because... it's hardly a slur...
it would be a slur if i were called
a *** or a goombah...
the anglo-saxons wouldn't exactly
the rooted natives...
but they would...
it's as if expected:
from speaking latin and the eagle-fetish
to brewing cappuccinos...

a dutch-irish... well a dumb pollack joke...
yes... and now that the virus is caughing
via the retards in the supermarket isles
or licking ice-cream / toilet rims...
i guess an honest workforce is...
something to be less ashamed of...
compared to this ****** nation of:
the readily to be exile puke of reason...
"of their own"...

               i seem to have elevated my...
concern for words...
     i have just started to read my Charles Dickens...
and relying on Monday
to eat a more delightful roast dinner:
i says... it taste better... because it's not
a Sunday... it's a Monday...
plus... the roast is not exactly a roast...
it has some elements of bleau at the center...
because... you can't expect three
people to eat that much meat in a single sitting:
given the recipe for those yorkies from
ol' grandma of a james martin...

100g of flours, 4 eggs... circa 200ml of milk...
salt, pepper...
the dough is left in the fridge for an hour
at least... the yorkie trays are put into the oven
at 220C with the oil...
while the tatties are browning and the beef
is readying itself for the abstract
of my mouth... and the cubism of my ***...
pristine squeeze...

        if only in h'america...
            what wouldn't a norman davies call
the polacks if not industrial albino (s)*******?
then who were or would be... eire-
just -ish?
                         but the new continent:
i'm toppling down into the torso of a well-off
snowman built from an avalanche...

if there were britons here prior...
which includes the welsh and the scots...
and those people of Shropshire...
and those botanical tsars of Kent...
whoever these people are...
the noble barbarians...
   the better of vikings with no fjords
to revel in farming on?
   maybe those kind of people...
that sort of the native...
oh god forbid i should entice the cosmopolitan
brood to enter the debate...
not in the heart of the matter: come york
and its shire...
                      some longshank hobbit might
just pop its head up to high and kiss
a guillotine!

if there were the anglo-saxons...
    eh... some of us came... settled...
we wanted to... find... the englishman...
circa... 1860 - 1950... that sort of timeframe...
i guess we finds him...
question is... czy ja jestem, lecz czy on?
that's a good question...
is he the host and i the parasite...
well... funny that...
he isn't a body...
                       he's an oak that was uprooted
from somewhere among a many many
pines and birches in the eastern provinces
of this continent...
and moved... into a garden...
lurking: shadow... hunched crow
and some other hideous comparison...

am i the parasite? what host of a mind i did
acquire: who's me...
or i am him... then i'll drift into the other
trench and i'll tell the germans
that they're fighting anglican saxons...
what? yes i'll tell them...
they're not lutheran saxons...
they're anglican saxons...

              how? they have a monarchy...
a crown, central...
no petty princes bound to a federation...
i have also some across the modern natives...
the alt-right and the ethno-nationalists...
apparently: i'm not in the club...
how could i be...
i overheard them talking about...
electing a monarch...
election of monarchy...
    well... no point investing in the gene pool...
last time that was tried...
was in the guise of the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth...
the brothel of kings...
some were hungarians, some were "germans"...
some were even swedes...
the aristocracy elected a king...
a john lackland sorts from across europe...
until their big brother richard
or some variant of Otto or the proper didlo in
hand charles gustav would...
appear to wrestle with his baby brother's:
"betrothal" - evidently thart's one for the misnomer
and inversion...

the anglo-saxons as they were to be later known
as... no point beating about the bush...
but... i have measured myself against
these other inhabitants...
the welsh, the scots, the irish... and... well...
i'm not here on part of a conquering army...
my fellow countrymen are just about overwhelmed
by enjoying 100 years of privy
and freedom... little much of good will that do them...
a half-bred popular opinion:

that i hide my language in the freedom
i allow myself within english...
i'm here for the Dickens and the sunday roast beef:
and the yorkies... and the haggis and the neeps,
the mashed and roasted tatties...
and the black pud'...
            i'm not here to see how far west my ***
will point while bowing toward mecca...
if you don't mind me saying...
like i am not here for that kippah u.f.o.
ghetto of Golders Green...

                    i'm not here for a Marx on loan...
i'm here for a... "hashtag"...
   eh... the saxons have their unifying:
nomadic perspective to mind...
it's not like the saxons were not liked by...
say... the pomeranians...
   or the swabians... or the brandenburgers...
the saxons: semites of the north...
pseudo-vikings wishing for the proto- prefix...
well... are the modern saxons...
saxons? the saxons ****** off to england...
later ****** off to build the british empire...
i'm sure... the modern "saxons" are just
that... brandenburgers... some swabians...
the germans that stayed and were the enemy
under kaiser wilhelm...
that great... grandson of queen victoria...

