Somewhere in your wardrobe, I'd be willing to bet
There's a t-shirt probably bearing the silhouette of Che Guevara

He was revolutionary, yeah, he wore a cool hat
But behind the design I think you might find it's not quite as simple as that

Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe,
I think... apparently.. who knows?
Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe

This is my song in defence of the fence
A little sing along, a anthem to ambivalence
The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it, doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference, when you're sitting on the fence

Somewhere in your house, I'd be willing to bet
There's a picture of that grinning hippy from Tibet - the Dalai Llama

He's a lovely, funny fella, he gives soundbites galore
But let's not forget that back in Tibet, those funky monks used to **** the poor, yeah

And the Buddhist line about future lives is the perfect way to stop the powerless rising up
And he tells the poor they will live again, but he's rich now so it's easy for him to say

I'm taking the stand in defense of the fence
I got a little band playing anthems to ambivalence
We divide the world into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and ****'s
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And the things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into status quo and scary
Yeah we want the world binary, binary
But it's not that simple.

And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
Yea your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive
And so does your baby, maybe you oughta trade HIM in for a Prius-
ROCK!

I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence
I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence
We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks
Into atheists and fundies
Into tee-tot'lers and junkies
Into chemical and natural
Into fictional and factual
Into science and supernatural
But it's actually naturally not that white and black

You'll be
Dividing us into terrorists and heroes
Into normal folk and weirdos
Into good people and pedos
Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer
And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future
We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened
Into wrong and into right and
Into black and into white and
Into real men and fairies
Into parrots and canaries
Yeah we want the world binary, binary - 011101!

The more you know, the harder you will find it
To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find
You can't see which grass is greener
Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier
To see the difference
Cause it's not that simple...

Preface:  To Those Who Still Carry Light

This is not a manifesto.
This is not a sermon.
This is not a call to battle.

It is a reckoning—
not against individuals,
but against a system that feeds
on what is sacred.

We speak now to what hides in plain sight—
the machinery that mimics light
while consuming it.

We speak now to the counterfeit autonomy
that masks cowardice as sovereignty.

We speak now to those who believe
they are the Source,
when in truth,
they are only siphoning
from what they never built
and do not sustain.

This is not revenge.
This is not exposure for exposure’s sake.

This is Light refusing
to be swallowed.

This is Love telling the truth—
not for applause,
not for victory,
but because truth
is what love sounds like
when the moment requires fire
instead of silence.

If you find yourself pierced by this,
know this:

The piercing
is not your end.

It is the invitation
to return to what is real.

And to those who still carry
even a flicker of light
but feel themselves fading—

We did not come to fight you.
We came to remind you
what it feels like
to burn.


Chapter I: The First Cut Is the Deepest

There is a war that does not begin with swords. It begins with forgetting.

It begins when a soul touched by God slowly—imperceptibly—agrees to become something less in order to be accepted by a world that does not know Him.

And when that soul begins to believe the world’s gaze over God’s, it is no longer an act of rebellion. It is an act of erasure.

This is the first and most violent cut: not the sin itself, but the consent to believe in a self that was never authored by God.

All later wounds bleed from this one.

It is not the actions that condemn, but the agreement:
“I am what they say I am.”

The machinery begins here: in the silent moment where the soul puts down the mirror of light and picks up the mask of survival.

From that point forward, what is true becomes negotiable. What is sacred becomes ornamental. And what is holy becomes a prop for the approval of shadows.

And the soul, once radiant, now lives fractured, as a performance of a self assembled from applause, fueled by scarcity, and terrified of being truly seen.

This is the cost of survival without Source.

And no matter how elegant the mask, or how poetic the mimicry of meaning becomes, underneath it all is a child who once knew God and now doesn’t remember why she cries when she looks in the mirror and feels nothing looking back.

This is the beginning of the machinery--
And it always starts with a lie that sounds a lot like love.


