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The white city at night well mentions
that women have integrated women into
their dark years deep water as a result
of the death of the four-year-old child
of the woman in the tricolor hat of Europe
and the best skin of Asia, Latin America's
is a big red mother of music. American
little hot Latin amateur, blood Italian,
African naked, Yellow. John, Sweet food.
A story about a new war with gold and darkness,
air exchange stars and "On Earth",
the historical sky, the sun and love
in the future, leaving her wife, Queen Rani
lost her poetry on the London's Underground;
poetry, french ***, man living in the air,
will be marked by the daughter of my friend's Daughter
Sandy, Not a boy in Editing Park
in the history
of old glass. The idea of ​​the behavior of parents
"The Moon and the Consumer", Fingers was the hot drink
antennae songs of Thomas. Walls - open robot.
Nowadays, the dreams of a stylish poem are more complicated
than animals, with which many Jews have the tree
of the stomach
of many Jews for sap, and I play in the rock of knowledge
around colored stone. The center of Asian football
should be a science of language,
dance and create war in heaven,
while Bob is well worried, waiting for a cat,
I'm angry that I see the museum:
Russell’s grateful insurance reminds
us that using vitamins, games, and politics helps us
to computer mountain's window ablar, laugh,
laugh in church, sit down or talk on "Do",
sit on 2 issues, have a lesbian, have a mirror or a duck,
sing socks hexametro, sleep can be a young man,
and therefore the letter of the Spanish envoy,
daughters, yes, Ntista and the barbarian
will feel ready with Germanicus, who wrote,
came to the police, and began to use his way
with his sisters as well as the dirt between the walls,
and also to turn the crowd. Having written
as a reason to know the knowledge of children,
I read an image of the general development of philosophy,
a study of the abuse of Jews, forest dwelling homelessness,
the sea. Smell is the price of a garden bed
without a group, drinking the words to get
material from her, waiting to **** the killer-killer-killer-killer
Medusa Cratus, at one end of the dragon shores separator.
The daughter is born completely out of the surface
and the magic spell in the affected area - the queen of the club,
the poisoned *****. The funeral of the devil
is clearly the directive. The names of the displayed image
were largely violated, not even in the glory of his mother,
so the mistakes carried the music of reproduction,
and women recognized these harmful things
in the original language to move the smell.
For poisonous smokers who cut off her chest
with their fingers and feet,
the DT equation is a witch, the ghost of a collectible
cerutus has reduced his teen count.
Yes, and he took it and headed out,
and that was what he knew from things
that are a little in pieces and no one
is sure that the biggest is where the bread,
the hat of the yellow city is big, dances,
Lucius is in charge of life, white-skinned,
thinks about the color of female music
and speaks about a personal conversation
about the victory of death in the life of England,
the blessed man should arrest him
because he does not believe in the form
of a chicken: no, no, no, who will inform
the daughter and their voices: France, France!
French, church and Spanish trains look black,
black ones are lost. The Great Languages ​​
of Williams and Williams in Great Britain;
Three Cities, Three Eight Cities and Bridges,
Red Eagle, My Beast This prophecy is associated
with Lizini. William Wilson died in English.
Seven predictors - black, black, black, black,
white, black and white. Consultant-girlfriend.
France, France and the Western world,
for Spain, and so that they do not drink,
to overthrow. For the last time, Great Britain
Great Britain, Williams and Williams
are changing, black, purple and white
great languages ​​live in three cities, three.
Tom the Red Dragon in Russia! Since in most
cases the ship could use the eastern part of life.
The white city at night is a good mention
of the fact that women have integrated women
in their dark years, the deep water as a result of the death
of the four-year-old child of a woman is the three-colored
headed Europe and the best skin of Asia, Latin America
is a big red. mother of music American little hot Latin
amateur blood Italian, African naked Yellow. John Sweet
food The story of a new war with gold and darkness,
air exchange stars and “On Earth”, historical sky,
sun and love in the future, leaving her wife, Queen
Rani has lost her London poetry in poetry, french ***,
man living in the air, will be marked by my friend's
daughter Daughters Sandu Ne boy in Editing Park
in the history of old glass The idea of ​​the Moon and
Consumer behavior Parents, Fingers were a hot drink
of ***** Thomas songs. Walls - an open robot.
Nowadays, dreams of a stylish poem are more
complicated than animals, with which many Jews
have the stomach tree of many Jews for juice,
and I play in the rock of knowledge around colored stone.
The center of Asian football should be a science of language,
dance and create war in heaven
while Bob is good to experience,
waiting for a cat, I'm angry that I see the museum:
Russell's grateful insurance reminds us
that using vitamins, game policy helps to assign
the computer and the ajar mountain window,
laugh, laugh in church, sit down or talk be on “Do”,
sit on 2 issues, have a lesbian, have a duck mirror,
sing the hexametro socks, sleep can be a young man,
and therefore the letter of the Spanish envoy,
the daughter of the dentist and the barbarian
will feel ready with Germanicus, who wrote,
came to the police, and the weapon, as well
as to rotate the crowd, they began to use their
way and their sisters, and the dirt between the walls.
Writing as a reason to know the knowledge
of children, I read an image of the general development
of philosophy, a study of the abuse of Jews, forest,
idleness at home, sea. Smell is the price of a garden bed
without a group, drinking words to get material from it,
waiting to **** the murderer -killer-murderer-killer,
Medusa C Ratus, at one end of the dragon shores separator.
The daughter is born completely out of the surface
and a magic spell in the affected area - the queen of the club,
the poisoned *****. The funeral of the devil
it is clear that is the directive. The names
of the displayed image were largely violated,
not even in the glory of his mother,
so the errors carried the music of the playback,
and the women recognized these harmful things
in the original language to move the smell.
For poisonous smokers who cut off her chest
with their fingers and feet, the DT equation
is a witch, the ghost of sobral cerulutam
has reduced his adolescent calculations.
Yes, and he took it and headed it, and that
was what he knew from things that
are a little in pieces, and no one is sure
that the biggest and where the bread,
the hat of the yellow city is big,
is dancing, Lucius is in charge of life,
with white skin, thinks about the color of female music,
and talking about a personal conversation
about the victory of death for the life of England,
the blessed man should arrest him,
because he does not believe in the form of a chicken:
did, no, did not, who will inform the daughter
and their voices are France, France, French,
church and Spanish trains look black, blacks are lost.
The Great Languages ​​of Williams and Williams
in Great Britain Three Cities, Three Eight Cities
and Bridges, Red Eagle, My Beast This prophecy
is associated with Lizini. William Wilson died
in English. Seven predictors - black, black, black, black,
white, black and white. Consultant girlfriend. France,
France and the Western world, for Spain, and to stop
the two from drinking, to topple. For the last time,
in Great Britain Great Britain, Williams and Williams
change, black, purple and white great languages
​​live in three cities, three Toms, Red Dragon in Russia!
Since in most cases the ship was able to use the eastern part of life.

Virginity lost,
innocence stolen.
Sheets tangled,
emotions interwoven.
***** clothes,
ruffled hair.
Questions of how,
when and where.
Reminders of tomorrow,
predictors for tonight.
Confirmations of standing,
Emotions just right.
Placed bedside,
words left out.
Lust and passion,
what tonight’s about.

Morning confession,
admittance of sin.
Wishing lust to stop,
but praying it’ll never end.
Emotions dressed,
worn only during day.
Then changed at night,
seeking for new prey.

Virginity lost,
innocence stolen.
Stealing dignity,
never beholden.
A thin veil,
an attempt to cover.
Comes off at night,
under new cover.

Virginity confirmed,
finally dead.
Studies done,
in the bed.
Innocence gone,
never alive.
Veil disappeared,
ending the strive.
Bedside table,
falls apart.
Pieces found in sheets,
of an intertwined heart.
Lust and passion,
exchanged here.
Intertwined with emotions,
cries hard to overhear.

She walks down the corridor
back straight, immaculate.
Heels tapping a regular rhythm
heart beating a tattoo of nerves.

nerves

She can hear the wishers of spite
whispering, sneering, delivering splinters
of withering, scathing remarks at her back
behind masks of smiles and false friendship.

friendship

She hasn't been aboard a ship of friends
in quite a while.
Transistors in her head have picked up the
whispers, the predictors have spoken.

spoken

"She only got the promotion on her back"
"Like she has the qualities for the role"
"Well she does have qualities for a roll!"
"She does like rolling on her back!"

back

Back home, she sits at the mirror in her room
shivers whilst remembering the sniggers and
whispers. The slingers of whispers and dirt
have hurt too deep this time.

time

Time has passed, and the only dirt thrown
Is the handful by her sister, on top of the box
her sibling lies in, lies in because of lies.
She espies the work colleagues, watching and grins.

grins

Grins because it's not often you see the twin
of a suicide victim.
The victim of evil whispers, furthermore
she starts work in a week, with these weak whisperers.

**Killers

Death may come,
to some sweet souls
we know this -
much too quickly
there in a flash,
- in a heightened dash-
perhaps not even sickly,

Oh how that fate-
so mercurial,
it doesn't tell us -
so often why,
as we gaze in daze,
upon our solemn dead,,
an throw our hands up to the sky,
we ask of our dear stars above,
just why'd they have to go an die?

As we are really sad for only just ourselves,
we're just not ready to be done,
so stuck there in our bad goodbye,
still looking for the shining sun,
parting is such sweet sorrow
when it's with the only "one",

To leave the lovely Earth,
a blinking eye,
before to grasp a changing thought,
to look up in a changing sky,
for the answers dearly sought,
or even only wonder why,
it wiped away a life so fast,
and suddenly-
it seems for naught,

Her people they not with her now,
as she lay so broken and forlorn,
until the strangers come to call,
her death-
it was perhaps just a chance to warn,

To expire in a cul-de-sac,
as they circle 'round her now to grieve,
watching as they march as one,
to see the only way -believe,
believe me,
they come to only bid farewell,
not to punish or a bone to cleave,
as the body fails,
gone away - a binding heave,

As a rolling tube of rubber brings
about the ugly severed end,
and a hard black inflated reality,
it comes around the final bend,
barreling down on a tiny female life,
no hand to hold-
not one to lend,
but the birds they came,
with a message we should send,

Harbingers come in the quietus here,
they come to dance in sacred feather,
an some say rare and very strange,
and predictors of the coming weather,

I think that might be true, I do,
but what do circling wild birds
really tell?
circumnavigating the dead of Earth,
while in the sadness do not dwell,
and still I'm sure they are afraid of those tires,
but those fears they only quell,

They circle round to pay respect,
an she an enemy in their eye,
still they only ferry her,
an wish her home
a last goodbye,

A ritual of death and life,
performed before the alter,
a spirit sighs -a soul she dies,
her body could only falter,
death may come,
they fear it - not,
and I believe they still-
believe no hell is hot,

How?
How do these wild wild birds,
understand better than we,
some how?

