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Alexsandra Danae Oct 2011
lightning, thunder
pummeling droplets of rain
vicious, forceful hurricane winds
sweeping, spinning
swept violently away
whipping, ******
dragging me
a helpless rag doll
tugging me around
- by my ravaged soul
dizziness, nausea
fractional-seconds, flashes of light
circling; bewilderment
world rushing past
lost in this predicament
having been carried away
...so far away...
prisoner of this whirlwind
fearsome, raging tempest
powerful and raw
merciless desecration
mindless murdering of innocence
inescapable prison walls
captive of this sociopathic entity
hopelessly enslaved
****** and over-burdened
foul irony, my fate
- my only companion
pressing, constant reminder:
I AM TO BLAME...
chained to my own
passionless, encroaching storm -
this loathsome,
jerking, twisting, spasm-wracked,
hurricane monster
a destroyer -
- my destroyer!
the homicidal destroyer,
that I have made...
I am, my own, storm slave...
AJ Aug 2013
There's more than one way to turn two bodies
Into one.
Instead,
**** my soul till it's raw.
Fill me to the brim with your broken ego.
I'll dance my catastrophic tongue along your weak spot,
Your achilles heel.
Which, of course,
Is me breaking your ego.
I'll let you penetrate me with a silent stare,
Oh god,
Yes there.
Dive into my insecurities,
Call my bluff,
Put me on a pedestal,
Rigged to collapse into ruins.
I like when you push me.
Don't break me,
Ecstasy comes when I break myself,
Smash myself into over analyzed bits and sociopathic pieces.
Faster.
Harder.
Make it harder for me to figure you out,
Give me a challenge.
**** yes,
I love a challenge.
Reading an open book is easy,
Picking up a locked journel off an abandoned bookshelf,
Now that pushes me over the edge.
Let's change into a more comfortable position,
Where you ramble an incoherent childhood stories,
And I retort loudly in my native language,
And you storm off because no one is right,
And no one is wrong.
And you get off on the point that there is no point.
Just build it up.
More.
****.
****.
More.
Touch my mind.
Don't touch my heart,
No stop.
Yes there.
A little more.



Dzięki.
James Alai Feb 2016
I am embarrassed to say
that I fell head over heels
for a psychopath.
This girl had a smile that melted my heart
and a knife that stabbed me in the back.
She had warm lips that kissed me
And sharp teeth that bit me.

Did I mention that she was nuts?

She was a sociopathic, multible peraonalitied, souless harlot
who ****** out my soul and **** me out.

....but she was pretty though
Sentosa Mam Sep 2012
you approach me,
telling me all these things about a girl,
someone that broke you and bretrayed you and made you feel worthless
because you everyday were worried about her
knowing nothing of her
and wanting to be there with her,
but instead she,
stabbed you in the back and played you like a fool.
am i her?
am i this sociopathic ***** you're talking about?
am i the girl who you wish for me, and my family and my entire race to die just because somewhere in the past you were betrayed?
it hurts you know,
to know that i could be this person
but you not having it enough to tell it to my face
but have it in you enough to want me and my family to die.
smiles, smiles, smiles
with lies hidden inside.
a smile that stabs you in the back when you turn.
if thats what you say about her
then i dont know what to say to you
Austin Heath Mar 2015
Silver-tongued soothsayer
with a voice of gold but
breath like mercury,
sing me a future full of
blue nights
&
days that seem to always
sit at the horizon.

Feed me opiates through dreams,
through tubes
down the back of my throat,
where I turn them into
poisons for my body to feast on.

Force them into my genetic make-up;
let me replicate a beautiful nightmare
out of my marrow and exhale
careless sociopathic lies
to ******* strangers and
******* with first names
I don't need to remember.

Let me be Ohio's last astronaut;
my head is past clouds,
my body, beyond earth.
Sympathy will be reserved
for those who have lost
their hearts, their hope,
their homes, their minds,
their control,
their bodies,
their functions,
their...

Yes.
Their dreams.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
.and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...


high-brow my ***...
         because iron maiden's phantom
of the opera... did... does... predate...
andrew webber's stab...
                 hard rock 'ammer...
       as in... a paul di'anno bitchboy
                 scant-gimpwhore fan... etc.
the castrato operatics... later...
n'ah...               but that's oh so much
an origins story...
                    and hardly the evolution...

- that the phantom of the opera stands on
a skeleton of three songs...
revised...                morphing...

perhaps not, not that they are songs...
i'd have to sharpen my scalpel for
attempting the smithy deeds on words...

a skeleton of three themes...
       thus noted:

               "angel of music"
            "phantom of the opera"
    and... last but not least:
                     "masquerade"...

what a day... or what wasn't expected...
no one ever told me that:
a musical per se... differs so much from
a musical: for the stage...

by musical...
                 i'd be shaking to conjure up...
the screen musicals of a west side story...
etc. -

            and one can easily so tire of
this trap...

  and what of the internal jokes?
jokes at the expense of the opera...
              - poor fool, he makes me laugh
       - hannibal...
quite the jokes...
   having to draw the blood from
the mundane talk elevated to an operatic
context of song...

that a musical is... somehow...
when opera can be reduced to talk...
and can be thus reduced to:
the joker in a hand of poker...
   a whimsical little card...

the 25th anniversery of the phantom
at the royal opera house...
one can somehow forgive the electronic
attaches of the overture...
whether the electric guitar of the drum
machine...

   like one can forgive:
                 nirvana's unplugged...
at the end though...
   even andrew webber looks perplexed /
nervous... how did we get away with this?
i don't know:
the only style of genre that...
actually requires a stage and props...
and ample volume of space!
a theatre: since otherwise...
opera: pure technique...
                and prop minimalism...

and...

because can a musical: not require a stage?
does it indeed feed too many images
that need to be attired with quacks...
with feathers... with leather boots and chandeliers?!

now i'll toast! i'll toast to a new reason
to go down the alleys of ah bit tipsy:
itsy bitsy sniffing a bottle neck...
bloated from a champagne cork pop!

truly... if only the stage...
   that allowance to perform a performance
a need to perfect: always never:
the editor in charge...
   all those out-takes left to what life is
left behind the curtain...

     the musical of the movies of h'america...
whatever they might be...
to name but a few would be best...
           and if i didn't first see the phatom
on a television screen...
but in its natural environment:
with the volume of required air...
     i wouldn't have been able to choke
my tears...

and i have seen the theatre
and i have seen the opera
and the ballet...
                            i sometimes...
"sometimes": wearisome...
try to forget the maggot pit of phelgm,
sweat and ***** of a rock concert...
        of all the mediums...
         this jumbled up swedish table platter...
what a cocktail of a rollercoaster!

i could forever take off my garments
of jealousy: of which there's that pitiable
affair of a beard-envy...
                well...
                           well well...

how pristine: they even had a music-box!
in that crude relief of finding
"revisions" and alt. interpretations
of... perhaps it's only a matter of
two themes and that overture?

             and if it's song and dance...
       it's not a candy-smiles and tap-dancing buffet...
it's opera and ballet...
because... it's opera:
                 ha! empty these cupboards!
no one needs to attend an opera
like a foreign language movie:
with subtitles running on a FTSE100
reel above the stage...

                      the musical: is the reinvention
of the opera... a musical is an opera...
with mild added animation of theatre...
and there's a pinch of ballet!

          this will most certainly not translate
into me liking cats... or les misérables...
       this will do...
                   sing-along / sing-through?
and everyone is, suddenly... equipped with
a deciphering ear to translate the over-infuated
vowels of an operatic breath?!

- and very much so:
the royal albert hall... is not where you'd go
to watch ballet...
      unless you were going to watch...
an enlarged centipede pretend to stampede
on a treadmill...

- but if someone would tell you...
a musical... west side story? yes?
     i'm pretty sure it would be all about:
singin' in the rain... fair enough...
             but all for that popcorn entertainment...
and the tap-dancing...
and chewing-gum advert smiles...
and all that technicolour dabbling...
and all those heavily bothersome editing
processes... like... the plumbers
most associated with veins and arteries?
sorry: the romanians are picking the fruit
and veg for the next: x-factor star...
the next youtube vlogger breakthrough chart
topper...

blunt and ******* obvious...
      and how has english changed since Dickens?
i made a note of...
because i will not make notes
of what's already passed...
a direct etymological association with a loan,
word...
  not from dutch, german or french...