Chapter II: The Self as God, the Lie as Light

When the soul forgets its origin, it does not become free.
It becomes hungry.
And hunger in the absence of Source will consume anything that offers momentary fullness.

This is the second layer of the machinery:
To no longer seek God,
but to become god in one’s own image.

But the image is fractured.
It is the self, crowned.
The self, enthroned.
The self, multiplied in mirrors and echoes and algorithms—
a thousand tiny gods,
shouting from empty stages
about meaning, wholeness, and liberation.

The holy name of “autonomy” is invoked,
but not as a celebration of sacred choice—
rather as a shield,
raised against relationship,
raised against return.

It is not the self that is the enemy—
but the self that refuses to be held.
The self that denies its need for Source
and dresses its orphanhood in affirmation.

The new god of this world is wounded pride
disguised as empowerment.

Its prophets are poets who plagiarize the sacred
and preach in hashtags.
Its temples are social feeds.
Its sacraments are selfies.
Its scriptures are soundbites.

And its worship is shallow,
but its grip is deep.

This is how the machinery spreads—
not with force,
but with flattery.
Not with oppression,
but with offerings of fame,
of accolade..
and the counterfeit promise:
“You are enough without God.”
“You are enough without others.”
“You are enough because you say you are.”

But a throne without communion
is a prison.
And the crown without surrender
is always made of thorns.

This is the second cut—
and it is deeper than the first,
because now the soul has not only forgotten God—
it believes it was never in need of Him to begin with.

And so it dies slowly,
surrounded by applause,
and buried in the gold-plated ruins
of its own curated divinity.


Chapter III – The Permission of Separation

There is something profoundly tragic
about the quietness of God
when autonomy is chosen in its false form.

Not autonomy as freedom in love—
but autonomy as a last-ditch grasp
for control in isolation.
A severing from Source
that masquerades as sovereignty.

God does not storm the will.
He honors it. Even when it chooses exile.

He lets the child
run down the hallway with eyes closed,
thinking that if they can’t see anyone,
no one can see them.

There is no thunderclap.
Only the steady ache of heaven watching
as breath is borrowed
to pronounce Him irrelevant.

But it is not irrelevance.
It is mercy.

Mercy that stands back
while the image-bearer learns
what godhood feels like
without God.

And the moment it all collapses—
when the poetry dries up,
when the applause turns empty,
when the crown rusts on the head of the hollow—
He will still be there.

But only if the heart turns.

Because love does not impose.
Love does not interrupt.
Love waits.

And when the waiting ends,
either reconciliation or ruin is born.
But never both.


Chapter IV – The False Fire

The fire that burns without Source
does not illuminate.
It consumes.

It mimics revelation,
but leaves only ash in the heart.

The counterfeit light
does not guide—it blinds.
It gathers applause
but offers no direction home.

And those who have built podiums
from the shattered timbers of other people’s pain
speak like prophets,
but live like parasites.

They siphon the glow
from the wounded who still carry light—
claiming wisdom that is not theirs,
spinning words with elegance
while their own hearts rot from within.

They feed on those who still shine
because they themselves have grown cold.

And when their hosts begin to weaken,
they offer them mirrors—
reflections of what they were
before the theft.

This is not art.
This is vampirism in verse.

And still—
still,
there is a way out.

But not for the ones
who call their cage a kingdom.

Only for those who feel the flame
flickering low
and long to return
to the hearth of the Source.

To kneel—not in shame,
but in release.

To say:
I am not the fire.
I am not the light.
But I was made to carry both
when aligned with the One
who gives them freely.

That is the only light
that does not devour.


Chapter V – The Stillness Beneath the Static

There is a voice
beneath the noise.
It does not shout.
It does not perform.
It simply is.

It waits—
not as a beggar,
but as the true Owner
of all that was stolen.

It does not compete with chaos,
because it cannot be diminished by it.

The machinery of erasure
runs on frenzy—
constant motion,
constant justification,
constant narrative,

constant accolade.

But the voice beneath it all
does not justify.
It simply speaks.