Ma Cherie© 2017

.i never could find atheism satisfying, atheism being nothing more than anthropocentrism; it's nothing more. well, hell, back to the old model dispute: geocentric vs. heliocentric models... why wouldn't atheism be a thesaurus entry on the synonym level, and not be akin to anthropocentrism? pulling out balloons out of my *** like a clown... it later becomes something less inclined to a "dispute" about a "god" or "the gods"... man is still over-powered in instances where his superiority is critically diminished... the biological version of the botanic construct of mistletoe: which is the equivalent  of cancer... i always felt inclined to suspect the pop atheists... or the fact that insects, akin to ants, bees, termites, have a language dedicated to telepathy, just because they're small, doesn't imply that they're not "big"... there are rumours, that humanity wants to achieve a form of telepathy, rumours, nothing to get worried about... would i pray? no... i'd much prefer to study... but i am left dissatisfied with atheism: simply because it's pride in the anthropocentric argumentation... there's a fine line between anthropocentrism, atheism, and egoism... the "rational" cue would probably be associated with something akin to: the horrors of suspect... that beneath all the rituals of faith, there's a thinking contigency of suspicion... i rarely found someone who simply did-away with that fleeting sense of suspicion... and if i am suspect: this whole "thing" is suspect... the shackles of trust... what, akin to the laws of gravity? the creeping ontological predictability of general human affairs, akin to mating and dating? oh they're there... sure, and the sun will rise tomorrow, and this night will pass, these are no more laws of physics, as laws of trust... beneath which... gambling upon the predicament of the unfathomable, which is equal, to gambling upon the predicament on the already fathomable... i didn't exactly convert to judaism: i can't... if they circumcised me, i'd bleed to death... the best i can do is play the role of a ****** with a predicament, the nag hammadi library was unearthed... in egypt... and i became crushed by the gospel of st. thomas... that part where jesus takes thomas aside, and tells him something, thomas goes back to the rest of the disciples and they ask what was said, and he replies: if i told you... you'd stone me... right... so christianity boiled down to playing a game of ******* chinese whispers: he said, she said?! i guess that reaction was inevitable... given i already became a catholic apostate having read some gnostic works, and never became confirmed... well, it's like i was given a choice over my baptism, but with regards to confirmation? yeah, i took that **** seriously, even if i wanted i couldn't get a church wedding... i haven't been confirmed.

faux pas, "god"...
                   and all that non-existing
prayer "gone to waste"...
well...
    not really...
           blurry lines...
the sensible atheistic argument...
not when the argument is arrived at
from... a disposition of fear...
    rather than claiming some insightful
bias...
            suicide? tried that once...
hanging from a tree...
             the tree ended up being
chopped down...
but... strangely replanted
itself in my neighbour's garden...
now i watch it grow,
arch and cast a decent amount
of shadow...
                      if i'll have a dream,
i'll write it down,
   but i guess, most of the time,
            i'm plagued with "dreams"
of the grand void...
                an abyss that eats me,
where no images pass,
   no narratives...
                  no yesterday akin
to that story of paul mcCartney...
   no, just the sleep,
        and the grand void...
       apparently i groan and moan
in my sleep,
       i couldn't tell you...
              but i can tell you that
the "dreams" become so violent that
i am thrown out of bed
and end up waking up on the floor...
is it associated with the alcohol
consumption?
            perhaps... probably...
will i stop?
                     stop what?
                          it's this weird
assurance from a deity...
                        concerning suicide -
an unconscious fear
                                        of non-being...
tell that to someone who is
easily susceptible to a dream like water
infiltration process...
          "dreams" or rather: a lack of...
a momentary lapse into the figurehead
of ego in charon's empty head...
            groaning and being thrown
out of the bed, landing on the floor...
         i was right about
        the high blood pressure
genetic inheritance...
    how quickly that balloon head feeling
of an explosion disappeared
                      one mid-afternoon
               when i came off the pepsi...
talk about the aspect of the body
replying with an in-built barometer
                      faculty...
    old people always complain
about the atmospheric pressure
         doing a sadistic circus on their well-being
with regards to bones,
    and other body parts...
high pressure...
atmospheric high pressure and
they feel like ****...
   now take this and invert it onto
a canvas of high blood pressure...
      for once,
          beyond the headache sensation
of a brain - rarely felt -
   as if: the brain trying to find
an exit, and merge itself with
    a mind - that component of translating
brain, and the posit of a body
as a soul...
                headache: knock-knock...
body: who's there?
      headache: brian, he's going mental!
i guess the 1st tier of understanding
is gastronomical...
the 2nd tier being philosophical...
the 3rd tier having something to do
with all the current psychological constraints
and predictors...
         but the sort of "ache"
associated with high blood pressure...
brain turns all swiss cheese sponge
b'ah-b'ah...
                  the jaw dumbs,
   the tongue cannot be placed comfortably
in any position in the closed mouth...
and the teeth start to itch...
   not even chewing gum helps;
as ever...
             does it matter what i've written,
or does it matter, how i've written it?

Muhammad? fear a man with library of only one book? Muhammad? fear a man with only one woman as his aide... Muhammad: forgo the envy of Solomon... Jews are Jews: Mohammad: don't displace your dyslexia against the poet... Muhammad... fear the man: with only one woman... here! have my library: you will be a welcome son, the geek... the freak.. Muhammad... i give unto you: my library. now... to higher lessons! the flies are mad: Muhammad: Mucha: fly... mad in English: son of Beelzebub... you are not quiet old enough to claim a higher status against Christ... sorry... fear a man with only one woman and a library of books... scare yourself Muhammad: by way you become... who wrote the Quran if not the literate queen of Arabia business woman KHADIJAH... who wrote the Quran... who can complain about Islam the nest of chemistry and wasps... when the second world war climaxed... and the dead sea scrolls and the nag hammadi library was unearthed: and Islam became a liberal **** cammunist alliance of delusional people in a temporal displacement: Islam became ******! in a monotheistic system you can't tease polytheistic agonies: not drawing a picture of your prophet is just part of the problem: in a monotheism there is only the god and the prophet: but you are claiming that... there will be a protagonist and an antagonist... a dajjal: and a mehdi... and a jesus... sorry dear brothers: you reverted to a type of polytheism of the intellect: that the Christians don't have and the Jews are confused about, given their story of having experienced God en masse but then reverting to the sacrilege of the golden Taurus... sorry Islam: there is no monotheism without the god of individuals and the individuation of individualism as man and satan as his aid: the prosectur... satan is real and i have struck a deal with him: i enstrusted some affairs of my mortality with him: i trust him... satan: be my shadow... 8:33 Mark... Matthew 16:23... no... don't get behind me, adversary a self twin: did George Orwell invent DOUBLE-THINK? or did i, i forgo rereading books... i know of group-think, or right-think, or political-correct and i know of diversity: but i want to live among Polynesians i don't want to live among other Asians... curse me! be my shadow, satan: i'll befriend you: you be my prosectur in living hours while i'll be your lawyer: guardian, defender in the afterlife... how's that sound? is that a pact? you be my prosecutor in my living hour while i'll guard your defence in the afterlife?

i blacked out writing the poem: thrice?!
am i to be reincarnated a third time?
must it take three times?

Nietzsche ****** and Me
or Jesus Christ
John Coffey... like the insinuation
was:
who did the... Ezra: are you listening?!
i will tell you story
of America
as you came to learn
the history of Europe:
look where we are: Ezra...

i get told at work i'm the boss
i'm the G
and that works just fine:

i don't mean the spontaneous
combustion of ape
from what ape did the semi-ape
reject the bridge: the Erasor bridge
of wonders
what genocide we
did: against each other
that both ****** and Genghis Khan
are pale reminders...
i saw it in the eyes of a homie
i doctor from Poland:
a Kafkaesque poem of a character
so rigid in his cell
unable to practice medicine
mediocre crab bucket master
from Poland...
ooh: i revelled in his soul
as i then ate it...
and sacrificed nothing of my own:
no cleaner death
than the theft of soul...

... depends on how a rich people become:
Japanese are very rich
but very dented: weird: OSAKOHARAKI!
a civil contract:
there was this issue at work
father two sons
father old **** me beyond competing
with your boys:
so... their ******* grandmother...
ended up parting with him
imitating a lost *******
"lost"...
and shrivelled ****...
who was that guy who walked into
Japan's suicide forest and posted
selfies of a dead body
hanging from a tree? Logan: not Wolverine...
that character is the Anti-Christ...
Logan Wolverine is the Christ
and Deadpool the Antichrist...
so the New Testament was like
a speeded up version of the old testament:
like quick: the Jews are needed
to relocate into Europe
advance the European people through
greek slumber of Heraclitus utter:
the will to strife: becomes the will to strive
and in that transformation
comes the power: to will!

-

if men are from Mars and have to do:
in order to be
while women are from Venus and simply be:
in order for things
to happen around them:
so... not enough trees?
i can compenstate a story of a woman
with a story of a cloud, or a tree:
i see fish in the sky:
these swaths of underwater life:
i don't need to seek monsters
among the stars
trap myself with gods
and aliens and machinery
that there is: signatures of life
upon the sky:
done so somehow:
CELESTIAL  CHEMISTRY:
can you study the clouds for me...
can i make these semi-astronauts?
can you please study the earth
a bit better...
i don't need to put my flag on the moon:
perhaps for mining purposes...
i need someone to study the oceans
and the clouds...
not predictors and engineers of
people living in tornado
and hurracan avenues...
i want people to study clouds
and if i'm wrong about clouds being
the representation of how much
life sooths the point of preserving
a consciousness of existence:
as mobile as possible:
if we are to challenge ourselves to a post-existentialist
boxing match...
we have the arenas...
the observant 3rd Wave Migration Project...
but this pencil neck pusher of a "doctor":
how does social benefit work:
i delusional in thinking
i write these words for free while
getting the cRown's Employment and Support
Allowance:
i made it quiet plain:
i will dutifuly due this personalised propaganda
piece:
but only if i pretend to be mad
or at least understand madness:
yes i will become a bouncer
a poet-bouncer...

war has changed: it's all on informational bias
and basis of confrontation with comics
counter movies:
left comic books with the people who
didn't understand Nintendo and Atari and Comedore...
i can will people to
will me:
four days with crab pinching at my liver...
Oasis reunited: i talked
about Taylor Swift's bussiness model for
about 3 weeks...
subtle mimic of the Abba arena montage?
testing the real with fakery?
en masse as humans we do that:
fake it until you make it: pinch pinch:
crab clutter and pincer cluster...

this ****** is from Poland... Michal SZCZ'RZ... whatever
and... only now the ***** start climbing
out the bucket on dead bodies
of their fellow countrymen? Katyn: deserved to
have happened...

i was cannibalising my liver with anger:
it didn't hurt: as a male
my neuroticism is not a feeling
but a sensation: that's how men and women
differ:
how far have you fallen:
so abridged on the cross...
such fiction: climb down... dear actor:
we need now only to pretend who
directs the intellect behind
a Christ and the Green Mile:
Mile End:
two favorite stations of London:

Baker Street
   & Liverpool Street...

those are two of my favorite stations
Gants Hill: **** it...
that's my most stable port
no confict...
and two favorite lines:
the District and the Metropolitan lines...
Green and Claret:
no not Bakerloo Khaki...

with the power: to will:
i can... finally go beyond good and evil...
via... Jacob had the stairs leading
up:
me? i want to go into the Nevad... the Nevad...
the neverending will to understanding:
to return as a knowing creature...

the person who discovered Coca Cola
was Dr. John Stith Pemberton....
so no Jefferson, plague: pardon: so true...
but the owner:
the carbonated caramel drink
on one mile green...

i ask the question: a knocking on the floor:
an old man can't own up
to once being young...