       SA-LU-BRI-OUS
            (healthy...)

                   PER-EM-PTO-RILY...
         (not being permitted a denial)

that 19th century victorian english that...
just had to loan words directly from
latin... this much of reading Dickens remains
in me... after having just experienced
a blitzkrieg of a musical: proper...

there are still the same old nooks 'n' crannies
for me to find shadows and moths
in...

    because: i am most certainly the one
about to cite: they took away my circuses!
and m'ah bread!
there's no football! well... no football?
goodness me! what are, what are...
the alternatives?!

         opera you can... disregard...
theatre if... movies are your...
ahem... sartre's curiosity with the keyhole...
voyeurism: to exist is to be seen...
but only through a keyhole...
                     which movies aren't, of course!
the editor comes in...
even in the golden age of cinema...
the panoramic view... resembled a stage...
and in the old movies you could
time... the editor taking charge...
and how long it would take for
the actors to forget their lines...

            not that that matters... given...
there's no stage... but the red carpet
of postures and toothpaste adverts...
and paparazzi *** epilepsy from the strobe
glitter ball of the leeches congregating!
not even vultures make such a spectacle!
i saw the same...
then the concrete was layered with enough
frost at night...
the crevices would become impregnated
with diamonds of ice...
every twist of the head would
agitate these sparkles toward imitation
of a flash!

there's a "musical": in the advent of the h'american
sense... and there's: a musical...

- and if you happen to hear a subtle joke
by evelyn waugh in the meantime:
at the better for you...
              what is an encyclopedic "ogling"
within the confines of scrutiny:
that man may forever be attired...
and the genitals just dangling like
champagne flutes without any,
any sort of, scrutiny of...
not having to play the Oedipus!

               here's a fork... here's a donkey...
here's a spoon... here's the Schleswig-Holstein
and its siege of Westerplatte!
here!
   the Schleswig-Holstein tenor of
                           the opera: Westerplatte...
oh joy: a "my" in a "history"...
and none of it an affair that might...
disturb the peaceful lives
of those lived: under the splendour
of a charles II and a handel firework's music
to have to somehow: "put out"!

clearly: i'll be dying from the ******
of all the collective forces of the universe
and gambling and... oopsies...
i am here... and it's not that sort of grey...
pistons assured!
- had i the face of beauty...
beside starring as a tadpole of potential...
a voice with a stage to make outlet with...

- what could ever become of this...
jigsaw puzzling overdue do...
                         the narrative in the classical sense:
hardly what, and what not:
this vector and the in-between
from some mythical (a) toward a journalism,
and weekend opinion pieces...
and all that insomnia riddled "journalism"
of the current year of crux denoted with
a (b)...

               all true: from darwin and the "big bang"...
and of course... time shrinking...
in between... beside carbon dating...
and let us not hear of things speak
for themselves: but ourselves!
untrue! hercules!
untrue! prometheus!
untrue untrue untrue!
but darwin and the ape: nod! gentlemen!
we have proof!
myth or no myth: but a journalistic integrity!
that's enough proof! for today and tomorrow!
and... what's not the fiction that's already
memory?

and what is... this imagination that's...
not a single street witnessed of Paris
in the circa of the year that was... 2004...
or 2006 or 2007...
                      
for the art... and this detail of science that
once upon a time shocked...
now... only comes... burdensome...
a ballet on ice... a shaking of hands with
a shadow... something beside this:
base revision of culture and civilization:
this bogus lopsided quest for:
re-inventing... nothing more... than a zoo!

so little must have happened in the case
of english history...
this hannibal and the mountains...
but what curtain: the great wall of china:
built among the mountains...
ingenious: doubling-up?
  xerxes whipping the waves of the aegean...
the great wall of *****-chewing-wall'ah...
i dare become the new albino...
i dare... and i the next japanese porcelain
frailty...
               many thanks: for the <caugh caugh>...
hooray!

              oh my mother:
the cindarella of nations of europe...
         i seriously can't do much worse than
that cocktail and carboot sale of tchaikovsky's
1812 overture...
   it's an overture!
              
really? the phantom of the opera is because...
of the overture?
last time i heard... prokofiev's lieutenant kijé
(kij - stick... kije... sticks)...
romance... was all a rave! "rave"...
              a nibbling at a crescendo...
    but hardly: then again: a nomad chorus...
a reminiscence... a memory lost: yet foretold...

and if... the anonymous provider...
of the full extent of the carmina burana...
      what if?
        i play... this cliche... this... my most
democratic oath: for the bettering of the voice
that could allow the congregation of
the many! my democratic oath: my quasi:
civic duty... me joining the club of the most
sober bottom's-up! pick'ld-week!

                 such are the affairs... hardly a worthiness
of a frenchman of pander...
or of being so blessed by an island...
when being neighbour of europe...
and easily bound to be found because:
france never too interest in the robot antics
of the scandinavians or what
was ever to be assured by iceland!

thus came the crude: skeleton waiting
to be refined... a peter schteele interlude of:
fancying a giant to a tumble...
i will not satisfy myself with a biography
outside of the realm of immediacy...
how do people write a biography without
the peacock of whim and of what's readily
available? a biography with a past...
automated: futurism... n'est ce pas?

         - i escape for the transcendental relief in
beauty... my own lack...
therefore better neglected: rather than denied...
it's my own that Belzeebub should
****** with maggots and acne synonyms onto
my face...

          i escape for beauty... not... sorry...
pardon my fwench: a ******* conversation
of the paupering sociopathic sort of
a job trotter sordid kin'!
                  if only crocodiles could cry...
they'd be warm-blooded...
and i would be year after year
an oscar nominee for a toast
of best actor at the oscars!

          pity... pity and the subsequent
dumbdrum!
                no! i do not want to guillotine this
affair with the autobiographic as long
as i am drinking and not any champagne
in sight... or... schnapps...
              
i best be off... this is enough frivolity
of the heart for a day's worth!
Charlie Chirico Jul 2016
Inward apathy is not
to be confused with
sociopathic credence.
It's a blade held to the throat
of the man that wields it.
Never would the cold steel touch
the person who thinks of suicide
as cowardice, but believes bravery
to be disillusionment in the form
of medication, or speaking up and out
offering solutions to problems
that they do not know the variables
that come along with it.

How many teeth make up a smile?
How many lines form a frown?
If lines are infinite,
what does that tell you about
an expression that is countered by
obligatory inquisitive ambivalence.

Shoulders are for tears.
Spines are for intrepidness.
Skin is layered; tough and thick
no matter benevolent or malevolent,
a person's love is misconstrued
as skin deep, albeit it is formed
between synapses.

It's a spark, a fire, the intuition
to never say goodbye
and ignore accountability.
Fayez Mar 2015
I don't understand this world
I felt broken when a friend
Became my enemy
I don't understand.

I felt broken
When the love of my life
Walked away as if nothing existed
I don't understand.

People tell me not to get attached
To simply let go
They find me weird, even weak.
I don't understand.

I do not understand
How people just "let go"
Like people are balloons
Ready to drift away.

I do not understand
How people find it normal
To not be attached
Who do they live for?

Am I the only one
That feels this way?
Do I exist to be alone?
Then why do I crave for attachment?

I do not understand
How such  mentality
Can be considered normal
Rather than sociopathic.