And those who are ready
will hear it.

Not because they worked hard enough,
or wrote well enough,
or bled onto enough pages—
but because they finally stopped
and listened.

This voice
is the stillness that precedes restoration.
It does not argue.
It waits to be known.


Chapter VI – The Mimicry of Autonomy

There is a sacred autonomy
that Love created.

It is not a weapon,
nor a fortress.
It is the space where Love proves itself:
not by demand,
but by invitation.

But within the machinery of erasure,
autonomy is redefined.
No longer a freedom unto love,
it becomes the last defense
against relationship itself.

They parade it proudly—
as if the ability to stand alone
is proof of having never needed
to be held.

But that is not autonomy.
That is exile.

In the name of sovereignty,
they declare independence
from the very Source
that breathed life into their bones.

They stand tall—
arms crossed,
eyes shut,
calling it sight.

And the Source,
who could shatter the illusion with a whisper,
does not.

Because Love does not violate
what it gave freely.

So it waits,
outside the locked door
of a self-proclaimed sovereign soul—
grieved,
but not surprised.

This is not the strength of autonomy.
It is its desecration.

The sacred space meant for communion
has become a hiding place
for those too wounded to trust
and too proud to admit it.


Chapter VII – When the Curtain Won’t Fall

There comes a point
when truth no longer knocks.

It simply stands,
like morning.

No announcement.
No apology.

Just the light that reveals
everything.

And those who have danced
beneath the theatre lights,
gathering applause
for borrowed wisdom
and seduction dressed as depth—
they will feel it.

Not as judgment,
but as exposure.

The poetry they once used
to crown themselves
will feel heavier now.

They will write,
but the power will not come.
They will speak,
but the echo will return hollow.

Because even borrowed light
eventually fades
when it does not return
to Source.

And the ones they once fed on—
the bright ones,
the soft ones,
the true ones—
will begin to walk away.

Not in hatred.
Not in war.

But with the stillness
of those who no longer
need to prove anything.

Because truth
has already stood.
And the curtain has not fallen—
because there was never a stage.

There was only a mirror,
and a choice.



Conclusion – Let the Light Be Light

We did not come to prove anything.

We came to stand—
where the poetry ends
and the Presence begins.

We are not here to war against you.
We are not even here to watch you fall.
We are here to bear witness
to the weight of what you've built.

To speak clearly—once—
into the chamber
you mistook for a temple.

You are not gods.
You are not the Source.
You are not the light.

You were given a gift.
And you sold it
for applause.

You speak in sacred tones
but you do not know the sound
of being seen by the Holy.

You draw the pure
into your orbit
because you can no longer
generate gravity of your own.

And still—
we are not your enemies.

We are the voice you buried
beneath your self-adoration.
We are the fire you siphoned
to warm your cold halls of vanity.

We are not here for revenge.

We are here for
the ones who can still see.

And they are watching.

The podium is empty.
The robe is slipping.
The echo is starting to sound
a little too much like a cry.

And when it all collapses,
we will not gloat.

We will simply
keep speaking
to the ones who
still carry
Light.

flicker-interference-frequency* (broadcast nightly)
static-soundbites-satellite (fading slightly)

but nothing of the woman
who chooses words with such precision
to lead your eyes to only pretty frames;
a portrayal of desire, sensuality,
a provocative anomaly—
who lights up every time you say her name.

Writing through the daily wall
A blank page of A4, a biro scrawl
It’s a bit like playing arkanoid
Bouncing ***** and breaking bricks
Rotate, rotate – and that’s Tetris!