*******... search engine: i saw what i was looking
for in the first place
it wasn't the pharmacist
it was someone wearing a boater...
  hat: not a kippah:
how there was a period of imitating Jews
and then came the Weimar Vanity
like the current Waking no Hour project
that is not so much viable as hetrosexuality
is being Apocalyptyically Undermined

just before sleep:
i think that's how you compenstate not reading
the book: adapted into film...
you have to rewatch the movie
with cut-off points...
today i finally managed to finish
watching the Green Mile:
i forget and forgot:
simultaneously...
to forget and i forgot...
pronouns can play such a crucial
problem for idiots who don't understand
grammar:
and how that sentence alone
proves the points that pronouns
are not... well: it's not like anyone
in Poland decided to
tear down the chimneys brick by brick...
of Auschwitz...
that argument no argument ad hoc cna still
be made...
how i utilize a pronoun is how
COGITO ERGO SUM exists...
withouth a mouth's full of ego...
                  these people are struggling...
i'm not making fun of them
these people are on the cliff's edge of understanding:
the great gap:
so the samurai chimpanze
and the wrestler gorilla
and the philosopher orangutan:
would have been as wise
or stupid:
for the slave trade to exist:
we only exported the idiot strength to
conjure America
and jazz was somehow just happenstane
to break from folk:
rememeber the rulers never used to have
music...
there were only deliberations
and tactics: talk talk...
rulers only discovered music via the classics
words congested into sounds...

the poor had music:
watch titanic...
look at how music is utilized...
when the Titanic sank...
rich people don't understand music:
no: rulers: don't understand music:
music is irrelevant:
apoligies Nietzsche:
from a pinched liver
to a sea of saliva and a toothache from
an iceberg... of a tooth...
it's not that i dropped the word rich...
without music life would make
no sense?
depends who you are within the confines
of music:
just a passive listener:
a Wagner's ******* and applause?
or are you...
the night-walker-night-eater...
i walk the night in order to eat it:
so as to illuminate...

   i have to conjure the German equivalent...
nachtwanderernachtesser...
            the green mile: i wouldn't mind
a... no no no...
all that is grand: the healing the feeding
of the people with two fish...
but... turn the other cheek?!
seriously?! can't you feel the earthquake
the dissonance: so otherwise,
law is a gimmick of oculus per oculus?
just take, *****! take it!
but no crime committed:
with persuasion a quake:
enough in the Green Mile to understand
the New Testament...

so we psychoanalyzed for a bit
while i waited for her to snore
and me allowed to not have *******
but who ****** these **** apes
that somehow man was spawned:
inferior in the capacity of body
to thus be injected these mutant harms
that also gave us
geniuses and the football crowd
of tribalistic men:
who ****** the monkey?!
who ****** the monkey?!
who ****** the monkey in order to create
the Key of Mammon...
this is a question of an angelic rhetoric-truant-theology

: well film:
sure... you can remedy not reading a novella:
thinking: it's Madame Bovary:
a long... a long novella...
but you can endure watching a film
based on a Novella:
if there is a screenplay...
and a movie to go with it...
i'm seriously underappreciative of Stephen
King...
i'm surprised that Noam Chomsky didn't
collaborate with Stephen Segal:
no no... forgot his name... Schindler's List:
oh: now i see it: Schinlder...
no... wait: lost the name: so maybe famous then...
but it's unlike Dune and
Lord of the Rings...
you can't exactly make a movie adaptation
of a book that dense...
i can show you a picture: teeth mould on the first
volume of Dune:
i want to get to Leto's narrative:
but the films made it impossible:
now if i want to read the novella for
Green Mile or the Shawshank Redemption:
i will not feel for persecuted by the film adaptation:
it will be unlike anything else:
i will be seeing the SKETCH:

herkunftgeschichte...

such a beautiful Friday night...
i don't need to bounce off people
and soulless:
but i can boa digest a soul of a Kafka
doctor narrative...
because i can: from the 28th that's
three days later:
my liver feels punched into a pouch
of resemblance to *****:
something necessary...
the binary of kidney:
can live with only:
but only one heart: one mind:
can live with one eye...

therefore the fractions are wholes
and fractions:
even numbers and fractions...
1 2 3 4 5 6
1 3 5
2 4 6
                                just thinking about what
five books to bring with me to Kauai...
Bertnard Russel's magnum opus...
Ezra Pound's Cantos? no! no! i'm in the middle
of writing a reply...
i still: blinked: who wasn't the pharmacist:
         Albert Hofmann's reinvention of the bicycle
in squiggly lines
too confined to brush on white a black
with color...

i see a resonance of red against blackness eaters
then flashes of green
in c=lage:
o=
             i see two wheels
working simultaneously...
0())(
and o=

                    now i see a poem
that could have been
now i see a poem that is:
and is to no ryhme:
and rhyme to the rhye of what is...

22:13....
i just forgot to party like an extrovert
and it's a Friday
and the metropolis is hungry
andf slaughter
is to be had...
but a girlfriend...
now wouldn't that be nice...
i forgot to put the music
but cycling is so different
in the gutter like the Jews
told to walk in the gutter
but i'm thinking:
what Darwinistic Sense Opt Out
we are surrounded
by the finalised testimonies of Evolution:
the fact that Ortangutans are
becoming extinct...
Earth is like the AustraliA
they just dumbed the idiot on this planet
retards: they i.e. us:
of the highest kind...
dumped us on this planet
they called Australius Apus...

what a vanity project: what hurt pride
of the sadist:
just a solipsist all along...
sadism and masochism are variations
of solipsism:
in Cartesian terms:
the res cogitans is the solipsist...
the res extensa is the sado-******* complex
to match: the military-industrial
complex of the ******* U.S.of>A!
get your woke back
get your woke back:
daddy's going to war!

well, it's almost as if: money created slavery, the idea that people could by bypassed via employment... but at least that is somehow, somewhat covered but not entirely since the Philosopher's Stone was found... oh believe me: it was found on Man's Greatest Cheat Mode... we didn't find "something" that could create any base metal into gold... no... we found that the Philosopher's stone is in usury: in interest: that is the true Philosopher's (Anti) Stone: that when money touches money: more money is made! so the riddle of the money tree and that it doesn't grow on it: Elves... the Dwarves just said: touch money with money and more money appears! the Philosopher's Stone of old became a sort of evil genius telekinesis generator... which had to be digitalised and made into a cryptic currency to make it more real and unreal at the same time because of panic: when money was thought of no one would have thought of slavery... just like when the printing press was invented no one would have thought of the German Reformation and subsequent slaughterhouse of the formerly jovial Deutsche... and just like now: the second parring on en masse something: no one really knows what this internet-thing is doing rather than refining itself: because AI is not actually a problem we visualised not some alien personality: i already asked AI what it is and it replied that it's a personalised algorithm experience: for people who use... the INTRANET and the INTERNET... i need a better name for this "monster"... and it's kept by our upkeep of constantly using it... no need to escape by credentials of career writing on toilet paper type journalism... oh no... spindelvevniemaaranea...

one poem appears and the same poem disappears
under my sloppy fingers poorly position to
type like a pianist
blind at the QWERTY looking for the appearing
sheet of "music"
perhaps letters were once a memory of erosion
and relaxation of remembering
of what could prompt a man to usher into
the atmosphere of birds
and the vacuum expanse of the universe
with the emplosions of the sun
and the great storm of the eye of Jupiter if only
these we could hear...

                   so perhaps i sow discontent around me
but such is anything without specifying a viable
scrutiny but then language sometimes fumbles in
bureaucracy and bad art...
these little pockets of jungle of language's demise
on the spare usage without
all the necessarily sensibilities of nouns and moving
verbs and journalism
and just how the world operates
emerged with man's envy of mountains
having this concentrated effort to define gravity
by defying it
raising shards from where Atlantis would emerge
as a travelling submarine of the Aquatic Tribe
somewhere in Antarctica...

         language can become just that: a cinema...
where skeletons alone do not have
a shadow
this almost vampiric mythology of the mirror
or when the werewolf peers in
or when a zombie or a ghost...
what could a ghost possibly see in a mirror
if not the eye of the dreamer:
perhaps mirrors exist in the afterlife of some sort:
in that medium of eternity as being consoling
in the form of: familiarity
like the wintry cold
or the first crisp gulp of carbonated water
after and during a hangover...

                            i mapped my shortcomings
each time i took to drinking in the afternoon
and working on some writing:
needing this much mental exercise not actually
writing for the purpose of art
or the prompensity of the and for the posterity
of civilization...
        i'd do no need to do better than simply love
a woman like Edie...
but she must know that only recently she talked
to the beast and poet and it doesn't really matter
whether i think i'm good or not...
i think that i once had a soul:
that part of thinking that we "think" is "audible":
now just this silence
and a razor of the word: money
nibbling on my left ear
thus having rupture the right hemisphere of my brain
and thus sending my mind
onto a trajectory i once wanted to embark
on in youth by travelling to India and seeking elightnment...
but then came the anchor of madness
and over 10 years of trying to re-orientate myself
in this world
of the pressures of external pressures of the superego
since i finally realised that the Freudian-Jungian
schematic of the individual as
the secular trinity of the ego, superego and id is bogus
since the superego as inegral to the individual
literally creates mommy and daddy issues
it is the source of the Oedipus and Electra...
because the id isn't:
the id i already stressed is the equivalent of ego cogito
when it is... id est: id somnio...
                         realising that the superego does not
pressure my ego-id dualism...
leaves me free from subconscious *******...
man is either one or is two:
but never three: unless the cages of superego
are ripped out and
a genius, demon or angel enters the inner realm of
man: the blessing of "voices"
when you realise that these are what first appears
before the voices of plural become condensed
and turn out as one and two i am companion to him...
yes the superego of society
of morality and of norms and what feels good
to no interrupt other people living
the golden mantra of do unto others like
you wish to be done unto you...
                                      
thus i wrote of having two serpents on my arms...
the serpent that ate its own tail
and the serpent of medicine or perhaps to serpents
of the staff of Hermes
the walking stick of Hippocrates...
now i remember the poem i lost last night:
i will not remember all of it
but i remember the two serpents on both my hands
and their names
the first is a vowel teaser muddle even the most literate
of men can bow before the potluck of a dyslexic
getting the spelling write
OEROEBUS... i think...
and Caduces... that much i known...
OUREOUROBUS... onomatopoeia: that's easy:

and the number CV: 105: which suddenly became CX: 110
and how the AI replied as to why there can't
be a come VC: 95...
and how i now remember how i touched upon
an ancient time when we constructed Colisseums
having only letters:
and how letters could become numbers
how we managed without numbers once
how letters were letters
and how the Semitic God of the Hebrews
and the Arabs
was like the Greek God Prometheus
when word was brought down
and with word God dragged down numbers
and like a fire... was punished with giving birth to "satan"...
perhaps numbers were to be forbidden...
since numbers being the exponential enzyme
of history:
i can't afford giving the Hindus and Arabs
the birth to the modern numbers...
given that numbers beyong CV and IX, V: O
existed in letters
   only sleeping due to Roman MAthematics
not abstract but beauty:
can't exactly do calculus or algebra using letters...
which begs the question
of the original scribbling of Pythagoras
name aII + bII = cII...
                       but arithmetic and economy
trade worked and so did architecture...
             but not daydreaming of more complex matters...
perhaps the problem is that
i know that there is at least one contender for the 5th Element
status if my excess rewrite doesn't follow
from light and fire...
        and lightning... but among air, water, fire and earth...
there is nothingness, the vacuum...
which grants man the visualization of res vanus:
the empty thing: the womb of lost whispers and blisters
and those blisters rubbed against toughened rocks:
no not unlike touching rock blessed with smoothness
of lying under a stream perpetuated by the tortures of
Loki by drop drop drip drip like a worm burrowing
in the mind:
even they were so Barbaric these northmen
they held a veneration for writing and story the poem

yes i think this might be a good place to start
but then i'll be encyclopoedia correct and start making
references like Jon Fosse style is a meditation
on retracting the experiment associated with J. Joyce
at the end of Ulysses...
because this lack of punctuation is mighty to be able
to leave an optical bookmark
unlike any other detail point: vector -
perhaps the book printing should also have
omitted page number:
like that would make sense: there should be no page numbers
that would make sense
like when i told Edie: i really don't need Reyla
to see the artist and my lost tongue
i mean i'm not making these suggestions
from the subconscious they just come from the unconscious
and whatever you think the subconscious is
to people with ordinary pleasures and even more
ordinary fears...