I do not understand
How a world where
Not being attached
can be nothing but ****** up.
I honestly don't understand. I know you need to be strong when you let people go, but to never be attached to begin with? This is a concept I could never fathom.
Roxy DeNoir Jul 2013
He calls me humble
Thanks me for it
Ha! If he knew
He wouldn't have said it

I'm not humble
I'm actually far from it
I beat myself up
To hide each secret

I lay low only to survive
I'm always alone in the night
No one can see me there
I avoid all light

If he knew of the endless dark
That my heart is always in
Touched sometimes by the sun
Only to die again within

He wouldn't call me humble
He'd think me a freak
Psycopathic tendencies
A secret violent streak

I delight in pain- I love to bleed
I get high when I'm cutting
I desire and I want more
I call it window shutting

Yes if he knew he'd be gone
Without even a single goodbye
I wouldn't even be surprised
Because people leave me all the time

He calls me humble, who the hell is he
This man who is blind to me
A teacher who doesn't even know
He obviously cannot see

And he will never know the secrets
He will never know my mind
This warped sociopathic addicted mess
From experience I know well how to hide

I am glad he doesn't know
I am glad he cannot discern
I am glad I only see him once a year
And his friendship never earn

And after I am free to fly
And spread my broken wings
I will never see him or anyone else again
There will be less people to hurt- only me.
Charley H Nov 2011
Almost human
Still, not quite
Foolish, ignorant
Searching for something,
Anything

These words said
Late in the night
Every single night
Said by you,
Who tells everyone that you aren't over me

I don't see why my flaws are worse than yours:
Sociopathic, apathetic, trying so hard to be different
That you follow the same overused pattern
As every other "different" person out there

How could I be foolish?
You, the great wise man, fell for me
Maybe you aren't wise at all
It's just a facade, part of you so-called "cool"

Manipulative you called me
When I'm really just ambitious
Really just trying to make people see
I am worth something,
Anything

Did you ever stop to think
That you are the almost human?
That maybe, you should try feeling something
Instead of going about your life
Hiding behind your mask of "different"
If you can't tell already, I don't try very hard. I write what's on my mind and hope it turns out well.
Wednesday Feb 2014
.22
We talked about people dying last night
and how I watched them do so

and I couldn’t help but to laugh at the memory
and you were laughing too

and maybe that makes us kindred sociopathic spirits
or maybe it just makes us afraid to be vulnerable
so we look at death and then we laugh like we aren’t really scared

and you shoot animals from your bedroom window
and I have to admit youre a pretty good shot
You shot an arrow through my heart


I wrote this in 5 minutes. Maybe I'll revise it someday.
Echoes Of A Mind Mar 2016
I'm laying in the snow
Not feeling anything
The cold doesn't bother me,
'Cause it have already
Gotten through my bones...

A lonely snowflake falls on my cheek,
Softly it touches
But I don't feel it...
Thereafter it slowly melts
And runs down my cheek
Just like all the tears
Which I've cried
A thousand of...

My footprints in the snow
Is soon covered by flakes
I think to myself
That you would surely
Have liked
To see this...

This white landscape
That's softly shining
And I'm smiling,
But only for a moment.
Before I remember
That you never got the chance....

The frost bites my nose,
But for the time being
I am a half-sociopathic soul
And therefore
I don't sense it...

'Cause I don't know
How I'm gonna make it through
The day
Which the clock
Soon will great...

The last day, the last hour
Before you'll be brought
To your final resting place,
But right now, I don't want to think,
Don't want to feel, don't want to sense
The chain of sorrow,
Which is slowly pulling me down...

I just wanna lay here in the snow
Before I'll go
Inside to put the last red roses
On your coffin...
English translation of my danish poem "En Afsked"
Since it's a translation, it might not sound as poetic as the original version does...
Martin Narrod Feb 2017
Being a poet, a heavy handed right-hand writer, is to me, being a sociopathic killer of language. Hands that worship sometimes the least popular fruit, the myrrh or the mana, the young woman or the homeless man-animal, prostitutes and the dregs of civilization.

Here I am, shuffling through my cabinets, searching out that precise instrument, for this precise moment. My repertoire of blades, bludgeoning objects, handyman's tools: the hammer, axe, screwdriver, sieve, staple gun, nail gun, jigsaw, bandsaw, handsaw, and wrench, also too there are wood chippers, snippers, clippers, scissors, tapes, shanks, cords, ropes, and wires. I do not prefer the six or twelve shooter, the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol, the M-14 rifle or the M1 Garand. Too many are there to name the incredibly effective pharmaceuticals, including the human tranquilizers, animal poisons, toxic chemicals, and household cleaning products. I do want for these, though many of the myriad instruments I've listed work with great efficacy, eliciting the desired pleasure or response from he or she who wields them. I instead choose the the pen. Any pen will do, though I prefer the Uniball .7mm with black ink, as blue to me does not possess the intensity and seriousness that must be conveyed or omitted. The pen can chisel away the unwanted or offer the necessary temperament and intensity, which might be required. For each killing is unique unto itself. No ****** is quite like the other, though there are similarities between them on some occasions.

It must be I that wields the pen and not the other way around. This relationship is one-sided, and must be orchestrated by me and only me, lest I should sacrifice the personal nature of this hauntingly ferocious arrangement between ink and instrument, instrument and I. A gravely serious one-way, unreciprocated, and unbalanced, nearly schizophrenic performance of language that is never heard nor displays no sound, which instead draws heavy sanguinated strokes, marks, scribbles, and inscriptions amidst other fanatical displays of power and allegiance, ego and lust, eloquent rage and fetishized insanity. Each movement of the hand readies this god-sized control to the pen, exercising its tumultuous rein of might, choosing to exact its motive on this word, while ignoring and sometimes even skipping over whole sets of words, sentences in some instances, while in others it chooses to exhaust itself in wholly unbelievable performances of carnage, destroying speech, and slaying, splicing, and splitting-up complete sections of the English language.

In some cases neglecting those words that might seem noisome or rank to some folks, only to select and offer penalty to others, it chooses on occasion to ostracize other more sweetly and eloquent pieces of speech, it chooses which parts of our alphabet to select and which words or letters it ought to omit.

****** after ******, the writer counts each ****, committing every instance to memory, and on some accounts he or she might even bring home a treasure or trinket, something small though, not bigger than that of a pomegranate though often not smaller than the wick of a candle. The writer takes this together with any artifacts or materials that could tie his or her method to his or her execution. Until, at last amid the company of themselves, they can revel in their vain glory and perfervid excite for the acts they've chosen to commit and the acts they've chosen to omit.

It's in these brief moments, when the speaking ceases, and the company is called to rest, there can be found an easing and peaceful contentment. Each room slowly ushers out any of the unwanted sounds of the day. Finally, he or she may sit or stand, lay or play, undisturbed by agonizing wants or needs, and happily, having chosen to keep many cupfuls of pens, not only on their work-bench and writing desk, but in the kitchen, in the living room, and in every room.

In recent years, I've begun to notice that nearly every home and establishment, business, and institution keeps at least one pen on hand. If only for those special moments of social awkwardness when at last the spoken language holds no greater power than can be wielded under the grand spells and vespers, free-verse, stream-of-consciousness, or prose that quickly by taking up the pen can offer to its bearer in short time steadfast relief or certain resolve. For the heart certainly pumps more ink than it does blood.
Aaron LaLux Mar 2017
“It’s 2017 those pants they just won’t do.”,
it’s 2017 undressed by a 16 year old,
hold on though it’s not ******,
even though yes she is truly beautiful,

we are in the dressing room of a mansion,
attending a costume party that's themeless,
and everyone here is dressed up,
dressing and ******* no salads just ballads and suits that are seamless,

and here I am in this Dream with,
this girl I don't even know and she's 16 with,
an attitude to match rude but just a bit,
and sure she's cute but there's no way I'd hit,

I am not attracted,
to Ms. Red Red,
in Love but not in Lust there’s a difference,
she's a friend's sister and that’s it,

Ms. Red Red,

ridged rounded scaled scarf,
I know that sounds hard to explain,
and I’m not attempting to try,
I’m just saying judging is a waste of time in the Wild.

Listen,
this life is so surreal,
that even when it’s viewed with vivid realizations,
it still doesn’t always even feel like it’s real at all,

all of this,
is,
as insane,
as we are,

are we,
anything other than Out of Control,
O.C. Baby I’m ready let’s roll already,
oh well who knows not me no one tells not even those For Whom the Bell Tolls,

are we,
anything other than Out of Control,
anything other than everything that’s so fckn Cliche,
can’t escape it not even if I tape it up and cast it away.

Fck you,
fck me,
fck this fckn Sociopathic Society,
so long I’m gone gonna join a Progressive Alternative Community.