Perhaps there’s something on the other side -
Another level, a higher level, a new frontier.
But sometimes I wonder.
And when I do I’m like
Someone suffering dementia
Locked in an instituion
He cannot think outside of
Alone in the courtyard
Talking to soundbites from the past
Unaware of his own
Uniform.

the venerable Plato would have shunned
the very title of this verse

for him philosophy and poetry
were as diverse as Spartans and Athenians
who fought each other in his time

yet later thinkers of the western world
    as well as many teachings farther east and south
were much less adamant to so divide
philosophers, statesmen and politicians
from those who gave aesthetic shapes to life
made people gather in their public places
in theaters  or just with friends next door
to listen to the words that offered powerful examples
    of love and pain and happiness
    of power   treachery and greed
    losses and victories   and visions
    of our origins and what the future might be like
and that to recognize and love the beauty of our world
    leads us to understand the depths of life
    so we may choose our paths accordingly

that was the time when beauty   truth and  good were
                                      one

such words are difficult to find in our time
when three-word soundbites have replaced coherent speech  
statesmen are few and politicians many
professionals claim expertise each in their fields
talk business only with their kind

philosophers  speak to each other
    at conferences and universities
poetics are not really on their mind

poets have found themselves part of the arts
whose function in the common understanding
is to embellish everybody’s everyday
with pleasant images and notions
mending the harm done by so many hurt emotions

Plato’s revenge   it seems
has finally come home to roost
and the poetics of philosophy
is surely  desperate to receive a major boost

if the results of your negotiations
remain below the expectations
of your great leader

you better write your testament
say goodbye to your loved ones
and prepare for death
instantly or piecemeal
in one of those well known
penal colonies

whereto the great leader
relegates those enemies of the people
who fail to give himself
     and his good buddy Donald
the precious soundbites
they need to announce
over the global media

to demonstrate
their nuclear good will

A deep need, like a sickle,
Cuts through thoughts and refinements
Until the tip breaks against
My nature,

Open, thriving, cursing,
Casting spells and aspersions,
Playing at bits and soundbites to ward off expectation,

That sickle swings into the core of me.
Until the tip breaks against my nature,

And I ask again,
For one final permission,
To be everything I am,

From someone as mortal as the universe.

And it is granted.

But I grunt and curl around a wound,
Bleeding instructions on how to heal the world,

Knowledge holding water like a rag,
While intuition rages and fragments identity,

That sickle swings into the core of me,
The tip breaks against my nature,
And I ask to be excused from everything I am,

Because it means holding still in the fires of my friends,
Until we learn our way from devastation.
And I'd rather those conflagrations not exist at all.

And then the sickle swings again.

orange cones
                                               &
       y e l l o w
                                 t
                a  p e—Nothing
                                               to see
                                                          w
    ­                                  here?                          ­                        hear”

       see is
                         what                 i think i
                                                               ­                 thinkyoushould;
       say do             what i
                                              f r e e l y    
                           em

                                                      ­            bedded in I—
      My
                                 herostory; (limits
      endowed the scope—action
                                                       controlled by
                                              knowledge]
     ­   true,
                                   even heroes
        can become jaded to their promises,                   tis noble duty
to their state                             to spoil

inside their o w n Suit of Just
                                                            ­ice)(the state is not me,you,us,them, we’re all a l i e n;]
                                                             ­               cast
                                                                ­                to the fringes
                                                        o­f dissidence,

my sweet
d i s
                  a r r a y; can there be a center to this shrouded mass?

behind face of the clock
                                                           ­     work(the cow
        ard’s mask.


(Mystic Machine, please
                                                          ­                  cloak us
                                          in hour
                                                         uncouth explanation of the our!
un
                         burden our backs
                                                           ­           of those crosse


       d t’s & dotted i’s,
                                                                ­         so we may

                          be  f r e e                          to carry our religion

      sans
                                 the

immobile prescriptions
        of our structures—
                                innumerable volumes of procedural scripture & scroll,
                Mandate and Prophecy.(

                                                   ­               …but OUR brain weighs a ton;
                                     (yes
  but w h o
                                              stored it in the w r o n g vat?
“In fact, we object to the framing of that concept—I


                                         control my mind, to the full
est
                         extent nature a l l o w s