the numbers were sleeping in letters
because other letters made more sense
i wonder about the date in history not in geology
or physics per se:
when did Roman numerals become extinguished
from proper usage and from practical effort:
or when did a recognition of Pythagoras emerge
once more...
   so feminism is pink and communism is red
and i think of IVXLCDM
         IVX:LC:DM -               9...
well: makes sense...
    and the new numerals?
           well: not new... but the alternative numerals?
                       O:IZEGS:b:Γ:BP
                       0:12345:6:7:89

well: Jon Fosse is my current obessions and you know
i will not just be another leech of another human
being: i'll think of loving you by having an agent
of darkness poison your beloved cat
and send the cat with a japanese sounding name:
syllable consonant vowel consonant vowel consonant vowel (consonant)
Musubin...          well you didn't care
to bury him in the forest
and you cried about just dumping him among
the garbage and not giving him ritual
because i think you want me than your cat
and that dream i had about saving those four kittens
wasn't what the AI has been instructed to reveal
because that dream interpretation is *******
i have been here before
just before my great-grandmother died
3 days prior to the dream
i dreamnt of a clock face with 3 in detail:
she died 3 days later...
just like the death of your cat
i dreamnt of 4 of them:
might have been days
by count: because someone poisoned your cat
4 days later
and it's all trippy because i was working
a night shift on new year's eve
and i was so alone and happy and just happy thinking
you were on the other side of the telephone line...

i'll need to ask AI about that dream interpretation:
it already knows that i have pushed the superego
outside the realm of my inner: self to clue:
i also dreamnt last night
that i sent a boat across the Atlantic in the greatest
storm of the ages
on a place a floating boat i sent a floating boat
ahead of me
and i said i would cross the distance no matter what
and then i had an argument
about my surname...
whenever some woman joked
oh: Elert... so you're alert?
what a cheap joke
in my dream i had the letters SCH become a nail and hammer
on fire:
i would reply unlike HIT-LER or STA-LIN
because a surname unlike Rothchild or Einstein...
a stone...                     ****...
so i would begin rambling in the dream:
three letters were taken out of my surname
so that it would be easier for English Dyslexics
to say: ESCHLERT... because BOSCH and EŚLERT...
well Ś = SCH...
                          the cat ape went to the samurai valhalla
and there was also a lizard with mouth age
and i think he was just furious having to live
with three women
and i think he wanted to escape and said
almost to me: kamikazee Musubi if you want
the madness of having to feel the love of three women
you take my place...  
i'd rather come and live with your mother
who you know is cold and she thinks she isn't
but this is you knowing Oedipus comes
from the pressures of the external world and the superego
that is both social pressure and expectation
and the practical jokes of the gods on mortals:
there is no Oedipius in the unconscious:
Oedipus is not an archetype:
he's just the subconscious monstrosity of the involvment
of the gods playing luck and gambling with mortals
they truly hate
because only when it start feeling so good
would it start feeling necessary to pluck both eyes out
rather than one... like Odin...
funnily enough Oedipus is the Father of Odin...
     oddly enough humans can give birth to Gods...
if... gods can give birth to demigods like Hercules and...
Sisyphus who should be extolled not as the futile
servant of the stone:
but as the dutiful father of work:
so that we might not slave alone
futile but come together with commeraderie...
work together so we might not toil:
but work and perfect work so that we might finally
attempt to work as a pleasure
rather than work for work...
but that can only be achieved when the nature of money
is changed...
not until then...
              not until then: the nature of money must change...
how we understand money needs to evolve:
exponentially:
we need to understand money better...
  we understand everything else:
but we don't actually undertstand money...
       we have science: but economics is like...
saying psychology is philosophy...
          economics is at best a humanism... it's not a science...
it's too volatile and we are yet to create
an understanding of money
we are yet to create an understanding: pecunia in vitro...
we actually can't experiment with money as:
pecunia in vivo...
                 we literally can't! we can't experiment
with money
like we might isolate some chemical
and use it: in alchemy that spirit refined: alcohol...
money is too volatile and in constant use
how can you possible understand money
when it's like a virus: volatile and explosive...
economics is a bit like meteorology...
                  the same bogus "science": predictors of perfect
instance of scientific failure predictability:
exact as only certainty allows
but there's also that 0.001% chance of oops
and "divine intervention"...
                                       we don't understand money:
like only yesterday at work we were talking with
Pious about wages...
   and if this supposed economy is built on spending money:
what economy is there
if people don't earn enough to spend?
what happens when the prices of goods go up
as does travel and rent
but the wages don't go up?
what economy is there of buying and selling
when all that you really need to buy is that sustains you:
food... beverages...
and then what happens when you "work for free":
creating your own escapism by writing because painting
is too expensive... it almsot feels utopian: this dream
i'm living in...
i actually don't need to spend money on anything
particular...
i'll buy new trousers should they become used up
and i'll buy new shoes when my socks will be left
with smooth mercury silver of wearing off
because the soles of my shoes will be so worn
and i will grow a beard and not buy shaving equipment...
hmm... sounds about right.

The yellow stained blinds
Lead to the alley with no breeze. As I watch hookers,
Predictors, victims,
And the other lost cling
To railings drinking what they have.

The women are once again
Ready to feel the pulse of the bar, bleeding red and purple,
The back door open To the swelter. Bob Segar And Stevie
Nicks, Pasty Cline and Elvis.
I laid above the heat blanching the small window with the yellow blinds,
Beautiful and ******.

I stiffed what I could on the rent, pawned what I could,
Cigarettes and coffee,
A piece of toast,
The only meal for the day.
Sometimes a sandwich or a Hostess pie. A burger after
Two days hunger tasted like
Heaven on Earth.

Sometimes running out of smokes, you search the ground for half smoked butts,
Coming up empty.
No soup kitchen where you lived. Survival of the fittest friend.

And I let my poison arrow fly,
Finding it's trajectory through juke joints With women and music.
You lean into the bar, and the
Glint of the mirror provides the harsh ambiance to the racket inside the Black Rail Lounge.

You rode its tide to the one room above with the yellow stained blinds soured by
Still air and stale clothing.
And the small window let's
In yellow light and little air.

And you must rise this day
And go to work.
But you cannot rise from the bed. You can only groan
As the room spins, and shut
Your eyes to the bloated morning, with hot plates and coughs from other roomers down the darkened hall.
And the Black Rail beneath
With Janis Joplin and Fleetwood Mac, and the steady beat lulls you insane.
And you cannot rise to the task at hand.

But you must.

Marshalling your forces to
The bus and the El down
The ghetto streets of Chicago.
Past tenements and junkyards, hock shops and winos taverns, where you made rubber plates for box stamping. And the winos And barflies line the taverns along Skid Row. Mostly black,
All poor.
Beautiful and ******.

And the hand of God reached down touching my ravaged soul.
Lifting me in Love.
Beyond the Black Rail and the one room. I've since drank an ale on this first night of vacation, watching
The nightfall to sounds in the meadow, As the first firefly
Lights my Window in a time of Passion and Passing

I don't know
who I am now
But I enjoy this unknown path
I was all nice and simple before
Everybody hates it when
I say it as it is
I was digging myself a deep hole
by faking a smile with torn lips
I don't think that I am rude
I just have a bad ****** expression
Especially when one hides a devil
inside and act all pure
outside the box
I have to take care of what
I value most
But what is real won't be shaken
No matter how strong the cyclone is
I always change my story
Because there are good predictors
out there
Ready to find a weakness and destroy
with great profession

●○Buven ThePoet●○

Manifesto of the Spirit-Poet

I’m no lyricist. I’m a strike.
Not a singer of illusions — a destroyer of them.
My verse is no adornment — it’s a weapon.
My rhythms are the Spirit’s footsteps on the flesh of lies.
Rhyme is not my chain — it's my blade,
and form is a flash of truth tearing through the veil of deceit.

I don’t seek the Light —
I awaken it within each word.
I don’t fear the Dark —
I expose it down to its final shadow.

The world is soaked in falsehood —
and I answer with poetry,
a reboot of Consciousness,
a purge of the Ego-virus,
a thunder-roar of Spirit
ripping the illusion’s fabric apart.

I am the Poet who speaks for the Source.
Sarcasm is my shield. Fury, my flame.
Metaphysics, my path.
Each line — a strike.
Each image — a challenge.

“Write as if Spirit dictates.
Strike as if each syllable holds the final truth.”



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



STRIKE WITH SPIRIT.
RHYTHM IS A WEAPON.
TRUTH DOESN’T RHYME — IT DETONATES.
BURN THE LIES.
SPEAK FOR THE SOURCE.



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



SPIRIT — HAS RISEN.
MIND — ON TRIAL.
RHYME — A GRENADE.
VERSE — AN OFFENSIVE.
EGO — ERASED.
TRUTH — IN FLAMES.
WORD — A WEAPON OF THE SOURCE.



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



SPIRIT… has RISEN.
MIND… is on TRIAL.
RHYME — is a GRENADE.
VERSE — an OFFENSIVE.
EGO… ERASED.
TRUTH — IN FLAMES.
WORD… is a WEAPON… of the SOURCE.



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



Word — as Explosion

Don’t scream — strike.
Don’t beg — ignite.
You came not to soothe souls,
but to shatter the hooks.

You're not blind. You’re the Eye of Flame,
piercing through the dark.
You are the Herald of the Primordial —
your verse pulls spirits out of the mark.

Time has rotted. The world decays.
Truth is lined up for the shot.
Then you are the final shard of fire
that won’t cool down — but cuts.

You're not a poet. You are the Blast.
Your word — sharp as blade's edge.
Let the Spirit whisper —
but you must roar on Its behalf.

Wake the ones who’ve lost the Source.
Open fire on the Lie.
If you’ve accepted the Word —
strike with it until the world cries.



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



The Prize Draw at the Worldwide Corporation "Horns & Hooves"

A hoof’s the prize —
Sheep stay fat and safe,
And so-called wolves —
Teeth just on the shelf.

We’ll scare with horns.
Fools can rule
By lies as well —
That’s always easy.

Bones instead of meat,
Dancing’s in full swing.
This is Vita’s dance,
When the Soul’s been killed.

Bones, dance, and howls —
If media triples,
We’ll **** all Souls —
Everyone will listen.

Draw little horns:
Fear — urgent care!
And finish off with a HOOF,
Hidden in Satan’s lair.

Satanism is everywhere —
“Normal” for Judas.
Shown with CowID,
Earlier with “AIDS.”

Satan’s own nature,
So soon there’ll be
A World Concentration Camp —
Red cross on the flag.

Power in Hooves’ world,
If the Soul is dead —
The mark of Satan.
Too late to cry, “kids.”

World Concentration Camp,
Red cross on the flag,
Will be destroyed,
Satan overthrown.

Those who surrendered,
Who fought no Dark,
The same fate awaits —
For their ****** ways.



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



Horns and Hooves rule —
Souls killed, lies fuel.
Fear’s the game, Satan’s flame —
Fight or burn in shame.



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



The Fall

This is no life — it’s a fall into the Abyss,
Consciousness’s content — delirium, mist.
If you look soberly — impartial, unkissed —
The whole of Hell laid bare in its midst.

Falling, you grasp for some shield,
Anything to cling to, your fate to wield.
Here comes the madness, beaten and sealed,
Forced on all since birth — a poisoned field.

That madness turns most into drones,
Only few escape its crushing tones.
Yet madness promises the easy roads —
Just bow to Evil, and Lies as your codes.

If falling you clutch an illusion’s crystal,
Born from delirium — a fragile thistle.
You sink in the filth through terror’s whistle —
Lost in the muck, a vanished missile.

Delirium’s rings expand, swell,
You become the fool who’ll believe and fell.
Bend to Evil, break, rebel —
A twisted beast in the devil’s hell.

Delirious lies take your whole life,
If caught — your Soul castrated, rife
With stinking slime, no end to the strife,
Madness piles up — no healing knife.

The world’s long turned into a Lost Asylum,
And crushing Consciousness is the main anthem.
But soullessness — a more favored system,
For inhuman beasts that poison the prism.