yes... that war wasn't the war to stop all lineage
in-breeding... because...
it would take whittle adoolf the failed
art student to wake up the petty-bourgeoisie...
fully donned in khaki...
  and in hugo boss schwarz...
               and in... gulag grey-leash... of the wehrmacht:
of course...

    but anglo-saxons are, and were...
and there's this... grand ethno-etymology...
         listening to the natives...
   codes: white-genocide... ethnic displacement...
let me run back and check the state of affairs
in mother russia and ******-land...
polonia (in latin)... oh right...
i just heard... that a woman in russia...
university educated, a doctor, no less...
also believes that churches should be exempt from
restrictions on social gatherings...
because they are holy places...
and... viruses... in their primitive square / rectangular
modes of abstracting vectors...
or de-abstracting for a better cushion
of solid ground made... also have...
a sense of a higher-beings modus operandi
when plagued with doubt, or denial...
the virus knows what's scared to the russians...
too bad for all those russian buddhists...

dunno... what european are the westerners
worried about?
                         i'm here on "holiday"...
to read my Dickens: finally! it only took me
20 odd ******* years...
and my sunday roast on a monday...
   if there came a wave of anglo-saxons...
while the pomeranians stayed strapped
to the holy german empire "thing"...
and because there weren't any anglo-bohemias...
or modern anglo-czechs...

i'll branch out anyways...
                to the "greater" picture masquarade...
i'll be an anglo-slav if...
     and... oh look! they're here already...
i'm an anglo-slav... among the other minority
of the afro-saxons...
            
after all... there are tiers to migration...
there's that tier of polacks moving with the government
during the "affair" of circa 1943...
the no. 303 boys...
    and... after that? no one from ******-land
wanted to come to britain... h'america...
the golden retreiver...
               given the cold war... de facto:
to the antonym of the mensa harvest...

i came in the 1990s...
******-land and the other 8... joined the already
failing european union in 2004...
hmm...
          well... you did get that cabbage plucked...
that carrot too...
from... the sort of people without tic-toc
who... would rather **** braincells with a *****
after a god's monstrous maxim...
while i started sweating from my armpits
hunched with these words...
enough of braincells to ****...
not enough imaginative in a quasi-vivo state
of... the cannibal narcissus...
attention spans a week's worth of
goldfish adventures... licking ice-cream
you won't buy...

                            then again: a lacking paul...
is an otherwise over-eager pauline...

even if "we" were to become fully "integrated"...
like hell i was giving my mother tongue up
after that 1997 /1998 interlude...
i still wouldn't be able to teach my father the english
they speak: peppered with nuance from
the old mother grammar...
too bad... but the pronunciation is spot on...
i don't know why i should feel obliged to
the ******* on the cross to feel "circumcised"
for... his labyrinth...
      i couldn't teach my father better english
than the english already spoken: among the natives,
for the natives...
at home... mother is the cue... tongue
and everything otherwise...

we'll sample with the natives their delight in
minority cuisines...
but come monday... esp. a monday...
after a lunchbox worth of food of a sunday
feeling lazy... well... it just tastes better when
it's not... predicated on a riposte of...
conventions and harangue of: past-participle
expectations...

that sentence is littered with misnomers...
to add to the... otherwise... bland... talk...
correct... talk...

                   but i really couldn't teach my father
better english...
i have made this language sacred in my own
right as... both parasite and host...
interchangeable... of course...
eh... master and slave dynamic doesn't really
get me all hot and bothered...
i much prefer the lessened hiararchical nuance...
the co-dependency the symbiosis...
of a parasite and a host...
after all... it would seem the head of the pyramid
is a... fungus infection of the brain...
or at worst... a placenta martriarch of
a family of tapeforms: where, otherwise...
a foetus should be...

                i'm not into boot-licking...
but... if the anglo-saxons used these isles
as a spring-board to forever imitate the children
of zion...
i'm just the leftovers...
           the anglo-slav among afro-saxons...
the "great replacement"...
  woe'woe'woe... and that's a word that
should devolve into a calm down / halt insinuation...

who came after 2004... the people who didn't see loopholes
and wouldn't be seen gambling...
the sort of people that would most certainly
go back to the ***** and: the law & justice party
embrace...
   the xenophobic extracts of:
                        the impossibilty of the red sea
parting story... since they would never be the ones
there...
              that grey area...
like i am a grey area to them...
given... how many times did i want to spend
a summer at the ****** version of Woodstock...
Pol'and'Rock at Kustrin?
         lack hell i am...
   i'm confined to my little abode of folklore
anglo-saxony...
             rather: not having played the boogie man
from an 1960s period piece of:
vaginal and viagral expectations...
or... that thing known as brit-pop in the 1990s...
or... i've passed through york...
on my way to edinburgh...
           but yorkshire... beside the yorkies...
spuds? they call them?