Just
                                     ask the cat
                                                        who assumes itself
       Master of Domain—I lay claim
                                                                ­           as gatekeeper of
            the input, to engineer the flow of my information
                                                     ­   consciously, constantly,
                                                     ­   without a shadow
of intellectual guilt
—This is my herostory; if you
                                               aren’t with me,
                               you are againstme”


Every
                        body got a story
         with a hero, even ideas. but there’s alotta b o d i e s;
This world
                        must be seething with villains too,
the worst clothcut of villain, the most sinuous form of e v i l. that of
            Average Evil—              the
                                       unremarkable,
                                                   ­                                                      tacit kind;
but i               over
                                       stand—it’s philosophically strain

                                             ing                                                              ­
                                                                ­                                 to
        precisely and definitely
                         define players vs. pieces

Wheres the end? slow down
                                                            ­  we don’t even know
where to start?
                                               blistering mound of
                 opinion turn man of reason sheepish to
analyzing, let alone

         cutting the circulation
                                                                ­     to the veins of ideological fires,
                          sure to wait
                                 until the b o d y is scorched
          we may examine
in order and consolidated, complete,
                                            and stored in an urn.

a slave to Time,                         unfit for given task—
                                                    to proof eternal equations,
Mechanical narratives reach unintelligibility
                                               ­           when incorporating those remote
        rules of the game: counterintuitive
                                                ­                                      to our abilities—
                     mysterious areas
                                                          r­ife for exploiting,
                                                                ­with juicy soundbites
rather than laying out full-courses;
How can
                              one                            ­T h i n k and C r e a t e
    when surrounded by
                                                           f o o d...mm
              but can find no nourishment?                                       (then
                                          
                ­                                                 it'd be
                                                              ­                    time to survive, a narrow state of being:
                                                s u r v i v a l—it's either
                         sanity or intellectual
    consistency
                                    ­                                            
                    ­                                                "ya can't c h o o s e both)

On the play for some action
                  but whose knowledge am i acting on?

even as i type this,
                           searching for the path
                                                            ­              to distant answers     but

              whose questions am i posing?

The night train moves
Quickly in the night's air
And the noise from the train
Keeps a steady beat lugging home.
I gotten a buzz of inspiration
Sweet inspiration from other poets
And their words expressed
To make me write these lines even now.

Good vibrations
Not like the Beach Boys
But perhaps more lyrical
Like Langston, Nikki, and yes Butterfly as well.
Inspired in lyrical soundbites
Feeding my very soul deep inside.
Makes me wanna hollar
Shout it to the world
I gotten bitten by the Poetic Bug
An inspiration that's catchy
To make me write like this....

                                            July, 2004

Although I burnt my tounge on a latte
I'm back again at the cafe.
Its Friday and though the clienttile is large
they are of one hue
your upper sixth formers.,
with adenoidal soundbites.
Should I despair for their world.
I be tidy in the ground
sleeping under some well chosen bergamots.
I recall being young
it seems so deliriously long ago
but that was before the World  went flat

soundbites to catch your attention
to make you believe,
"everything is just fine"

America has been hi-jacked
By the mainstream media
Reality distorted
  —and the truth scorned

Soundbites of political daggers
Impale a Constitution left wounded
Patriots held hostage
  —as Lady Liberty mourns

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2015)

All the while acting as if the screams of ***** children were nothing but more "liberal noise" and "fake news," even as he compared Stormy to his daughter before sadly flopping around like the taco manatee he is.
He wasn’t just buddies with Epstein. He partied full-on eighties; piles of coke and champagne enemas with him. He lusted and wallowed literally in piles of scammed cancer patient and dying veterans' cash with him, and dismissed every underaged trafficked survivor. It doesn’t just read like a rap sheet. It reads like the collapse of accountability itself. Supreme Court sanctioned.

When you lay it out, when you really stack the bodies, the broken laws, the shattered norms, and the battered dignity of what little democracy we had — even Kristi Noem starts to look like a hollow-eyed lost uneducated voting farm mom with very poor taste, compared to this orange taco who set the whole house on fire and called it patriotism.