Are you feelin’ me,
forget the cliches,
let go of every label you were ever given,
especially the labels you’ve given yourself,

well,
here we are again,
at the point in the poem,
where you ask what the point is of this poem,

well
there is none,
the Secret is there’s no Secret,
come on don’t be so passe and blasé,

cliche,
yeah I know,
you told me that already,
but there’s no going back to the Past we’re headed where we’re headed here we go.

2017,
welcome to the Future of Dreams,
and that sounds cool,
but I don’t even know what it means,

see,
sometimes things make sense,
even though,
they’re things we can’t comprehend,

oh well then,
I guess we’re in,
a whirlwind of real life pretend,
living in this Factory of Dreams Happily Ever After,

living H.E.A.,
true Deja Vu with No Rules,
then she shakes me from my daze as she says to me,
“Hey it’s 2017 those pants they just won’t do.”…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

12/1/17

"A 'sociopathic perpetrator'..
we will ghost him  forever"


But what is this  thing
  she feels..

Why is the picture  painted
so very  different
   from  the  one
   she now  remembers?

"We will help her to forget."
            .      .      .


The saving of one's soul
from that which would steal
is not done  in violence
   (Though it still   feels
   that it should be)

It is done in patience,
and in reminding one
of who it is they truly are.

     Tell me,  world
     of who you think
     a father  should be

And watch  me laugh
my mother-*******  *** off.
Tell me all about it,  world.


  And I will show you all
      what truly saves.

"When you came  in
I could breathe again."
~Young M
https://youtu.be/iZNFKxeYZPA

for my beautiful-hearted
little Yeepers❤
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
Creative Writing


Manchester uni,
Fifteen places, but that's it,
****, ****, ****, ****, ****.



The Fridge

I open the door,
But nothing has changed, no food,
My tears flow freely.




Fluffy

Fluffy the hamster,
In sawdust he hides plans for,
World *******.




Which is it

Some call my writing,
Insightful, to others it's,
Sociopathic.




2500 BC

I find peace in rain,
Ra, the Egyptian sun God,
Smites my insolence.




Look like Crab, Talk like People, Crab People, Crab People.

In the near future,
The crab people will rise up,
Crustacean war-fare.




Lunacy

Awake in my bed,
Pulled to open the window,
The moon calls for me




Lioness

Brave as a lion,
She does not show fear as she,
Devours her young.




97% Sure

Bodies in bin bags,
Powdered lime on window ledge,
Suspicious neighbour
Moa J Baer Jan 2017
I’m completely unstable.
            I’m mentally unkind.
            I’m physically unsafe.
            I’m a demon in disguise.
            Not who you believe.
            Not you, or me.
            Unsafe.
            Unkind.
            Unstable.
            Who am I but a sociopath.
            What am I but a demon.
            But a girl hidden in lies.
            But a girl who toys.
            But who am I but a lie.
            Who am I but a sociopathic girl.
            What but a dead body hiding a monster.
            What better word than unstable?
            What better to describe than unkind?
PhiWrit Dec 2014
On this day man has lost its way
Boys in the bodies of men
The price they're unwilling to pay
A sum of experience less than ten
Years of effort from wee thirteen
With parents apart where do they start
To learn to stay away from the obscene
Little floozies and sociopathic tarts
Aaron LaLux Sep 2019
Screen Crack [16]

Jesus!

What the fck,
wait, Jesus,  has nothing to do with this,

your hands glued to the latest PDA device,
hands glued along with your eyes,
seems you cling to your PDA  for dear life,
like it’s as important as a TAH, what’s a TAH look it up,

it’s a Total Artificial Heart,
you are the “art” in artificial,
since when did Personal Displays of Affection PDAs,
get replaced with Personal Digital Assistants,

no way phones could be the new PDAs I can’t accept that,
oh well I guess it’s the perfect sign of the times,
people used to show affection & kiss in public,
now they don’t even notice & the only kisses given are emojis,

no romance they don’t even hold hands show love or show up,

would rather ******* in silence than deal with this,
& maybe that makes me part of the problem,
see I could go out & try to socialize but I stay inside instead,
& don’t even mind ‘cause most people aren’t worth the stress,
plus it’s been so long since I’ve been in a relationship,
if I met someone I wouldn’t even know what to say anyways,
we replaced Empathy with Apathy eye contact with iPhones,
now we’re all bored Cyborgs & alienated Androids,

we keep avoiding each other instead of enjoying each other,  we keep assuming we are annoying each other,
which prevents us from successfully joining each other,
so we effectively self isolate ourselves from one another,

one step closer to an Anti-Social New World Order New Age,
every time we become afraid & walk away instead of engage,

would rather scatter than talk to someone,
in a way that could be construed as rude,
so we just walk-on & ignore every single someone,
even though one of those someones is you,

in the Narcissistic Network of this Sociopathic Society,
where the only certainty is that this cycle of denial is ******,
what the fck, totally stuck, mind fckt & ******,
into that lil cancer causing PDA your hot little hands hold,

Steve Jobs got cancer,
you think that’s a random freakin’ coincidence,
people that work with electronic devices their whole lives,
get sick & this is not just a few examples of isolated incidents,

it’s not a rumor that consumers get tumors from electronics,

even Stevie Wonder could see how Stevie Jobs got sick,
died in his mid 50’s alone & in bed thin as a stick,

all those billions couldn’t save him,
so what makes you think you’ll survive,
why should I care how you live if you don’t care how you die,
think you’re saving time on that portable electronic device,
but you’re living a lie wasting your life not saving your time,
because no one ever regrets spending less on screen time,
but people often regret not spending more time,
in nature attention undivided with loved ones by their side,
before they die, going to do you a favor, save you the trouble,
of spending your whole life chasing things on a digital screen,
I’m going to quote Steve Jobs’s last words here,
so you can start making changes now before it’s too late.

“I have come to the pinnacle of success in business.
In the eyes of others, my life has been the symbol of success.
However, apart from work, I have little joy. Finally, my wealth is simply a fact to which I am accustomed.
At this time, lying on the hospital bed & remembering all my life, I realize all the accolades & riches of which I was once so proud, have become insignificant with my imminent death.
In the dark, when I look at the green lights, of the equipment for artificial respiration, feel the buzz of their mechanical sounds, I can feel the breath of my approaching death looming over me.
Only now do I understand that once you accumulate enough money for the rest of your life, you have to pursue objectives that are not related to wealth.
It should be something more important:
For example, stories of love, art, dreams of my childhood.
No, stop pursuing wealth, it can only make a person into a twisted being, just like me.”…

See, now you’ve heard it directly from a genius,
so there you go don’t say I didn’t tell you so,
still you hear the final words of a brilliant billionaire,
& instead if take his advice you say “Who cares?”,

& that is actually a serious question, who cares?

Probably not me or you so why would we heed a warning,
no matter how wise the words were that were wrote,
we’re too busy trying to find fake treasures on Pokemon Go,
or read the latest news or scroll the latest posts,

seems all those Apples & Androids, have made us apathetic,
bit the forbidden fruit, in The Garden of Electronic Eden,
**** streaming has replaced actual ***, it takes less effort,
exchanged intimacy for IoT, replaced *** with EMFs,

no ******* just internet no farmer’s markets on weekdays,
just products on eBay & freebased sympathy that’s synthetic,
so we don’t feel the vibration of our brothers & sisters,
we just feel the vibration of our phones in our pocket,
we don’t notice the signs of our civilization in decline,
we just notice our phone’s notifications when they go off,

see the more connected we become to the virtual world,
the less connected we become to the actual world,

& I’m having a melt down,
witnessing everyone on their cell phones,
& I want to find a reason to believe in a real person to love,
but I feel like hope is gone & we’re all just lost without a home,
& I’m just as guilty as the rest of us,
‘cause I’m often also lost in the zone on my phone like a drone,

& I’m not religious but maybe we really do need Jesus,
maybe I really do need Jesus,
what the fck, wait,
Jesus,  has nothing to do with this,

a whole new generation of users has been created,
through the use of new additions of cell phones & laptops,
& some of the users are as young as 8 years old,
computers are the new & improved evolution of crack rock,
but family’s are so used to their kids using that they just shrug,
even though their kids are so addicted that they can’t stop,

some even enable kid’s addiction by buying them new editions,

cracked screens from dropping your phone,
gives you a minor heart attack,
oh how attractive cancer seems when it’s attractively wrapped,
in the form of an impersonal personalized phone case artifact,

Silver, Gold or Grey, SnapChat is the new black.