         maybe... i'm counting 7 x 5cl to leverage
me at half a 70cl... but... looking at
what 35cl looks like turned into dosage...
i'm seeing more... than half an empty bottle...
i'm seeing the bottle as half full...
i guess this "predicament" came from
alcoholic slang and... positivism...
it's hardly optimistic... given... it's only
a perspective on only one bottle...
and there's still that sea to drink!

                      well... that's that... it was a most
enthralling ride back toward a square-root of 0...
much appreciated...
       now i'll just turn to the bed and the cushion
my head rests on...
and tell myself:
           this person was never born...
nor will his words take to boast about...
          a nativity play...
                 nor a pride in Shakespeare...
       it's one thing's worth a good reading...
quiet another... to treat it as an enzyme for
the collective: a catalyst...
to "re-invent" the wheel... as it were...
i have given birth... to perhaps...
the greatest thing i could "steal"...
         then again... i am very much...
                         exaggerating...
  but this was not born from the ****** ethnicity
of some european island folk...
  it was born on the continent...
   and it was somehow lived in and with...
never allowed to exfoliate into a courtesan...
annoyance... i gave it a limbo cage
both the host and parasite could enjoy...
after all: this language is a parasite...
i acquired when integrating...
    i am the host...
the parasite can dictate what it wants...
a blank page to exfoliate a boquet(t)e with / in...

it would most certainly appear more
orthographically sound: if boquete had an added T...
well... some will cite Shakespeare the first of and
the end of... what's defined as Ęglish...
i like to think of the... "subtle" master...
     i somehow knew it was in him...
after watching the film-adaptations... not good enough...
not having read David Copperfield...
a brush with J. D. Salinger and all that
holden caulfield Son-of-Sam sort of crap...

             i guess you just have to age a little...
a little is never greedy... and pounce on that great
big peacock playing: the pink elephant in the room!
that's me... Dickens wasn't impossible
to "unsee" or "not see"...
                                  i just needed...
the right sort of hashbrown sort of nudge...
enough organic encounters with yorkies...
baked tatties... h.p. brown sauce and enough baked
beans...
  yep... now i'm ready...
                  it's time to gently slide away from
Macbeth... and into Dickensian prose...
the Pickwick Papers is as any good place to start...
all the better: since it came highly
recommended why i was still in high-school...
all those... ****... 18 years later.
Pol *** waits no more—
There’s work to be done.
The people are poured
For a god to be won.
The idol of communism feasts and consumes,
Leaving nothing but shadows and doom.


In Russian:

Пол Пот не ждёт —
Дел очень много:
Народ в расход
Во имя "бога",
Ведь идол коммунизма пожирает очень много.
A generation born, devoid of thought
Corrupted measures sold and bought
An aged perspective hardly sought
Due to connections with the late Pol ***

Perilous times call for desperate measures
Seeming to mean an abuse of pleasures
Greed acting as a constant suppresser
For the evils deemed to be quite lesser.

Terrified of your average looking glass
Displaying all things that have come to pass.
Revolted by an older, religious class
Who weep over children absent from mass

Lost in a generation exhausting their youth
Forging conspiracy out of men like John Booth
Believing that the world needs a negligent sleuth
Like Alex Jones, to uncover fake truth

There's nothing to be done about a past indiscretion
That lifted many out of a deep depression
War can be a necessary transgression
Without the tools of forced confession

There's no need for idiots to constantly spout
Opinions that they don't honestly tout
All you do is cause mass doubt
Make new wars with peaceful *****

Then there comes a point where a doubtful voice is needed
In times where a government has become conceited
Out of fear of the past being repeated,
and the idea that liberty could be defeated.

This doesn't include conspiracies like 9/11
Or belief in ideas like your supposed heaven
Or allowances for an ultimate weapon
Though to say all this...it is a denial of expression.

I guess in the end what I'm trying to say
Is that Alex Jones just needs to decay
I mean this in an offensive way
The man's a corruptive, and crude cliche
Qualyxian Quest Feb 2019
hot ***, not Pol ***
    tonight’s wondrous starry sky
             beautiful, she’s from Taiwan
                
               eat, drink, and be merry
                    for tomorrow we die.
Yenson Sep 2019
Drunk on polluted farts of the left winds
pulled by long noses into witless pens spewing red ink
artificial energy from Columbia and caffeine powered husks
vacuous soldiers of Mao and Lenin re-drilling Winter Palace debacle
woke world of plastics damaged to plastic pollution by damagers fair

Narrow minded short sighted rabbles humming
Laissez-faire sanctioners regulating home-brewed hocks
equal distribution is hatching Gullivers limb by limp to feed giants
makes sense in the senseless vacuum of bacon slashers by Farm pigs
beasts of every land and clime this is the new world order by crimson

Pol *** psychologists are making the future
cancerous and caffeinated they read minds and pull strings
power is making my bad choices, frustration and inadequacies yours
two wrong makes right and dare see left as a wrong or you are goner
altra right come take lessons on how to mask and leave pointed hats behind......
The pigs gained leadership because they were recognized as the cleverest by the other animals. Someone had to plan out the work, Pigs power rule OK.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.compiled with the hallucination of a diety making farting sounds with a hand lodged into its armpit, and then squeezing, extracting a synthetic farting sound.