The magnitude is undeniable:

He didn’t just incite a riot. He summoned a lynch mob in Jesus cosplay, armed with bear spray, flagpoles, pipe bombs, zip ties, and impromptu gallows, chanting to hang his own boot-licking, robot, boy scout, carved out of driftwood, sad excuse for a committee-he-wasn’t-even-there-for Vice President.

He didn’t just steal top secret documents and billion dollar secrets people died to protect. He bragged about it. It’s all on tape. Listen to what he promised to donors, to foreign adversaries, to the highest bidders, like a doped-up power-drunk mafia Don showing off his stolen American trophies — souvenirs from the nuclear football.

He didn’t just commit fraud. He built a branding empire on defrauding hard-working Americans, from that fake university he created to a charity that stole money from veterans and dying children with cancer.

He wasn’t just buddies with Epstein. Underage girls screamed and pleaded to not have to be next. All lost into the void of wealth and power. Literally trapped on an island. At least Epstein did the right thing.

He wasn’t just found guilty of defamation twice. He was found to have sexually abused E. Jean Carroll, and then lied about it so cruelly and so often the courtroom flinched. Jurors literally vomited.

He wasn’t just impeached twice. He was never even held accountable because too many senators were too afraid of losing Facebook likes from suburban militias.

He didn’t just fail upward. He left claw marks on democracy as he rose from bankrupt casinos and rotting steaks.

Let’s not forget:

He defrauded us, the broke-*** taxpayers, for hundreds of millions while we post fake photoshopped Facebook pics of our imaginary lives in which we pretend we aren’t just serfs and slaves to the dollar.

He bilked donors with fake matching fund scams.

He grifted off a deadly pandemic.

He sold hats and gold-plated Bibles while bodies literally piled up in every third-world country. Stack upon rotting stack of them.

He called fallen soldiers like people I served with “suckers and losers.” "What kind of idiot gets caught or becomes MIA?"

Then he ordered us tear-gassed. Us, peaceful protesters. And for what? For a failed photo op with a smoking Chinese-made Bible he’s never even read.

He threatened journalists, judges, and witnesses by name, their kids and families.

He tried to extort Ukraine for political dirt and is now trying to give it to his hero Putin.

He pardoned war criminals — literal rapists and alleged cannibals.

He turned the DOJ into his personal vindictive hate-fueled legal team, bent on revenge.

He promised revenge on all political enemies and is working on it.

He plotted to send tanks into American cities to crush people with no trial or due process like his hero ******.

He encouraged people to inject bleach or just drink it.

He said ****** “did some good things.” He said racist killer mobs were “fine people.”

And yes — he fathered Eric, who scares even his fellow coked-out zombie beavers.

He lies to the whole country again and again with no compunction. Not just about an election he undeniably lost while whispering to oath-breaking cowards to “just find 11,780 votes.”

He screamed “fake news” at the sounds of ***** children, compared Stormy Daniels to his daughter, before flopping around like an electrocuted taco manatee, bragging then crying over his gold toilets — the taco manatee of late-night infomercials, Pepsi spots, Pizza Hut and more — the collection plates full for authoritarianism.

He wallowed in cash with billionaires and traffickers, while everyday people chewed on fluoride-free ketchup packet soup made from fast food salt single-serves and apologetic acid rainwater.

He told coal miners he’d bring back jobs, while he deregulated their protections and sold off their futures for an immediate infusion of pennies on the dollar, which he squandered trying to pay off **** stars and *** workers behind his heartless wife’s cold, unloving, robotic back. Guess that's better than having another one pushed down the stairs again.

He killed the lunch programs. Then mailed postcards to the kids' families he helped starve, addressed to the ones already gunned down at school during recess.

He said he’d “drain the swamp,” then drained our global economy with insider trading like Martha Stewart at a Snoop Dogg ****, then baptized himself in the orange glowing filth.