What the fck, hands glued to the latest PDA device,
hands glued along with your eyes,
seems you cling to your PDA  for dear life,
like it’s as important as a TAH, what’s a TAH, look it up,

look up look up,
you are alive in a body on these beautiful lands,
mathematically a 1 in 400 trillion chance of being born,
you’re literally the most amazing miracle you could ever have!

There’s a whole world out there,
please find someone to get to know & love,
because there’s probably someone right next to you right now,
that’s willing to give you their all & it’s obvious,

all you have to do to see is set down your phone & look up!
If you’d only just look up!

But, you’re too busy playing Pokemon Go to notice love,

I know, we’re part of a 1st World society,
& we all play our part by being passively compliant,
in order to be an accessory to our country’s atrocities,
so we get dressed up with the latest techno accessories,

I know,
you don’t want to think about it too much,
because then you might feel guilty, so you stay out of touch,
keeping your head down like you’re mourning a lost love,
there’s an actual psychological condition for this,
Cognitive Dissonance is what it’s called,

so you stay on your phone, not wanting to get involved,
because it’s easier to simply not feel,
won’t even make eye contact just want to be left alone,
because you’re conditioned to fear anything that’s real,

insecure & scared of the unknown you cling to your phone,

even though,
it’s the things we’re most comfortable with that usually **** us,
cars cigarettes alcohol cell phones,
I’m telling you addiction to technology is a serious illness,

as we begin to decay into a mediated medicated mental illness.

Do you even remember,
what you did on your phone yesterday,
do you even remember,
what you did with your emotions yesterday,
do you even remember,
when the last time was you felt real emotions,
do you even remember,
the last time you did anything to help the world?

What is there left to believe in when nothing feels right?

Feels like,
we are losing touch with everything that makes us human,
emotions experienced in artistic expressions are leaving,
we have no attention span & cyborg robots do most thinking,

as we steadily slip into an artificial abyss remember this,

I Love You,

& it scares you when I tell you,
like all real emotions scare you,
& then I tell you I want to take that phone you hold,
& throw it into the ocean,
& you finally look up from your phone after all this time,
stare me in the eyes glare & say, “How dare you!”,
like you’re defending your phone,
as if it’s a part of your very existence you were born with,
like you’d hate a fellow animated human,
for destroying an inanimate object, that’s the Devil’s trick,
because when we’ve lost all emotions only hatred lingers,
desperate I’ll take hatred over nothing if that’s all that’s left,

& I’m the biggest hypocrite of all,
because I say all this about technology,
but here I am writing these words on this laptop,
& offering advice but not offering apologies,

maybe I’ll really realize someday,
when someone shakes me & wakes me from my digital daze,
either that or when I’m all alone about to go home in the sky,
on that death bed quoting the last words of Steve Jobs,

“Stop pursuing wealth, it can only make a person into a twisted being, just like me…”,

Wow.

Can you hear me now?

No you probably still don’t hear me,
because you’re likely on your phone reading this right now,

your hands glued to the latest PDA device,
hands glued along with your eyes,
seems you cling to your PDA  for dear life,
like it’s as important as a TAH, what’s a TAH look it up…

∆ LaLux ∆

poem #16 from THHT3: The Hollywood Hills Trilogy 3
available worldwide here: www.amazon.com/dp/B07XJRBSKD
Aaron LaLux Aug 2016
Screen Crack

Jesus,
what the fck,
wait,
Jesus has nothing to do with this,

your hands glued to the,
latest PDA advice,
seems like you cling to your PDA,
like it’s as important as a TAH,

that’s a Total Artificial Heart,
you are the “art” in artificial,
since when did Personal Displays of Affection,
get replaced with Personal Digital Assistant,

would rather ******* in silence,
than talk to someone that could potentially like you,
in the narcissistic network of a sociopathic society,
on thing is certain this cycle of denial is ******,


what the fck,
totally stuck,
mind fckt and ******,
into that little cancer causing PDA that you hold in your hot little hand,

Steve Jobs got cancer,
you think that’s a coincidence,
people that work with electronic devices their whole live’s,
get sick and this is not an isolated incident,

just look at at Stevie Jobs no Wonder he got sick,
died in his mid 50’s alone and in bed thin as a stick,
all those billions couldn’t save him,
so what makes you think you’ll survive,
what makes you think I care if you live,
when it doesn’t seem like you care if I die,

you think you’re saving time on that portable electronic device,
but really you’re not saving time you’re just wasting your life,
because no one ever regrets not spending more time playing video games,
it’s not spending more time with those they love that they regret when they die,

and I’m going to do you a favor and save you the trouble,
of spending your whole life chasing money on a tiny screen,
I’m going to quote Steve Jobs’s last words here,
so that you can start making changes right now before it’s too late…

“I have come to the pinnacle of success in business.
In the eyes of others, my life has been the symbol of success.
However, apart from work, I have little joy. Finally, my wealth is simply a fact to which I am accustomed.
At this time, lying on the hospital bed and remembering all my life, I realize that all the accolades and riches of which I was once so proud, have become insignificant with my imminent death.
In the dark, when I look at green lights, of the equipment for artificial respiration and feel the buzz of their mechanical sounds, I can feel the breath of my approaching death looming over me.
Only now do I understand that once you accumulate enough money for the rest of your life, you have to pursue objectives that are not related to wealth.
It should be something more important:
For example, stories of love, art, dreams of my childhood.
No, stop pursuing wealth, it can only make a person into a twisted being, just like me.”…

See,
there you go,
don’t say I didn’t tell you so,
still you hear the final words of a billionaire and you say “Who cares?”,

and that is actually a serious question,
who cares?

Too busy trying to find fake treasure on Pokemon Go or read the latest news,
it seems all those apples and androids have made you apathetic,
in the Garden of Electronic Eden the internet has replaced intense ***,
no open markets on weekdays just items on eBay our  sympathy is synthetic,

so we don’t feel the vibration of our brothers we just feel the vibration of our phones,

see the more connected we get to the virtual world the less connected we get to the actual world,

and I’m having a melt down witnessing everyone on their cell phones,
and I want to find a reason to believe in but I feel we’re all lost without a home,

maybe I need Jesus,
what the fck,
wait,
Jesus has nothing to do with this,

new addiction to screens phones are the new crack,
cracked screens from dropping your phone gives you a minor heart attack,
oh how attractive cancer seems when it’s attractively wrapped,
in the form of an impersonal personalized phone case crass is the new black,

what the fck,
totally stuck,
mind fckt and ******,
into that little cancer causing PDA that you hold in your hot little hand,

look up look up!

You are alive in a body on this beautiful land.

There’s a whole world out there,
please find someone to get to know and love,
because there’s probably someone right next to you right now,
that’s willing to give you their all you just have to set the phone down and look up!

If you’d only just look up!

But,
you’re don’t see them because you’re too busy playing Pokemon Go,

I know,
we’re part of a 1st World society,
and we play our part by being passively compliant,
in order to be an accessory to our country’s atrocities,

as we get dressed up with the latest techno accessories,

I know,
you don’t want to think about it too much,
because then you might feel guilty,
so you keep your head down like you’re mourning,

you stay on your phone,
because it’s easier to simply not feel,
won’t even make eye contact,
because you’ve been conditioned to fear anything that’s actually real,

insecure and scared of the unknown,
even though it’s the things that we’re most comfortable that usually **** us,
cars cigarettes alcohol cell phones,
I’m telling you addiction to technology is a serious illness,

as we all begin to decay into a mediated mental illness….

Do you even remember what you did on your phone yesterday,
do you even remember what the last time you felt real emotions,
do you even remember the last time you did anything to help the world,
what is there left to believe in when nothing feels right?