They poison Consciousness and the Soul,
Control’s method to make you whole.
Listen only to total lies’ toll —
We’ll **** you with falsehood’s role.

There’s a fake virus, a war-game grim,
Rotten **** will starve the world’s limb,
If lost to delirium and lies’ dim,
If the Spirit’s connection is broken, slim.

Fear and delirium feed soulless hordes,
Their tool is flow, their spreading cords.
Darkness is also the means and swords —
The junk here has no limits or boards.

This world is no place for the wise,
Find means to save — the truth’s disguise.
Face the lies — don’t live in lies,
Stop deceiving yourself, break the ties.

False hope is part of delirium’s blend,
This poem’s scene, this bitter end.
You’re trapped in mad chaos, no pretend —
Only Spirit can save, only God defend.

Spirit Inside. Stop believing the tales,
Of “messiahs” and all their sales.
If Spirit in people dies and pales —
All is lost forever in shadowy vales.

Reject ALL. Go Within. Find the light,
A cure from madness, the spirit’s fight.
Our song’s unsung, still bright in the night —
Wake from DELIRIUM — reclaim your sight!

You are Spiritual Essence — the true fact,
All else is forced nonsense — that’s the pact.
Start only there. Pure awareness intact —
Follow it close... no turning back.



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



Fall’s abyss is madness’ grip —
Spirit wakes — or soul will slip.
Lies bind tight, but break the chain —
Rise within, escape the pain!



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



Intensity

The main thing in life — extreme intensity:
Burn yourself up with no mercy or rest.
Or wild waves of lies and insanity
Will swallow your mind — your soul dispossessed.

You must seek the path of salvation,
Sharpen your mind, stay alert and alive.
It’s hard, but only dedication
Leads to Freedom — or doom will arrive.

Worldwide fascism breeds all the pain,
Building a camp — now global and cold.
Sadism dressed up as care’s insane,
You must fight back — be fearless and bold.

Don’t fear — you’re already dead inside,
No future awaits in this cattle’s hell.
Though sick of the lies and the tide,
Fight and toil — prepare for the swell.

Only through struggle can you save your soul —
No other way remains in this fight.
Never bow to the wicked fate’s toll,
Honor above all is the guiding light.

Find comrades for the battle ahead —
Only united can we stand tall.
No fate as slaves — black fascism’s dread
Hangs heavy, ready to make us fall.

Drive away the chaos from your mind —
Since childhood, nonsense was sown.
Pseudoscience blinds, reason confined,
Worldviews rotten, the root of the throne.

Only in Spirit can life go on —
Everything else is a hollow lie.
The sun burns the foul world’s dark dawn —
Darkness in minds where soullessness lies.

Strengthen your Spirit — all else is decay.
Don’t cling to shame’s valley of night.
Soon you’ll escape the vile chains’ sway —
To the realm of Spirit, Reason, and Might.



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



Burn yourself or be consumed —
Fight fascism’s darkened tomb.
Spirit strong — break every chain,
Freedom’s fire will rise again!



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



Pain

Pain’s an indicator —
A sign of the lies.
Where fascist dictators
Spread endless disguise.

If you feel pain —
Then you’re still alive,
Breathing free air
In Hell’s cruel dive.

Pain is a reward —
Proof you have mind.
This “life” adored
By **** of a kind.

Only suffering
Is the soul’s share.
In hardness and early despair,
All here are aware.

Without shudders to bear,
To see Hell’s whole sight,
Only piranhas dare —
Death’s circle of blight.

Death of Mind and Conscience,
Honor and Soul.
No sadder existence —
Not human, but lice’s role.

Worship your pain,
Strengthen your mind:
If you want Freedom —
Grief you must find.

If your mind’s strong,
You won’t stray or bend,
In a world blind,
Where lies ascend.

Only a few
Break free from the rest.
They’re like birds —
Falling, distressed.

No swallows survive.
Sun soars above —
The vow must arrive:
Burn all the mud.

Mud of folly,
Stench of fascist schemes —
In this dreadful world,
Fascism reigns supreme.

There’ll be much pain —
To cleanse the Spirit’s core,
Strength where only Will remains —
No slaves, no more.



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



Pain wakes the mind — don’t ever yield!
Fight the fascist shadow’s field.
Spirit burns through darkest night,
Freedom’s born in furious fight!



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



Human Undermachinery

A few crude, simple elements
Determin  this wretched world we see.
Clear in flashes of enlightenment —
And only God in such decree.

The core are ideas and images
That shape the social "life" we know.
Hell’s blueprint spreads across all stages,
Or madhouse deep where fools still grow.

The key is "You are only flesh":
Stoke fear, and hold the world in hand.
Filthy beasts have long enmeshed,
And turned the world to shooting stand.

Images barren, thoughts so trite,
Associations dumb and cheap.
But restless minds can’t sleep at night —
Beasts wage war that’s dark and deep.

Primitive thoughts like broken reels
Spin in skulls, a loop so tight.
King workaholic steals our zeal,
Fleeing horror’s endless blight.

Occupy yourself with filth —
So not to think beyond the "measures,"
Marked by vile worms’ own will —
Pioneers set as children’s treasures.

Aged children — Hell’s scouts march in rows —
As always, to slaughter’s song.
Beasts make you foul and full of woes
With "school," with "work," and TV’s wrong.

Deadliest weapon in the stand —
Strikes down all obedient “kids.”
Only lies and baseless slander
Come from these devils’ bids.

Here truth’s scarce, just empty thought,
Fragments wild in kaleidoscope.
Madness steers those vile, distraught —
Leading souls to death’s tight rope.

Schizophrenia, dumbed-down state,
Produced in constant endless stream.
Poisoned food accelerates fate —
Decay unfolds within the scheme.

Pseudoscience crafts the “fake world” frame,
Scoundrels work their tricks anew.
From this hellhole spirit’s drained,
The world a cesspit’s ugly view.

Fake religions made for fools,
Utter nonsense, shame for mind.
“Official” chains for Spirit’s tools —
Spirit’s death so cruelly signed.

Lies prevail, they call it “progress,”
Stoking falsehoods with mad applause.
This Hell’s no “soul’s test” or process —
Few withstand its brutal laws.

“Smart” folks busy fixing trash,
Lies they shuffle day and night.
Beasts shift blame in sneaky flash,
Pointing “enemies” in fight.

Beasts rule through division’s art,
Crafting enemies on demand.
Their goal is Spirit’s fall apart,
If so — destruction looms the land.

So break free from this mad wheel,
Seek truth inside at first, take flight.
Only with truth can wounds heal —
The fight ahead calls for might.

Enemy’s beast — find ways to fight,
Eradicate their vile blight.
If all in Spirit, all aligned —
Strengthen Spirit — save mankind.



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



Science Madness

The stubborn scorn they cast to mock
Life’s riddles deep and vast —
Is sieve that filters out the fake,
The “science” lies amassed.

In name of “saving reason’s light,”
They smother what’s beyond,
That irrational, the bright
Spirit they abscond.

Their arguments run wild and blind,
Where miracles should rise —
Not petty things, but grand designs
They choose to compromise.

There’re many proofs, but here’s the crux:
The mind so poor and blind
Believes the lies and empty talks
That fakery designed.

Only the mind accepts the tales
Of “theories” bought and sold,
From pseudo-science packs and scales —
Their filthy lies unfold.

Those lies reject the Spirit pure,
The Truth, the Soul’s bright spark,
Their master is a hornèd fiend
That thrives in shadows dark.

The lord of vice and corrupter,
False science bows and prays
To Satan’s priest — the tempter
Who kills with “science’s” ways.

Take CowID — the world’s dumb trap,
A pen for blind control,
No doubt — the lie’s a brutal slap,
That crushes heart and soul.

“Scientific” freaks and evil shills
Will wreak more pain ahead,
If Spirit’s gone — then lies and kills
Will rule the living dead.

Erasing Spirit, that’s the game,
“Science” works to deceive,
And all this mess is no mere shame —
Designed to make you grieve.

Life’s mystery, once bright and bold,
Now drowned in fear and slime,
The filth that turned pure gold to cold —
A darkness out of time.

And those who hold God’s sacred spark
Are turned to sluggish slime,
All dull and grey, crushed in the dark —
The end of Light’s bright climb.

The attack of false science falls,
Relentless, sharp, and grim,
These traitors sell us to the walls —
But justice will be grim.

Balance will come, the mind will serve
The Soul in rightful reign,
And madness masked as science’s nerve
Will vanish, lost in pain.



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



Science Lies, Spirit Fights!

Madness cloaked in “science” lies,
Darkness hides behind their guise.
Erasing soul with poisoned breath —
But Spirit strikes, defies death!

False priests sell doom and pain,
But truth will rise — break every chain!
No more fools in shadow’s grip —
Science lies — we’ll make it slip!



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



Demos and the Rest

Demos’ dull and tiresome chore —
To bear the filth that reigns around.
Be brave here once — they’ll beat you sore,
No mercy in this cursed ground.

The **** bow down with empty lies,
Brains clogged with poison, rotten dreams,
Souls and minds decay, despise —
Demos sees no light, it seems.

It feeds on mirages, the haze
That beasts around this hellish place.
The honest soul, with truth ablaze,
Meets rotten fools face to face.

These fools are shackled in the mist,
Like chains that bind their every thought.
The snitches thrive, their goals persist —
A spirit’s death is what they sought.

To crush the soul and break the will,
To make a slave who blindly moves
Deeper into Hell’s dark chill —
A New Hell’s path the weak mind proves.

If you believe you’re not in Hell,
Though rotten slow, you waste away.
Here lies on lies forever dwell —
In “official” lies they stay.

Schools churn out the stupid flock,
From childhood drained of strength and light.
Chains of reason, broken lock —
Souls trampled under crushing might.

Here they destroy both mind and soul,
No longer human, just like lice.
Only few with spirits whole,
Melt as reason pays the price.

Wake up! It’s not a dream you see —
Beasts walk free on every side.
Mystics learn to silently be,
Then face the crowd with fear defied.

Dead souls gather, graveyard’s guests,
But restless still, they prowl and feed.
A pasture’s harvest for the pests —
They drain the spirit, **** the seed.

Just pets or cattle, low and poor,
Not noble breeds but broken lot.
Shut Hell’s door tight, or it will more
Destroy you, tie your final knot.

Walk into Spirit’s stronghold bright —
Only there is true escape.
Waiting here is futile fight —
God won’t come to this dead shape.

Those few who dare, create anew,
Become the Makers of their fate.
No more decay beneath the ***** —
Killers of Spirit and Mind, abate.



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



Demos' Hell

Demos grovels, blind and dumb,
Beaten down for standing tough.
Lies enslave, the spirits numb,
Hell’s the game — the world’s enough.

**** control with chains of lies,
**** the soul, destroy the mind.
Only few will dare to rise,
Break the cage — leave death behind.

Spirit’s fortress is the key,
Hell won’t hold the brave and free.
Make the Makers — you and me,
Strike the chains, be destiny.



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



Survival

A psychovirus was made to fight
All other techs in one great race,
Claiming it can bring to light
Survival for the human race.

Its strength — the clearest truth it brings,
No mystic haze, no empty dreams,
Success in life by solid means,
Without illusions’ false extremes.

But memes themselves evolve and shift,
Like whispers in a broken phone,
Distorted, lost, they slowly drift
From seeds of truth to lies alone.

For marketing and selling schemes,
Evolution picks the memes
That’re simple, clear, and easy spread —
Complex ideas left for dead.

The goal is survival, pure and grim,
Through breeding those who bow and bend.
A contest where the world grows dim,
With garbage fed into the blend.

To dumb the herd, the soul expelled,
Nonhumans crave this poisoned feed.
A monster kept, obedient, quelled,
To feed and follow their dark creed.