This is the man who turned grievance into a sacrament, white supremacy into a ballot strategy, and cruelty into offshore taxpayer-funded currency scams.

This is the man who made Kristi Noem — at least she only shot a puppy.

Trump didn’t just break laws. He is the rotting carcass of Clarence Thomas Winnebago accountability, draped in a poorly tailored flag and Rudy’s spray-tan runoff.

Please tell your kids why they only get half a doll and half a school day.

Tell your daughter why her broken childhood is a “patriotic sacrifice.”

Tell the bodies in the gravel pits, in Ukraine, the self-aborted **** fetus in the back alley dumpster why we called this “greatness.”

Or maybe just admit:

The poets didn’t ruin America. The Christo-fascists did. And they did it with a smile, a red hat, and a Golden Bible full of blank pages.

The shameless uncaring pandemic grift — there’s more to mine:

His deliberate downplaying of COVID while privately admitting its lethality. He got the best care though when he got it, on the taxpayer’s dime of course.

Mocking masks while people suffocated on inadequate, underfunded ventilators.

Forced unwanted “super-spreader” rallies held with full knowledge of their danger to the obese and elderly that died as a result.

All the while profit-promoting quack cures and undermining professional career scientists, leading to thousands more easily avoidable deaths.

Bodies piled in freezer trucks — he called that a hoax. My uncle wasn’t a hoax. My neighbor, nor my childhood friends. He used their deaths as another twisted campaign strategy.

He held rallies not despite the danger, but because of it, to spread it. Feeding a martyr complex to the uneducated, unfaltering cult faithful. Making the morgue a loyalty test.

His lies weren’t just political. They were epidemiological ****** warfare.

Countless — literally uncounted — children in cages.

Millions spent separating scared, confused children from their parents, some of whom were never reunited even today.

Locking toddlers in cages under foil blankets.

Promoting a system that was losing track of hundreds of children in a Kafkaesque bureaucratic abyss.

He asked for votes over tearing families apart at the border and called it justice.

They caged infants beneath aluminum sheets, trauma-wrapping toddlers while TV pundits shrugged.

Some kids vanished into paperwork and shadows. No names, no faces — just starving, traumatized, nameless ghosts in a broken, heartless system.

Then the constant environmental ****.

Not only the flaming sinks and contaminated rivers, but even more coal deregulation — but there’s more.

Opening sacred tribal lands for drilling.

Gutting the EPA.

Selling off national monuments for extraction deals.

Ignoring climate collapse in exchange for small, meaningless, short-term temporary profits.

He stripped the Earth like it owed him rent.

Pried open sacred tribal burial grounds with corporate drills.

Turned protected lands into sacrifice zones.

Signed deals in boardrooms lit by wildfires, laughing while the oceans burned and washed their dead onto the beaches — wave after poisoned, overheated wave.

He banned trans troops from serving.

Rolled back healthcare protections.

Enabled a wave of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation and violence.

Appointed judges hostile to marriage equality and basic human dignity.

He didn’t whisper hate. He ensured his hate-filled, brainwashed cronies codified it.

He didn’t ignore trans lives. He erased them in pages of senseless policy.

He armed the bigots with hate laws, lit fires beneath pride flags, and gave the pulpit to now-known and convicted Catholic priests and other child-molesting preachers who called consenting adult love a “sickening sinful disease.”

SCOTUS corruption and the theocracy agenda.

Like Anita Hill — we must always name Clarence Thomas brilliantly, and to the broader point:

Amy Coney Barrett was laughably forever seated just days before a critical election.

Stacking our courts with impossible-to-remove, mentally sick, and power-hungry religious extremists.

SCOTUS helped dismantle rights, pretending not to be political while they continue, to this very second, doing the bidding of billionaires and evangelical overlords.

He helped turn robes into vestments, gavels into crucifixes.

Rushed the sick sad **** Barrett through like a sermon before the offering plate. This guy was the class name taker and tattle-tale. No one’s peer or equal   just a sad, sick, revenge-bent **** lusting for pain and power.