                                   the belittled heart,

   counter arguments
to a "belittled mind"...

or is that,
what you call....
a "late take" on reproduction,
with birth defects,
and how,
subsequently,
these people,
these "people" are treated worse
than sheep,
when herded outside
the concept of a slaughter-house?
no? no really?

    just because i *******
into you,
suddenly i'm freed from
the pol *** disposition
of performing a genocide
into a tissue?!
      
   "suddenly": we don't care
what you feel!
came the constipated /
constricted heart...
and, who, the ****!
made you believe,
that someone,
might,
   even begin,
to, give a ****...
about, what, you, "think"?!
huh?!
     who ever gave a ****
about what people thought?
you know,
i care, what people think,
because that's the closest
i'll ever get,
to what thinking doesn't
allow...

            "justified" complexity...
i don't need to visit thailand
for that sort of ****,
i just need to dig a trench
into the psyche
of: the neighbors i'll never
talk to,
the natives...
        why?
   and they talked to me to begin with?
no...
           so?
hello, friend, hello, shadow...
            some people haven't
moved outside of their inherent
lodging,
  they, don't know
what it "feels" like,
or that the thinking behind
it requires...
              
        no, i'm with the people
behind the: feel movement...
given that...
pretty much all of the "thought"
associated with engaging
with the currect dialectic,
leaves me...
   more inclined to reply
to feeling,
rather than the "thinking",
of sourced counter measures...

   feeling compensates
the complexity of thinking,
when thinking detaches itself
from feeling and explores
         the regions of when
emotion doesn't compensate feelings...
but...
to somehow turn around...
and debase thinking...
with slander contra emotion...
  to turn us into apathetic
                    autistic zombies /
muslims?
                       a belittled mind does
one thing, it shut ups...
but a belittled heart?
when someone belittles
someone for having emotions?
you know what is worse
than belitteling someone for
the "possession" of thought?
the next, the ultimate,
is belitteling someone
for the "possession" of emotion...
  
i can be called dumb,
i have no problem with that...
but... being called...
"something" associated,
with the automated expression
of owning a heart?
  now, now you're holding foot
on sacred territory...

       and with something akin
to the christchurh shooting...
i really don't need a reason...
   the reason reasons itself
into a completion...
      'i don't care about your feelings!'
reply?
   and i really didn't give
a **** about what you think,
but you managed to speak,
so, i guess my care for what you thought
is off the table.

          but by now,
it doesn't really matter...
the horrible has already taken place...
and...
                english "existentialism",
somehow being woken into
a philosophical humanism,
with the current counter-scientific
delusion of trans-gender
grammar inclusion change...
          i'm post-soviet...
and i want the soviets back...
this isn't working for anyone's
worth of crafting favour...

         nope...
                                not really...    
i'm just hallucinating
the flavour of apples,
and pancakes in my mouth
while i drink having made proper
due to a fast...

                    that usual talking point...
'i don't care what you feel!'
that's true, it's all true...
but why should i care...
what, you think?

   at least feeling is less suspect,
when entertaining the medium
of writing...
   if you really wanted to care
about what you thought...
you should start writing cipher,
if trasmitting thought
was on the cards,
        it would only become fathomable
via something akin
to a sudoku;

    i sometimes hear a song,
pretend to not peer into the night
donning a pair of sunglasses...
pretend,
i didn't just date a russian girl,
who would read me extracts
from the cosmopolitan magazine,
did?
         oddly enough:
the heart, and the brain,
  "talk"...
          the heart reserves the same
freedoms associated with
the brain...
              thought:
i get a head-ache...
    thought:
i have a pang of a "feeling",
a stone grip of the heart...
                 so shouldn't thinking /
ought-making be associated
with the liver?
              the only sensation of
the brain: is a negative
     connotation...
               at least the heart can allow
the entire spectrum...
           no... usually...
when it's "good"...
it's a sense of goosebumps...
which occupies
   the presence of skin and hair
of the cranium,
but not the brain itself...
        
        and by now...
                   none of my thinking translates
into some deviation of an einstein's theory...
but i could never dismiss
the point of feeling,
akin to: no one cares about your feelings...
well, dialectic disclaimer...
some would claim that:
no one cares what you think... yes?

— The End —