Feels like,
we are losing touch with everything that makes us human,
emotions experienced in artistic expressions are leaving,
we have no attention span and cyborg robots do the thinking,

as we steadily slip into an android abyss please remember this,

I Love You,

and that scares you when I tell you like all real emotions scare you,
and then I tell you I want to take that phone you hold and throw it into the ocean,
and you finally look up from your phone stare me in the eyes and say, “I dare you.”,

like you’re defending your phone as if it’s a part of you,
like you’d hate a fellow human for destroying an inanimate object,
because when we’ve lost all emotions only hatred will be lingering,
but I’ll take hatred if that’s all that’s left,

Jesus,
what the fck,
wait, ∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Jesus has nothing to do with this,

and I’m the biggest hypocrite,
because I say all this about technology,
but I’m writing these words here on this laptop,
and offering no apologies,

maybe I’ll really realize,
when I’m about to be gone,
alone on that death bed with my millions,
quoting the last words of Mr. Steve Jobs,

“Stop pursuing wealth, it can only make a person into a twisted being, just like me…”
“Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow…”,

can you here me now?

No you probably still don’t hear me,
because you’re likely on your phone even right now…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Your reality check is in the mail...
EmperorOfMine Sep 2018
You may rip a paper heart
And it may solve your problem too
Or watch the water come and start
To drench it till water falls through
As birds may fly into the sky
or dive into the dancing sea
Don't ever try to clip their wings
Unless you know what that will mean
You selfish little waterbug
Come to collect it all for you
Or get crushed under someone's heel
Watch your life underneath their shoe
Till death may do you ever part
Sons cursed to fake their every kiss
Left lonely and without a heart
Sociopathic son of a witch
Mikaila Apr 2017
We need to talk about how we treat one another like trash in this generation. Because it's toxic.
There's this pattern, and I've talked about it before. We treat one another like objects. Like people are disposible. It's absolutely revolting, and the thing is, ALMOST EVERYBODY DOES IT. Even people who are kind, even people with decent intentions. Why? Because it's easy. We grow up in a society of instant gratification and endless options. And we've begun to SHOP for people. It's sickening. The other side of this is that our generation has romanticized being emotionless SO much that we've forgotten how to forge real connections.
Put simply, we are cowardly.
I see it time and again. I try never to imitate it. It BAFFLES me that we can see each other the way we do- we search for a partner, but we dehumanize them before we even truly connect with them. Because it's easy. I don't understand how you can look at someone and not remember they're a person, but people do it. Behind that text you didn't answer because you are bored, is A WHOLE PERSON. Behind the screens, THERE ARE PEOPLE. How did we get to a point where we could look into another person's eyes and FORGET that they are a miracle? If you feel something for someone, here's a revolutionary concept: why don't you try recalling that there has never been and will never be another being like them. Ever. Try counting how many different events had to spontaneously align just for them to even exist, never mind for you to have met and spoken to and started to connect with them. Try looking at their messages and understanding, for once, that behind that screen of generic emojis there are eyes full of fear and doubt and joy and humanity, and that behind those eyes there is a soul, putting itself on the line to try and reach you. How have we gotten to a point where we just use each other and then let the connection we both worked on slip through our fingers like a bottle into a trashcan? I've been treated like this a hundred times, and I've never gotten used to it. It became hard, at the worst of times, to avoid treating MYSELF like this. But the thing is, whether or not you take this nauseatingly pragmatic and sterilized view of other people, someday you will all be deeply hurting, and deeply alone, and you will reach for someone and pray to find a connection. And it's up to you whether you create a world in which those connections are even possible, whether they're valued, whether at that moment you will be able to expect to find comfort, or expect to be ignored like the annoying text tone they have unwittingly replaced your name with in their heads. ******* shape up. I'm serious. I refuse to live and love in a world where Instagram is more important than me, where showing the world you're doing great outweighs finding happiness, where relationships are played like candy crush games with Russian roulette stakes. I'm not doing it. And you shouldn't either. You exist. You're a human being. You deserve to be acknowledged, not put back on a shelf like a defective box of coffee filters. And so does every other ******* person you know. I don't even mean just the people you love. I mean people. Because they're PEOPLE. If you can't handle the pressure of having someone care about you and talk to you, then grow some ******* ***** and tell them. Make it clear that you will not be giving them your full attention, or any, if that's your choice. Make it clear that you are incapable of connecting on a deep level, so that people who are not yet damaged beyond the point of no return won't have you to thank for their suffering. Nowadays we end relationships over text. And that's if they MATTER. If they don't, we just fall off the face of the earth and leave the other person, whose name we have replaced with an annoying text tone and a flashing light on our phone, to stew in their uncertainty. Sometimes for years. I'll tell you right now, if you think that's somehow "kinder" you are as stupid as you are cruel. Our generation has cultivated, between this attitude of blasé apathy and the idea that people are just products, a kind of casual cruelty. And I don't know about anyone else, but I believe that casually cruel is about the worst thing someone can be. It gives no responsibility, you never have to look at what you've done, and you walk around in a sociopathic haze, leaving the broken hearts of the people you have destroyed inside in your wake. Let me tell you, **** our attitude, **** our casual dismissal of other human beings. I swear to god, scream at me, make me cry, be ******* honest about who you are and what you want, but strap me to a chair and peel off my fingernails before you ignore my humanity like that.
Akela Santana Dec 2014
This is not a poem.....
I'm not going to talk to you about some girl or some boy who broke my heart. I'm not going to talk to you about the effects of falling in love or the downward spiral that connects depression and mental illnesses. No.

Cause this is not a poem.
This is not a poem because it lacks lucid emotion like a sociopathic lover, who just wants you for ***. This has no meaning.        

This is not a poem because poems are weak and for the ill of mind, the people that need a release before relapse FOR **** SAKES.....

This is not a poem because God ****** if it was, you wouldn't want to read it.
Sorry if this makes no sense. I haven't written in a bit.

I've had a lot of **** on my mind.
JDK May 2014
Is it sad that I think you may be all I've ever had?
Does it make you mad when I feel like I couldn't give two *****?
I've only ever just been living my life.
Sometimes I have a hard time of it.

Is it tragic that I know we won't make it together?
Is it sociopathic of me to mention it?
I want everything or nothing from you.
You make me feel conflicted.

In the resulting twisting mental state, I find something compelling.
I like how you press me for the answers,
though I'm not one for telling.

If you only knew the impact that you have on all my dreams.
It's the discrepancies of our feelings that makes me hold it back.
If you ever make the mistake of giving me a chance,
I swear,
I'd give you a heart attack.
Aaron LaLux Nov 2016
Lights camera action,
who’s up next,
politician,
or dumbsh!t pundit?

Oh I see,
everybody’s an expert,
man these candidates have switched sides so many times,
watching them flip-flop this much makes my neck hurt!

Candidate’s wearing make-up,
if you ask me it’s all a cover-up,
blemishes on their records,
when’s enough actually enough,

on stages,
synthetic sages make up stories,
while the police keep stuffing us into cages,
and the politicians keep talking about reclaiming America’s lost glory.

America’s lost glory what glory,
the one about us bombing innocents or the one about slaves,
well if that’s the glory then it’s not lost,
because the US still bombs innocents and pays most people a slave wage.

It’s fckn depressing,
these pop-star presidents,
jockeying for position,
just for a chance at a White House residence.

On a stage,
it’s a sad charade,
all these bad actors,
pointing fingers trying to shift the blame,

laaaaaame!

All they do is talk different when in front of a mic,
but behind closed doors they all act the same,
different costumes different connotations maybe,
but really there’s no significant difference because there’s no significant change.

It’s an act a sham a show,
pop star presidents hip hop rock and roll,
Barack stars sing about change without any evidence,
if you ask me they’ve all gotta go,

and this election year is no better,
if anything it’s worse,
you’ve got Hillary Clinton AKA Barack Light,
and of course running is another Bush,
then there’s Donald Trump,
who’s legitimately probably the Anti-Christ,
he’s a racist sexist selfish sociopathic narcissist,
he doesn’t want to debate anything he just wants to fight.

But what about Bernie Sanders,
people ask, “Are you feeling the Bern?”,
I mean the guy’s a 74 year old career politician socialist,
he’s gonna try and take half of everything I earn.