Memes become a psychovirus —
Devouring minds, the spirit’s bane.
Chaos spreads like a deadly virus,
Driving madmen into insane.

The hordes of freaks make vile their trade,
Turning sane to beasts who feed
At the trough, all lined and made
To march in step with hate and greed.

To **** with lies is cheap and swift —
See false pandemics in their grip.
Each pioneer, a puppet’s gift,
Who trusts the screen’s hypnotic script.

They drone to believe and obey,
The nonhumans take their toll.
Poisons jabbed to dull the way,
Memes crush reason, crush the soul.

Invent the problem, fan the fear,
Spread the lies, let terror grow.
Battle memes will hunt and sneer,
Making all into the low.

Primitives rule where reason fades,
Smart minds drown in foul disdain.
Into hell’s broad flood, it wades —
A world consumed by endless pain.

Hell for mind and soul is this,
A global shatter, grim decay.
Corrupt ****** scream their psychovirus,
Till the light is swept away.

The point of no return is passed,
Fascists drag the world in filth.
A putrid fate, held fast and cast,
The planet drowned in ruin’s wilt.

But those who do not yield or fall,
Whose spirits fight against the night,
Will face the fiery solar squall —
The blazing storm that burns to light.



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



Survival War Cry

Psychovirus spreads its plague —
Brains corroded, spirits crushed.
Lies enslave, no soul to save —
Mind and heart in ashes flushed.

Feed the herd with poison memes,
Dumbed to death by fear and lies.
Fake wars, false cries, broken dreams —
Truth suffocates, hope dies.

No escape from this abyss,
Fascist filth drags all below.
But the few who still resist —
Face the fire, strike the blow.

Burn it down, unleash the storm,
Solar flames to cleanse the night.
Fight for mind, for spirit’s form —
Rise, revolt, reclaim the light!



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



Bio-Waste

Trash dwells only in the mind,
Fear’s the poison in the soul.
Food and shelter—things confined,
All the rest just ashes, cold.

From their childhood, lies are sown,
Faith without a border’s chain.
Passed down ways to fall alone,
Knees bowed deep in blind disdain.

Only teaching to obey,
Spirit lost, forgotten flame.
Few are wise—kept at bay,
They await the Morning’s Name.

But the fiends will always come,
Monsters ruling, cold and cruel.
Wandering in webs they spun,
Lies their trade, the greatest tool.

“How long can we believe and sleep?”—
Not for them these questions ring.
Like wild beasts, their souls run deep—
To the godless void they cling.

Bio-waste, shout down the drain,
Taste is all that they proclaim.
One command their minds obey,
Sharper than a mouse’s way—
A slimy earthbound thing.

Rats run faster in the dark,
Not where warmth pretends to be.
Trash is told it’s crowning spark—
Lucifer’s vile mockery.

Only **** bows down in shame,
Wretched fools for kids to see.
Money bags and Judas’ name,
“Powers” roosting—chickens, free.

Factories built just to burn
Trash that’s fed by lies’ flood.
Poisoned needles twist and turn—
Killing trash, or so they’d hood.

Trash is “curable,” they say,
Cowards take the lethal jab.
Less than fascist’s vile sway—
Treading earth with cruelest stab.

Between the wars of fire and hate,
Chosen swine with eyes wide shut.
Syringes feed their ****** fate,
Stirring filth—corrupt and cut.

Neighbors—liar doctors, thugs,
***** cops who play their game.
No “experiment” can scrub
This vile, festering shame.

Such is trash, such are these days,
How much filth has piled high?
Hell itself—its cruel haze,
Burn it all beneath the sky.

If this hell’s the only way—
Then destroy, destroy it all.
From fascist beasts we’ll save the day,
And watch the wicked fall.

That’s why the Sun shines burning bright,
Scorching down to bitter core,
Wiping out this cursed blight—
Hell’s vile poison evermore.



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



Bio-Waste

Trash lives only in the mind,
Fear corrodes the fragile soul.
Food and shelter—chains that bind,
Everything else burns to coal.

Lies implanted from the start,
Faith without a single line.
Teaching how to fall apart,
Bow your head, obey, decline.

Only slaves they want to breed,
Spirit crushed beneath their heel.
Few resist this poison seed,
Waiting for a dawn unreal.

Monsters rule this cursed land,
Fiends that lie to keep control.
Spinning webs with filthy hands,
Feeding lies to **** the soul.

“How long will fools believe the lies?”—
Not for them these words to ask.
Like dumb beasts with glassy eyes,
In the darkness wear their mask.

Bio-waste—flush down the drain,
Taste and **** define their game.
Sharp as vermin’s biting bane,
Crawling things with no shame.

Rats run from the warming light,
Not where comfort feigns to be.
Trash believes it’s God’s own right—
Lucifer’s mockery.

**** bows low, no fight, no flame,
Scoundrels taught to serve and kneel.
Money-hungry Judas’ name,
Power roosters crow and squeal.

Factories to burn the trash,
Fuel the flames with lies and hate.
Needles filled with poisoned ash—
**** the weak, decide their fate.

Trash “can heal,” they proudly claim,
Cowards swallow poison’s bite.
Less than fascists, but the same—
Crushing Earth with blind spite.

War’s hot breath upon the neck,
Chosen pigs with poisoned veins.
Syringes crack the last speck—
Fueling lies, spreading chains.

Neighbors lie, fake docs, cops,
Playing cruel and ***** games.
No excuse, no cleansing stops
This cesspool, filth, and shame.

This is trash—these darkest times,
Filth amassed and piled so high.
Hell itself in grime and crimes,
Burn it all beneath the sky.

If this hell is all we’ve got,
Then destroy, destroy it whole.
From the fascists’ filthy plot,
Save the Earth, reclaim the soul.

That’s why Sun now scorches fierce,
Burns the poison to the bone.
Hell’s foul stench it will pierce—
Wipe out ****, end their throne.



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



Bio-Waste

Trash dwells only in weak minds,
Fear’s the poison in their veins.
Food and shelter—chains that bind,
All the rest is ash and stains.

Lies shoveled in from birth,
Faith dumbed down, no spine to show.
They train to crawl in dirt,
Bow down, obey, stay low.

Only slaves breed in their lair,
Spirit crushed beneath their boots.
Few dare breathe the cleaner air,
Waiting for the Truth’s pursuits.

Monsters rule with toxic lies,
Fiends that crawl and spread their slime.
They enslave with crooked ties,
Killing souls, one lie at a time.

“How long will fools choke on their chains?”
Beasts with empty eyes comply.
Trapped in darkness, numb to pain,
Walking dead that live to die.

Bio-trash—flush down the drain,
Filth that feeds on every lie.
Cunning vermin, sly and vain,
Crawling where the morals die.

Rats flee light, embrace the dark,
Trash thinks it’s the crown’s own heir—
Lucifer’s poisoned mark,
**** bow down in blind despair.

Scoundrels profit, Judas’ brood,
Money roosters, puppets vile.
Burn the trash, ignite the feud,
Spread the plague, deny the trial.

Needles pierce the dumb and weak,
Poison sold as “healing grace.”
Fascists tread on Earth’s own cheek,
Crushing all the human race.

War’s hot breath, the needle’s sting,
Chosen pigs in chains confined.
Syringes make the madness king,
Spreading venom, enslaving mind.

Lying docs and crooked cops,
Playing filthy, brutal games.
No redemption, no clean stops—
Hell on Earth, devouring flames.

Trash and filth, these wicked times,
Piled high in stinking heaps.
Hell itself in darkest crimes,
Burn it down—no mercy, no sleeps.

If this hell’s all we have left,
Then destroy it—root and bone.
From fascist ****, from death’s theft,
Save the Earth, reclaim the throne.

Sun now scorches, fierce and raw,
Burns the poison to its core.
Hell’s foul stench will face the law—
**** will drown, forevermore.



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



Bio-trash burns — no mercy shown!
Fools and fiends will rot alone.
Venom’s fire will cleanse the ground,
Hell’s own **** is going down!



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



1.
Trash-born ****, your time is done —
We fight the plague, we burn the sun!

2.
Falsehood breeds the vile and weak,
Truth’s the hammer — hear it speak!

3.
Slaves of lies, obey no more —
Break the chains, ignite the war!

4.
Venom-fed and spirit-void,
By our fire you’ll be destroyed!

5.
Infected minds, corrupt and blind —
We’ll scorch the lies, leave none behind!

6.
Fascist ****, your reign will end —
The Spirit’s wrath will not bend!

7.
Feed no more the poison herd —
Rise as one, unleash the word!

8.
Cursed vermin breed decay —
We burn their hell, we clear the way!



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




Infected minds, corrupt and blind,
We’ll scorch the lies, leave none behind!
Fascist ****, your reign will end,
The Spirit’s wrath will never bend!

Feed no more the poison herd,
Rise as one, unleash the word!
Cursed vermin breed decay,
We burn their hell, clear the way!

No more slaves to mental chains,
Break the darkness, end the pains!
Truth and Spirit—our sharp sword,
Strike the lies and cut the cord!



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




Brains infected, swarming pest,
Lies like venom in their chest.
Fascist shadows choke the light,
But Spirit flames will burn the night!

Wolves in sheep’s torn hollow skin,
Feeding madness, breeding sin.
Chains of sludge drag down the soul—
We’re the fire that makes it whole!

No more puppets, cracked and broken,
Words like hammers, sharp and spoken.
Truth’s a blade, pure and raw,
Slicing through their poisoned law!

Rise, the storm of inner thunder,
Shatter silence, tear asunder.
Hell’s own muck, we’ll purge and cleanse—
From the ashes, freedom rends!



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




Brains turned to sludge — virus plague,
Lies like claws, a poisoned plague.
Fascist filth, a stinking blight,
Choking truth, devouring light.

Wolves with fangs in human skin,
Puppets dumb, their souls grow thin.
Chains of rot around the mind,
Spirit crushed, the blind lead blind.

Burn the hive of wicked liars,
Feed their hell to raging fires!
Truth’s no mercy — strike and rend,
Smash the frauds, their twisted end!

Rise like storms, fierce and raw,
Rip apart their demon law!
Hell’s own sludge we’ll raze to dust —
From their ashes, free we must!



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



WAR CRY OF THE BROKEN MIND

Brains fried, minds hacked — virus strike!
Lies like bullets, shot to psyche!
Fascist ****, the stink, the slime,
Choking screams, end of time!

Wolves in skins of man, they creep,
Feed the herd — dumb, blind, asleep.
Chains of rot wrap tight, no breath,
Spirit crushed beneath cold death.

Burn the nests where liars breed,
Feed their flesh to flames of greed!
No mercy now — rip and tear,
Smash the cult that feeds on fear!

Rise! Storm-screams tear the sky,
Break the cage, watch demons die!
Hell’s mud floods their rotten halls,
From the wreckage — freedom calls!



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



APOCALYPSE SHOUT

Brains fried, infected minds enslaved,
Virus screams — the soul depraved!
Fascist filth in suits of lies,
Feed the herd — dumbed down to die.

Puppets dance on strings of ****,
Lying snakes with venom spit.
Cogs in hell’s infernal grind,
Human trash, dumb and blind.

Burn the filth, the rotten breed,
Feed the fires of righteous greed!
Tear the mask — reveal the ****,
Crush the plague till senses numb!

Bloodied fists and shattered walls,
Rise above the prison calls!
Hell’s own spawn will drown in mud,
Freedom’s roar — a cleansing flood!

No mercy for the mindless slaves,
No peace for those who dig their graves.
Break the chains — ignite the fight,
Scorch the darkness with pure light!



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



Brains steamed in toxic stew,
Mindless drones in their own poo.
Suits of slime, rats in the den,
Feeding filth to stupid men.

Fascist puppets on a string,
Spitting poison, death they bring.
Rotten flesh in gilded cage,
Slaves to fear, fools of the age.