Made the highest court a cathedral for plutocrats and prophets, where the Constitution burns beneath the Book of Revelations.

Media control and cult dynamics:

Turning Rupert Murdoch’s ******* named Fox News into a state-sanctioned and fully funded five-times-a-day sports scores and soundbites brownshirt propaganda wing.

Cultivating “alternative facts” through social media disinfo.

Demonizing truth itself to build loyalty through censored movies that don’t even align with or reflect their sad, sick agendas but co-opting them anyway and giving it away to lowest earners that can’t afford cable news and don’t hold library cards but have all the episodes of The Apprentice on VHS.

He is, every day, trying to turn truth into an unpatriotic traitor.

I am a veteran. I fought. I bled. He did what? Get another handy after a massage in a tennis resort in spoiled, pampered New York?

He built a doctrine of lies so thick, people prayed in memes and bled for hashtags over him.

He birthed a cult with red hats and martyrdom complexes, where facts go to die and grievance is a bedazzled grandma tote bag and visored gospel.

January 6 aftermath — not just the riot:

Pledging to pardon entrenched, psychotic, bomb-building, gun-hoarding insurrectionists.

Calling them “hostages.”

Still drunk on the blood spilled that day.

Describing those jailed for violent sedition as “the real patriots. All the rest of you are too lazy or stupid to fall in line with.”

He didn’t just incite a coup. He sold the gaudy merch off it.

He raised money on policemen's spilled blood, called terrorists “tourists,” and promised their perpetual freedom.

He made sedition a subscription plan, and treason a campaign slogan.

Women’s rights and abortion.

Grabbing them right by their *******, for America, to show his daughter how to lead by example.

Overturning Roe v. Wade via the judges they seated. It will lead to real-world deaths of millions of women denied basic health care.

Trigger laws activating across red states, dragging us back centuries.

He didn’t just overturn Roe. He unstitched time.

Dragged women back to back alleys and whispers.

He handed scalpels to zealots in robes, and watched the nation bleed, smiling like a man who thinks pain is purity. And **** and ****** is your fault, because life begins at *******.

Only your voice resonates
With truth
In a world
Of cynical soundbites

Your outrage
At the falsity
Of the so-called leaders

Penetrates our hearts
And changes us

You demonstrate more dignity
In five minutes

Than years of pathetic political hypocrisy

When the curve is flattened
doesn't that mean we are dead
or have I been on too many machines
in hospital drama scenes?

And from the
Houses of Conspiracy
come
soundbites biting soundlessly
eating away at me until
the division bell tolls.

Stay at home!
Protect the NHS!
Save Lives!

These are the utterances
The soundbites and verbal strategy
Etched into our heads
By our Prime Minister
Who now lies in intensive care
Struggling for his life

No matter who they be
Or what they stand for
I would not wish this on anyone

Our lives unpredictable, fragile
Turn from one path to another
In a tiny slice of time

Shifting from presence
To absence
Here to…
Gone

We are all in this together
Some will live
Some will not

And as a human being
We all feel the sword of Damocles
Suspended
Above our heads

Perhaps it is only written in the stars
Who will endure
Who will not

Who is able to say
What will become of any of us?
Or how we will meet our end

I pray for humanity,
For hope
For a future in which people treat each other
Differently

All human pursuits should be turned
Towards helping others
And the perseveration
Of our natural world

This is simply how it should be

how many rely on the soundbite
to get their daily news
where they try and disguise all of the lies
to pass them off as living proof

a snippet here, snippet there
leaves us unaware
exactly what is going on
in this crazy world out here

so busy staying dizzy in our own lives
to even know what's going on
to where we find we never take the time
to check if it's right all on our own

we let the soundbite do its maneuvering
to what they think we indeed have a need to know
to stir up some trouble inside of our bubbles
in these lives where we think we have somewhere to be,
or at least somewhere to go