Sure,
I’d vote for him I guess,
outta desperation only,
because maybe it’d take someone that extreme to get us outta this mess,
but honestly he’s a bumble bee,
poking at the hornet’s nest,
I’d bet if he becomes a real threat to the one Corporate Establishent want’s to elect,
that the speech where he accepts ends with one of his last breaths.

Yup.

America the beautiful,
when’d you become such a bully,
you used to be my best friend,
but now you act like you don’t even know me,
you’re blood lust is revolting,
why’s your answer to everything violence,
and how can you say you speak for the people,
when most of the people are so fed up they just shut up and stay silent,

and even if we do get out and vote,
these days our votes aren’t even counted what gives,
what you think it’s just a coincidence,
that almost every state Hilary won was accused of being rigged?

I feel sick.

This political pile of tricks politics seems like a pile of ****t,
and the media’s forcing it down our throat,
I mean really what are we supposed to do,
when those that feel outcasted can’t even get the system to count their cast votes.

So I take notes.

And I write.

I write,
all of this with typing hands and a shaking head,
because I want a leader I can truly trust and believe in,
instead of some actor that can’t be trusted no matter what they’ve said.

Red,
state,
blue,
state,
red,
fish,
blue,
fish,

I’m not a Jew,
I’m only half so I’m Jew-ish,
and I’m not trying to be rude,
or to sound too prudish,
it’s just,
the history of half my people,
is filled with those that want to ***** us,
so the bait and switch poli-tricks these politicians politic,
well they’re Grand Old Party is nothing new to us.

Who to trust,
who to trust,
we’re tired of feeling like Lewinsky,
giving oral to the Oval Office and getting nothing back but fckt.

Fck.

When is enough enough,
no is supposed to mean no,
but we get it no **** on the ****** tube,
***; Slave & Master we’re all Lady Liberty’s ******* so on with the show!

Lights camera action,
who’s up next,
politician,
or dumbsh!t pundit?

Oh I see,
everybody’s an expert,
man these candidates have switched sides so many times,
watching them flip-flop this much makes my neck hurt.

Candidate’s wearing make-up,
if you ask me it’s all a cover-up,
blemishes on their records,
when’s enough actually enough?

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

The Holy Trilogy Vol. 1; 11/11/16
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N3QR3E4
Mike Essig Nov 2016
An obvious homage to AG*

America it is time for an update.
I am still sick of your insane demands,
just shut up and try to listen.
America, it's 4 AM. November 5th, 2016
and you have become a shambling giant
crushing us all as you stumble on.
America we have come to a parting of the ways.
America your founding fathers
were rich white men who sold their truths
for power and then ***** their slaves
and whipped the People into shape.
America Clinton and Trump
really are the best you have to offer.
America I am voting NO!
I no longer accept your vicious lies.
The Wobblies and anarchists were right.
To rise from the ashes something
must first burn and die.
America I am holding a Zippo.
America I am thinking about you.
Your cities are scoured by ******;
your heartland drenched in ****.
Your jails overflow with potheads.
Your police have become assassins
who cry like little girls
when their victims shoot back.
Your banks have stolen
all the money in the world
yet I am broke as usual.
In the 60s I actually thought
there was some hope of redemption.
Youth and drugs create such illusions.
Now I live alone with a sociopathic cat.
My friends are dead or scattered.
I am a poet in a country that can't read.
America your brainwashed minions
stare into their TVs, awaiting further orders.
America I don’t own a TV.
America we are well and truly ******.
America once I fought a war for you.
I would never do that again.
America you have turned your guns on hope
and devoured it, feathers and all.
Now that is a Thanksgiving dinner.
America don't you ever weary
of eating your citizens' dreams?
America let me get to my angry point.
I am declaring my independence from you.
I am in you but not of you.
Stick your baubles up your ***.
You have enough slaves. You don't need me.
So long America. I gave you an honest chance.
America, don't call me, I'll call you.
Cassie Stoddard Mar 2014
Do they all leave or do I push them?
I say that nobody is dependable that all go at some point.
Look at me.
My mom, an abusive sociopathic ***** and my dad, a narcissistic drunk.
No wonder my love life is sour.
No wonder I don't trust.
I'd rather **** and be done then love and be hurt.
Betrayal.
Do you think it's possible that I'll ever love and not be hurt?
Do I betray others?
I told him. Jordan. I told him at the beginning about me. About how everybody leaves and it's because of me.
But he gave me pinkie promises and listened to me when I cried.
And I maybe lost my virginity to him. And we spent most nights of our year plus relationship together. And then my mom skipped town and he broke up with me.
Why did you guys leave?
I'll be better. I promise. I promise. *******. I promise. Please please please please.  
And I pulled a razor against my skin and I had been good for so long.
Guess I betrayed myself too.
I have the word **** on my wrist. It used to say love.
But that left too.
Nameless Sep 2014
Hi. I'm human.

I make a lot of mistakes.

I'm hard-headed.

Assumptious.

Emotional.

Human.

I say things I don't mean,

And I mean things that I don't say.

I'm very curious., yet I fear the unknown.

I display all of my vices and conceal all of my virtues.

I get in my own way.

I'm human.

I am very unique, yet completely ordinary.

I lose interest in things quickly,

Yet stick with others 'til the end.

I'm loyal, yet promiscuous.

I want it all, but I'm happy where I am.

I'm quick to love amd slow to hate.

Well... Most of the time.

I am shoot first and ask questions later.

Well... sometimes.

I believe that there is a being greater than I.

And, no, I don't mean Beyonce.

I believe that science s a way to explain religion.

I believe in magic.

I'm Human.

I'm a bit sociopathic,,,

A bit crazed...

A bit depressed...

...but still lovable.

I'm very lonely,

but prideful and independent.

I'm desperate for love and need a good hug.

I'm human.

I'm stressed about the small things and

Lax about the big.

I set goals I never work towards,

And pass up opportunities that were thrown at me.

I stand up for what I believe-

Even if it's just in my imagination.

I want to fit in.

I want to stand out.

I'm a walking contradiction.

I'm human.

I have been stripped of my innocence and ****** into the real world.

I am given questions that I cannot answer.

I am given choices that aren't mine to decide.

I work through the hard times,

And pray for rain.

I have little faith in myself, though I would support my kin to the end.

I detest the atrocities of life,

And then add to their fuel.

But, I'm human.

I submerge myself in material things so that I don't have to face the terror that is our Earth.

Not the Earth of nature,

But the Earth of OUR creation.

I do stupid things, and ignorantly stand by them.

I do smart things, and stupidly apologize for them.

I have attitude-

PLENTY of it-

But maybe not the right type.

I'm human.

I defy the laws I have created.

I live to die.

Sunrise to Sunset.

I am NOT infinite.,,

,,,

,,,

,, ,And that scares me.

Because i'm human,

I am not limitless.

I push my own boundaries,

And orance on the border of sanity.

And

I

Love

It.

I'm human.

So my lies come easy but my truths are hard.

I'm scared of the dark,

Since it screams the truth.

I embrace thelight and oush the unwanted into it's shadows.

I want life to be eventful,

but I don't ever wanna lesve my bed.

I laugh.

I cry.

And panic.

And rejoice.

Bacause I am human.

100% ****-sapien.

And this. Is. Me,
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
In the wake of innocence, I am left gaping with stupor at the threshold of pragmatism. I am fascinated by a hallway rather than its occupants. Its geometry tells me different facets of flying stories, while my human congeners remain hollow.
I am planning out my period of visibility and retaining prudence with my pondering of obsolescence. The inflection of my youth is becoming more contrived and unsatisfactory. I am continually outracing it.
I wish to fight for the Fatherland. Death is not my loss, that is becoming excruciatingly clear. I dream of marching in the air of sociopathic freedom. My brain longs for an ashen visage and valiant, black boots.
       Oh, I long for iron and purpose. I crave the sight of a united race, an insurmountable stature. I want to touch Caesar. Only the dead sympathize with me, for they know what it is like to be cruel and subsequently, obsolete.
       I do not want to ****. I want to fight and be a tool. An instillation of might. I want to be within a collective heel.
B Jun 2014
When someone says "I love you"
I struggle to believe it, regardless of sincerity
A year ago I should've shoved a rifle down your throat
and shot the insanity out of your stomach
I would have covered a bullet in my lipstick
and left it in your skull,
You always thought I couldn't get into your head.