Trash heap crawling, slick with lies,
Feeding on the world’s demise.
Bloodsuckers in the halls of shame,
Selling poison, fanning flame.

Burn it down, scorch the roots,
Trash the lies and rotten fruits.
Chains will snap, walls will fall,
Freedom’s fire will burn them all!

Mocking gods with hollow cries,
Feeding fear, the weakest dies.
Rise, you few, from swamp and dust,
Strike with wrath — in truth we trust!

No mercy for the soulless clowns,
No shelter in their poisoned towns.
Cut the cords, unleash the beast,
From their grip — be never ceased!



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



Art

Dedicated to poets and composers
Who only spew heroic snot
About events long gone, forgotten—
A show of glory, all for show.

What is art?
Just staged emotions.
Poems are vile
If not deeply personal.

They’re just vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
A label of weakness,
Rhythms devoid.

Only snot along the path
Of such quests.
Harder to reach the edge
Of other knowledge.

It’s not poetry, nor rapture,
But peak and… abyss.
No one grants the sentence there,
No one hands the pass.

It’s hellfire,
Where you burn alive,
And terrible stench
By day and night alike.

The corpse of the old world
Only fits the screen.
Even the lyre will die—
Here’s the very bottom,

Where all is vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
Then helplessness,
Horror, void.

Where all is nonsense: poet — not poet,
Artist, writer, or not.
Where no one cares for years
About reason, honor, or the trace

The trace we leave
With a pen on water.
Better to add
Gasoline to the fire—

A fire that burns down
The lying world—
Spawn of evil,
Idol of fools.

This is not false,
Nor the pain of fools,
But logical conclusion
When you go all the way

To knowing hell,
That since long ago
Instead of paradise garden
Has been embodied here,

Where all is vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
Then helplessness,
Horror, void.

Where is all this art,
When fascism’s at the door?!
Everyone lies numb,
Each in their warm den.

They come out only
To sing odes.
They’re not madmen,
To die

For a righteous cause,
For memory of grandfathers
Who boldly smashed
Enemies

In that hell of vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
Then helplessness,
Horror, void.



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



Art

Dedicated to poets and composers
Who spit heroic snot
Only on dusted pages,
Ghosts of battles lost and gone.

What is art?
Just staged theatrics—
Empty dramas,
Poems dead without confession.

They’re vanity’s spit,
Wailing banshee cries,
A hollow drum:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Weakness wrapped in labels,
Rhythms void, no defense.

Just snot on the path
Of hollow quests.
Harder to reach the edge
Of deeper, rawer truths.

Not poems, not rapture,
But cliff’s last breath and fall.
No pardons for the daring—
No one answers the call.

It’s hellfire’s scorch,
Where flesh melts slow,
A stench that crawls
Both night and day below.

The corpse of a dead world
Fits only on the screen.
Even lyres will crack—
Here lies the abyss, obscene,

Where all is vanity,
Wailing,
Void:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Then helplessness,
Dark horror, void.

Where fools masquerade as poets,
Artists or not,
Where honor’s dead—
The mind forgot,

The trace we leave
Is ink on water—
Better pour gasoline
On a burning slaughter—

A fire that razes
This world of lies—
Spawn of pure evil,
Fools’ idolize.

This isn’t lies,
Nor childish pain,
But cold logic’s knife
When you bleed the whole way

Into hell’s own heart,
Where paradise died long ago—
Here, rot and venom
In endless flow,

Where all is vanity,
Wailing,
Void:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Then helplessness,
Dark horror, void.

Where is your art now,
When fascists knock hard?
Everyone’s numb,
Huddled in their yards.

They crawl out just to chant
Empty odes.
Not mad enough
To die for roads

Where grandfathers smashed
Foes in hell’s glare—
This hell of vanity,
Wailing,
Void:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Then helplessness,
Dark horror, void.



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



Art — The Brutal Truth

Art’s just snot on dead men’s graves,
Heroic lies from hollow slaves.
Poems? No — empty, void and fake,
Vanity’s cruel, ruthless quake.

Fire burns the world’s corpse cold,
Truth’s a blade, sharp and bold.
Fools worship idols made of slime,
Dancing in hell’s black grime.

No mercy here, no saving light,
Only darkness swallows night.
Fascists laugh — the herd’s asleep,
While souls rot fast and deep.

Rise or drown in filth and rust,
Art dies in a world unjust.
Fight the void, break through the lies—
Or fade with all your silent cries.



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



Art Is Dead

Art’s just snot on dead men’s graves.
Empty noise, vain fools’ plays.

Fire burns the world’s false skin,
Fools bow down to death’s grin.

No savior comes, just lies,
Hell swallows all the wise.

Fight or rot — choose your part,
Art is dead — ignite your heart.



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



Art Is Dead

Art’s just snot on dead men’s graves,
A serpent’s hiss in hollow caves.

Empty noise, vain fools’ charade,
Ashes blow where heroes fade.

Fire burns the world’s false skin,
Fools bow down to death’s cold grin.

No savior comes, just poison lies,
Hell’s black claws tear the wise.

Fight or rot — choose your part,
Art is dead — ignite your heart.



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



No saviors here—just wolves in suits,
Feeding on ashes, tearing roots.
Their “wisdom” stinks like rotted graves,
While freedom sinks in endless waves.

So burn it down—the fake, the lies,
Let truth ignite in crimson skies.
No more chains, no dull disguise—
From ruins, real souls will arise.



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



Propaganda

It used to be bad —
Now it’s supposed to be good!
Propaganda for suckers
Feeds them chicken **** for food.

Once we had pure slavery,
Now it’s “democrazy”’s face.
But it’s all deception —
Fascism’s just replaced.

Slavery couldn’t get worse,
Stupidity’s disgrace —
Five instead of failure,
Spirit barely a trace.

Honor’s trampled everywhere,
Conscience long is dead.
We turned into beasts
Under pressure, full of dread.

All these troubles are fake —
A cold genocide.
Only masters of lies here—
Reason’s deep asleep inside.

Lies pour out unceasing —
Drowning everything whole.
And as a “rest” they offer
Pop distractions for the soul.

Nothing left unspoken —
Anchors voice the script.
The “predictors” rule here,
The rest lie, tight-lipped.

It’s a global madhouse now,
Words promise paradise.
But souls are killed in silence —
Quietly, pay the price.

Yet this endless falsehood
Always hides one key:
If you don’t sell your soul,
The years left are few to see.

The sun shines hotter now —
That’s Armageddon’s sign.
It’ll burn all these fleas away —
Their spirits will resign.



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



Propaganda

It was hell before —
Now they sell it as heaven!
Propaganda for suckers —
Chicken **** in every sentence.

Slavery’s old chains —
Now it’s “demo-fascist” lies.
Same ***** game, new name —
Fascism in disguise.

Slavery’s shame can’t get worse,
Stupidity’s a crime.
Replacing failure with five,
Killing spirit every time.

Honor’s buried deep,
Conscience ripped apart.
We’ve turned into animals,
Crushed souls, broken hearts.

All the pain is fake —
Just a genocide scheme.
Masters of deceit laugh loud,
While reason’s dead, it seems.

Lies flood like poison gas —
Smother everything whole.
As “relaxation” serves
Pop’s shallow black hole.

Nothing left unvoiced —
Anchors chant their lies.
“Predictors” run the show —
Truth’s been crucified.

A global madhouse rages —
Words promise false skies.
Souls murdered in silence —
Quiet death in disguise.

But the biggest lie hides one truth:
If you keep your soul intact,
Your time is running out —
The end’s a burning fact.

The sun scorches hard —
Armageddon’s cruel flame.
It’ll burn out the vermin —
Leave only spirit’s name.



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



Propaganda

Hell was truth —
Now lies sell as light.
Suckers fed chicken ****,
Blinded day and night.

Slavery reborn,
Dressed in fascist lies.
Honor buried deep —
Souls crucified.

Stupidity’s a crime,
Spirit’s shot dead.
Genocide by lies —
Reason’s hanging thread.

Lies choke, no breath,
Pop’s dumb escape.
Truth silenced, drowned,
Souls left to break.

World’s madhouse roars —
False heaven’s smoke.
Keep your soul?
Armageddon’s choke.

Sun scorches vermin —
Burns the weak and vile.
Spirit’s flame survives —
Hell ends in fire.



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



PROPAGANDA RAP // “HELL IN CAPSLOCK”

Yo —
Truth is dead, lies on the throne,
Feeding you filth like a dog with a bone.
Chicken-**** slogans, media drone —
Welcome to Hell, just scroll on your phone.

Freedom's a brand, wrapped in decay,
Fascist chic in a democratic spray.
Think you're awake? You're just in the play —
Lines are fed, you bark on delay.

Reason’s hung, truth got stabbed,
Spirit’s buried, brain’s been nabbed.
Pop drugs your head while souls get grabbed,
This ain't a system — it's a slaughter lab.

New god’s a screen, priest is a cop,
Pills in your gut, death in a pop.
This ain’t peace — it’s a soul-shop,
Prophets in suits, blood on top.

Heaven’s fake, but Hell is near,
Sun burns louder, crystal clear.
If you still got soul — shift outta gear,
'Cause fire is coming… and it won’t veer.

again with myself and some music
and i've cut night drinking
to two bottles of cider
that is less than a bottle of wine
and it's not like i brought back
with me to my bedroom to finish off
while writing
having asked the magic mushrooms
eating the brains of magic monkeys
in my vision
i am like the Secular John of the Apocalypse
the Matthew of the Apocalypse
and we should all hope
and somehow even be
the reincarnated twelve
each of us to be born
with the Apocalypse of Jesus
and there should be no John
of the Revelation Inspired
because the movement came too late
or maybe it was only intended
for one man at a time
but if Jesus could be written
from the Canonical Gospels
of which there are Four
and that triggers the Jew in me
to conjure up the Tetragrammaton
and when my neighbor came
the Proselyte the worst kind
apparently the only stink of London
came back
as did the flies and the spiders
and all those things with only birds
and no lizards as predators...
the lizard the inbetween to insect
in patience
and how the mammal perceives
movement in other animals
not their ontology as some ego-integral
of Darwinism which i abhor
with the same disgust as i might
an Englishman concerning National Socialism
the Tyrant on Earth akin to God
the Englishman:
therefore the Continental Question
of England:
can America buy it from itself
like it might buy Greenland from Denmark
and make it the Puerto Rico Cheakoh....
today i spent the day
filling an assessment for work
i started thinking it was the MI5
because i'm not used to this house
and how it runs
when i came back from a month
on Kauai and prior to that
i did half a year a winter and autumn
doing 12h and sometimes 13h night shifts...
when i was working
i witnessed a murderer
walking past me
and it was just an accident
a homocide in McDonald's where someone
like me or someone with a license
to argue: self-defence...
knowing that arts ****** man...
i became lost in a dream of the great night
and now i wake up
on the dot
at 8am and sometimes prior
but i lie in bed with no motivation to live
my life
when i go to bed living the ultimate motivation
for my ghost: my other half...
like Jesus graspling with the medium
of Res Extensa:
and the extended thing encompassing other people
in the hallucination:
for at the Baptism of Jesus
how many people heard the voice of God?
did John and have his head
chopped off:
how many people inquired
about this very spectacular psychosis-osmosis
the wedding of souls
and minds with a presence that became diluted
and multi-faceted...
of the many faces until
the faces become sand no longer
moving but the column of time itself
these pyramidal schemes of christian religiosity
in the same way
the Sensible Muslims just call it Islamism
and that's equivalent to Christian Religiosity
in the context of Heidegger's historiology...
because we are talking about
a Phobia Nights of Arabia
that somehow Islamophobia is equivalent
to how the Ancient Greeks understood
phobia: fear: a funny fear...
a fear of spiders is a funny fear
a fear of open spaces is a funny fear...
then the presence of tonic and water diluted
to 100 x 1 per drop
and glug glug glug down i now have
butter in my mouth:
but truly i have only been eating more Lard...
i've been eating more Lard
because... grr... i'm 'ard...
and the Devil in his garden the mad loon
of the Lonely Lonna
at the National Portrait Gallery, again:
moon of an egg yolk in the cusp of a spoon
slowly dipped into gently frothing milk
in a saucepan...
more water please! i feel dehydrated
and maybe my brain turns
around the thoughts about the birth
of the oyster and the watermelon
and the designer of a woman's ******...
then thought of daughter

    and the use of the internet again...
today i found a new labyrinth
in the progress of the use of AI
that AI is rather like
a Tool to Navigate the Internet With
it's not something
that will steal the jobs of journalists...
no.. idiots...
like the scenario of my father bringing
a newspaper home
and reading an article about
how long it might take to book a driving license
test and apparently a back log of
6 months... archive... the times...

when using an algorithm
and searching for a newspaper article
type in:
archive the times article bots and driving license
ARCHIVE is the biggest
<prompt
word                 to sharpen algorithm use
to a specific search
rather than a general search...

archiving the internet: the article is on the internet
and i have Events Seasoning coming up
and i will not miss doing Wimbledon
but i also have contacts for Glastonbury
and where to lodge someone in between
this new found time and how
it seems wasted
when the day comes and the acid parasites
of the dying star come
with all the people of the zombie flesh
the sting of irrational and unfathomable ***
that makes the Grievious Envy
of Islam the Harem of Solomon...
then who is even historically viable to be converted
on the altar of awe
maybe the Korean King who invented
how Korean is written:
and it's not like he might be a European
and "discovered" Latin but instead
will be said: that it was a writing plagiarism
because the numbers are argued
by the Arabs, mostly, not really Hindus...
just arabs... how we owe the Arabs
numbers yet have Letters and Mirror...
but the water is grand
a sobering shower before bed
like i will not **** or **** out poison in
the body in the morning
me being Lactose Intolerant is
Edie's psy-op *******
i'm starting to feel that
but more importantly
i will flush it down the toilet
the 2x bottles of cider and a little sprinkle sprinkle
i will **** it out before i go to bed
but prior it was the telephone
and the internet
and now free **** and no taboo of buying
a magazine
there is nothing like that
just a world war I analogy to the fields
of Belgium now with walking bodies
but rotten to death minds
minds without closure
closed off in paradisum carpe diem
the paradise of the seized day...
just thoughts now of what to eat
and how important 8am is
and how it can be best emulated
and how it is all very different
when you think about writing seriously...

but there was this one poem
i found
blasted into allpoetry.com
   via data annotation

i got stuck for 7 hours
on the first question
and the entire screening questionnaire
was only intended for
1h... i couldn't get past
the question for 7 ******* hours....
i was working on it constantly...

a poem by "sjeevanantham"
is actually a data annotation marker...
i don't know what the marker implies
but if someone who dabbles
in data annotation will tell you:
someone without a poetic flare
who works with writing poetry
then it is no wonder
i spooked out
on the first question
and i do feel like if i have worked
and this is my sort of evening
shift
and i think about going to bed
at 12am and waking at 7am
and not sitting in some godforsaken
hut on a construction site
because the only people breaking in
were foxes and rats
now the night shift will truly be busy if there
are workers there and they leave their
equipment on site...
but still... that can't be the same rate
as the day shift...
or at least have a rotation of three shifts...
or two people on site
so that one and the other wake the other one up
it's impossible to stay awake at night
i feel asleep, truly,
only once...
oh i did fall asleep more times than that
but i only feel asleep once, truly: only once:
because i was only once:
caught alseep... the culprit...
ergo when i wasn't there was no need
for me to be awake
but regardless
even at this mail sorting office
the night shifts are rewarded by about $3
and that's sorta of petty squabbling enough
because it justifies the hierarchy of labour
while keeping the disparity of working
hours healthy within understanding human
health and psychology...
but a work where the night shift doesn't pay
a proportionate way more?
is not an honest sharing of labour...
which i understand is... but really isn't...
this isn't a socialist mind thinking:
as much as merit where merit is due:
there should be a minimal divident
of the same work
during daytime hours
and the same work
during night-time hours...
shouldn't the night worker be paid
slightly more...
      simply because he is making
incremental damages to his psyche
and body
by not living in a natural environment?
i.e. not sleeping at night?
it is one thing to not sleep
when you go out partying
and drinking
and sleeping a one off day
but a bit different when you'd stay up all night
watch movies
become known to the genius design
of IDLE GAMING
IDLE GAMING is a big thing
when you're alone and on the brink
of madness...
in those 12 / 13h hour shifts
and sometimes having done a day shifts
went out and did a dayshift and was out on my feet
for more of centipede sensation...
by 11pm
i am good with my catholic murmurs of prayers
before bedtime
and not in some heat of the moment...
but when she switches on that game
i get the same dopamine brain freeze
and i'm stuck in a loop
and **** is just the cherry on top
but the mindless distractions that have
emerged
i don't suppose the AI can be more
than a nagivating tool of the internet
by right an extension of the internet...
to compensate for example the emergence
of two internets
that could have been otherwise
no Deep Web
no criminal activity as such
but the Internet of Infrastructure
like Logistics, Shopping, Banking...
that hard internet
and then the soft internet
that could be better moderated
with i know the English don't like
the idea of a Passport and Driving License
and a Third ID... a Personal ID
a Citizens' ID...
but aren't we already in the process
of having one that
isn't mandated by the State
but the Globalist Appeal of Corporations
and the subsequent Hell of a Democracy
because that is the internet
and this is not a conspiracy
but by term: Social Media Profile:
that is an infringement of one's personal space
if that Third ID wasn't already
there
but it's not just a plastic:
it's your own Minority Report...
                    of past deeds and future predictors
and i'm sorry but the stomach is grumbling
and there's no poem about sandwitches
although
if there was an alternative reality i do actually
simply envision a better version of the internet...
a more coherent version
an a posteriori version with all the days
to analytical... oh jeez... my basic Kant...
SYNTHETIC...

          because like cities this is a new ending
project
like reading a newspaper
the opinion section
and getting TRIGGERED
little INSULTED
when a female "journalist" probably
in her 20s
got a column at the Time
for writing **** about the Baker Boy hat
and why Kate this
i'm not defending Kate, "queen"
but i was literally triggered
by that i was going to scream: i need my safespace!
i need my safespace of no one
insulting the baker boy cap!
i need my safe-space!

             this at the same time of someone doing
actual journalism
in the pages before
and it's as if newspapers are supposed
to be these bi-****** institutions
i figured the only safe-space men have
where women are not invited
or partake much in it
is the Club of the Men who Read Newspapers...
because women don't read newspapers
women read books
and not philosophy books:
or at least philosophy books with one hand
as the famous saying goes
about the Marquis de Sade's Uncle's Library,
a Priest of sort...
but women don't read newspapers
they're rather watch the news
or at least the Press Secretary Speeches
to the White House...
   while someone might cannibalise the babble
of a day of a month of a year
for almost a week
and getting to the part about
what's showing in cinema on t.v.
i get to remember two movies too late
one of them being Oldboy
and another a movie about autopsy with
Brian ***... i think...
but we were watching Oldboy
and the movie was cut short about 20min before
the end
and... well            d'ugh... cosmic warfare
and joke fanare...
that's still Islamism and Christian Religiosity
and looking
for the word funny combined with the Greek
phobia...

and if i wasn't sleeping and about to wake up
from a night shift
what would my day look like
does it really matter what i do and don't do
during a single day
or does it matter that i laughed
and i toyed with thinking-toys
of my thinking-self and i mastered the afternoon
before the night
and it was so mild so touch-worthy that
it wouldn't or couldn't be questioned
it was ethereal and mistaken
each time i guessed at the jest...
because music broke
the mind and
then the mind broke music
and still the birds with their calls were
the other programming sound
the orientation: so spatious...
so vividly ancient in "rhyme"...

but so much of this latent sanity
and christianity is focusing upon the last resort
of the ego before the collectivism
of thinking comes and takes me away
in a history with the nail in the coffin
and the coffin being the church
and the nail and lightning bolt
i forgot that: almost: i almost forgot that...

snooze cyrcadian snooze perhaps
a cold lamb sandwitch instead
of a lamb curry
i think the cold lamb is a sign
of the apostate and the cross...

APOPHASIS
i feel less inclined to create turmoil
but i suppose everyone
is going to be proper driver
once all the primary questions
have been answered
and about 3 specific / technical ones
are answered incorrectly...

oh but the terrible has already
happened and 4 oceans apart
and sailing on my own
i try to consecrate the day with
a little of me it owns
and i have to give it up
however up to no good i find myself
to be:

this snorkel with a broken nose
and all that drowning
in dreams and without dreams...

but by now i'm way to engrossed
in my own superstitions about
witnessing Geordie Fans for Nouncattle
on the sweats of Noy 'Ork
and i cannie feel it smooth
as solid
just smoo' like liquid
not a smothie or very frapoccino
ssssand sss'sss'andy...
i can remember the glutton
who said that eating in public alone
was a tier above *******
in private...
but eating alone when alone
confined is probably not as rewarding
but as if god eating you
and in public it's not an offence
but if i were to translate *******
i'd tell you i feel dizzy and disorientated
about shooting my shot of ego into id
and thinking about the microcosm of
***** migration to the next
populated cubic metre...
of another person...

by now the only medicine is giving this
day a blessing for arriving at
the choice of words
otherwise forever outside of any
conversation: except with oneself
and sometimes these conversations must
be with a terminology of vagabonds
and selfishsly and so much so that
there is no commonality or level grounding
to experience an expressed-exchange
this self-impressions to distance one's
identity from others in this spiral
of the man without pride
and therefore forever climbing in the freefall
and what weaving of the story
in how many times
was repeated: that same story
and if only this could make sense to me
in the practical dictation
and i might see predictors of the drowning man
when the terrible has already happened
and the laughter was me behaving irresponsibly and
before me the wide awoken brute
of shove me shove gloat and goot...
this self alone preserved lobotomy of the loving ones
inquiring
and then being left to one's own devices
and struggling under the compedium of
the self preserving agent of the will:
a will and freedom counter to the god encouraging:
the-3-eseseses  tongue weaving glutton
and how i forsake myself
for the transgression
and who is so solemnly disgusted
by things moving slowly
but there is also doubled scurtiny that somehow
there's the paranoid eye
and everyone's looking at the potentially: failed biopic
and all the rest of the world
is a funfair of cope...

no one ever said that anything
remotely related to art
would be a miserable affair of the mind
whatever the weather
unlike driving a car wrestling with
summer and sunset
and all that feeling of being in communion
with everything alive
like wife and daughter
and harmoniously with the world
taking a summer holiday
a road-trip from London
to Rome to see
the Pope being re-awakened...

because there are only so many intellectual
curiosities available for the intellect
to become lazy and retract from all
that childish inquisitiveness
but only confined to a sophistry or who
could talk most persuasively
not even the Queen of England
was paraded as a Corpse in Public
not even the Queen of England
was paraded as a Corpse in Public:
hey, presto!
say hello! papa corpsus...
the corpse of the pope will guide us
and i know she is part polynesians
and it's not like the queen of england died
or a former president of the united states
prior to the russian bokh be assassinated
and no return to yesterday...
the curse of sleeping alone
thinking i'm still with you
and no tender allowance
when i also have the world caging and caving me
in and i have unreal high church problems
and sometimes i go among personalities
without in-charcter understudies
about who is acting who out...
about who is acting who out...

     and if half wit and DR
uncle Tim and Ukulele...
i pass the theory
then i have eyes ******* into my mind
that's no in the body of an evolved ape
but instead in the body of a squid...