Love's not a weapon
and I'd never use it as one like you did
but hate is, and I hang my loathing for you
in an expensive frame on the wall
I'm proud to display your irrelevancy and sociopathic tendencies like an art gallery
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2022
promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:


                  •


                    •
      •



           •


    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.


as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i knew robert, he used to make clean cuts of newspapers without licking the edges, oh let's not play that game of targeting the word as a misnomer when it's an umbrella for the technicalities: the horror happens with the third child, the second child shows signs of weakness, anaemic or lisp tongue, the third child is the parents' mistake... i was the first and the last, Chernobyl hit me as a foetus, no can do, national socialism was accepted freely, the castration of women. me, now? i'm living out a pseudo-Stalinist plot-line in democracy, democracy dilutes despotism, because democracy believes in the great number of despots, but doesn't own up to it, it's not one singular person to mind, democracy has despotism inherent in it without iconoclasm... they loath en masse cult-lie practices in politics, dis-inhibited concerning one person, they pretend to be vultures, they congregate in the house of commons and say the dictator does not exist, but hell he does, he's only so abstract he doesn't have a body, but the thought is pervasive, it's a thought cloning device - well hey hey! science fiction! that'll topple Jane Austen's sensibilities, won't it?! well the plot is: as a former satellite state inhabitant and knower of a man experienced in the party propaganda i'm reliving it all in england... the "defender" of democracy... more like a sociopathic advert for a detergent - bop boo ya.

so this x-files episode from season 1, episode 23...
we'll mind that in a minute... based on the re-interpretation
of the acronym i.q. -
capitalism has just lost its scouts, the advertisers,
technology cheated them,
i got live t.v. and recorded t.v. -
ha ha... i can basically record something
and skip the adverts - magic -
interludes, ******* a ***** and pulling
out and not ******* - delayed?
no, just censored sensations of the muscle -
capitalism's crutch, the advertising mechanism
is long gone, how are they going to penetrate
the bypass on t.v.? those 3 minute interludes
are just seen at speeds x30 so for me to enjoy the
program... yes, the nationally televised
was courteous enough to let you enjoy
the whole show without adverts -
the private always seem to be the young
interrupting the old, unthinking *******
to mind respect, well, here you go...
x30 sprinting past your efforts - i need to be
thinking about the plot, not a *******
cleaning detergent or the migration of wildebeest
in africa, no thank you, take your charity
soup of tears elsewhere, i like to salt mine
to my own gusto -
a repressed storage i call it, there's a theory
in physics akin to this psychological theory:
the, big, bang - bangs in vacuum though?
a red herring? i'm sure -
but guess what, from my library the only
book i like rereading is *r.d. laing's

the politics of experience and the bird of paradise,
scout's honour, the only book i reread
within the framework of snippets, and i'm all
candy after re-reading it -
but yeah, this season 1 episode 23 -
the i.q. question:
intelligence                 is left                intact
what's challenged is the q.,
i.e.                     quotient                -
transcending into a different grammatical make-up,
i.e.                        quantity             - the        t,
the quantity of reproductive intelligence,
well geniuses are about as numerous as thieves -
both are intelligent, only the former delves in
paperwork -
so the other i.q.                            quality    related,
qualifier -                             why inspect a
quotient on a non-qualifier?
                                   well, he's already presupposed
as intelligent, no matter if Einstein 150 :
                     master & blaster (70) -
but he's still qualified as intelligent, although
at a parallel - the less useful, the more unique -
so there's

i.q. no. 1           -      intelligent by the expected quantity
                                 reflecting eugenic success -

and there's...

i.q. no. 2           - intelligent by a phenomenal quality
                            reflecting eugenic anomalies -
                          
mutation with the latter, coherence with the former...
oh come on, after being fed rigid science,
those little electron orbits in emblem of nuclear
power plants with a nucleus to later learn
that these orbits don't actually exist
because electron ontology is based on spontaneously
appearing and disappearing clouds -
much like psychology: negative thoughts,
no thoughts, positive thoughts -
the pure proton as the cartesian
i am, the pure electron as the cartesian i think
and the pure neutron as the cartesian therefore,
but see the ambiguity of the neutron?
it's inconclusive, which side will win?
well, the answer is neutral - because the two sequences
are in a stance of un-resolvable co-, i.e. coexistence -
indeed the atomists invaded solipsism
that matched up to the psychological theatricals
of theories surrounding the ego - a courtesan
of protons, neutrons and electrons, a natural at it.
Tina Kay Grant Mar 2014
The angel has gone black
The one that stays by my side is now reluctantly trudging along
all because of me

The angel has given up
I am the poisonous, grey smoke she breathes in
Turning her mouth black

The angel has had enough
My sociopathic ways are to blame for the destruction of the indestructible

The angel didn't listen
I told her long ago that I'd burden her
Like I did mother
Mother gave me up, but It wasn't her fault
It's mine
It's irrefutable

And if she reads this poem, she'll feel I'm trying to make her feel guilty about her feelings, oh angel, why did you take me in?
It didn't do good for anyone

Doesn't she feel I'm the poison
that leads people to their demise?

You should let me be alone, angel
Protect yourself from me
Protect me from the feeling of guilt when you say you're suicidal

I beg and plead for you to let me go
I only do bad for you
you love me, I love you
but I do bad for you
I do bad for you
I do bad for you
I DO BAD FOR YOU

Everywhere I go, anything I do
I do bad for you

You tell me that I don't care
but, I don't care about anyone
or anything
not even myself

the angel has done black but she'll never leave my side, no matter how black she is

I'm going to have to live with guilt forever
The guilt of apathy
Horrible, uncontrollable apathy.
this poem is very close to my heart
Martin Rombach Mar 2016
You think you've got what it takes green man
You're short
You're weak, your strength is only a year old
And you've been pampered by the melanin in your skin and the love around you
You think you can understand what adversity means?
The few tests of masculinity you ******* paid for left you tense and fearful when the weapons were made of plastic
When reality was there to test you, the words you should have fought against you let slide like a *****

You think you deserve a right to fight?
You may desire it, but you are too small and too stupid to fight for anything in this world
And what you desire to fight for is muddied in hypocrisy
Because democracy is built on blood and sin
A world of wolves ****** each other with claws and ***** for sheep like you
When you sheep wander into our battleground, you bleed better than us
With tears and families and a lack of skin that Darwin fought the churches to emphasise
The stupid and the sociopathic know our fight the best
Because they accept the simple truth we give them, or are willing to profit from the lie
But you just men, sheep who give up and wolves who die
You can't keep up with this

What do I say to all that?
To our history that is so muddied in the darkest greys
Bloodiest battles fought continously, so I can live under laws that I don't agree with
As much as they let me do what I want to do

I have to take the coward's way out, and defend my tribes in my ***** *** deluded little way
And despite every need to be carved out of stone as a man who is too soft to fight as hard as he wants to
That fight doesn't exist
And if it did
It wouldn't need me
Jeffrey Robin Apr 2016
.



the day bends

::

Hey look !

The SOLDIER BOYS !

)(

Our foolish HEROES !

destroying themselves

To feed the rich man's greed

••

••

••

soon

So very soon

The wars shall begin

••
••

Out along the country road

Who goes there ?

does he have the Proper Papers ?

will he be shot down ?

::::

Behind the bar

Another ****

)(

another poem shall be written

||

She was quite a lover too !



( she said )

)(

( she was so SINCERE ! )

::

Another lost story

---

The real has been replaced by our

Sociopathic worship of our own weaknesses

as we try to numb ourselves and

Still survive



There is so little of us

We are hardly known at all

)(

even though she has been ***** and killed

Her ghost still roams the alleyways

Telling the children

PAIN IS GOOD !

)(

She shall become a goddess and

Attain

IMMORTALITY

::

She will write poems about it

Which will be emulated

In

True

COOKIE CUTTER

style

By all the boys and girls

Of hello poetry

Who  , too

Are lost and afraid

IT WILL BE UGLY

::;

thoughts of reality

Float around

But nary a living person

To be found



.

— The End —