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Isolationist theories
of my brutal development
A mask
In the world of passengers

Regretting every slight disruption
Making icy chatters of teeth
As we wonder

How will these small altercations
Affect the grand course
of my surreptitious collapse?
Just a violent object on an axis
A washer head
thrown into a tumultuous ocean of visions

A flickering correspondent
Lying on an abolition
The worst things happening to the best people
It spins and breaths and *****

This molested scared demon
Anally penetrating all that I believe is genuine
Reels of my childhood development
Played on repeat to search for ammunition

The tunneling rib cages of my insanity
The forest nymph of all that is good
The one who created me
Locked away in a windowless world

Analyzed as if lockness was one of them
I always thought it would be me
Falling  to where I could not be found
How am I still standing?
"Abscission of Eschewal”

If I am still, I can hear the voices.

Chimes of advices, softly spoken, coronate in neon in my peripherals. Messages, abscissas from the x-axis of words and sounds, just parallel, float their fog of transmission to me.

“Touch that wall,” a voice’s suggestion nudges as I crookedly gain my balance by clutching the flat surface of this white wall, one fourth of the surfaces confining the contents of a tight enclosure. Just under the ventilation shaft, the wall is vibrating. The voices are louder near vibrations.

The enclosure, with every surface bleach white, is a bathroom, a corner taken at the edge of the convenience store off the four lane highway by the high school.

Its sink compacts spotless metal into its design, and the crafting lines visibly run parallel upon in its surface, reflecting generously to the bags under my eyes. The soap dispenser’s cubic structure cut into a visitor's vision like the blade of a pencil sharpener, showing every pixel and every angle of my face inside it.

Feint grooves dig into the wall in the shape of a triangle and a pair of scissors. Opposite that wall, a door with no handle stands; in the place of the handle rests only a circular lock. Behind the door, I hear a sigh, a winded slurp, the kind joggers give after high speed exertion on a morning run.

I hear the air rush, hitting the nostrils.

I hear a whimper.

I push the door open, slowly, and the hinge pops in intervals as it wedges open.

In front of me, a stool sets with a touch screen phone running on top of it, and a limp woman curls in a ball upon the floor, facing the bathroom. Her eyelids are missing.

A video plays of her on the touch screen phone on the stool. In a Skype window, she, a brunette girl with duct tape wrapped around her mouth, flickers in the thick black mire of what appeared to be another lavatory with a single fluorescent light with faulty wiring blinking a white glow upon her matted, unwashed hair. A black frame and darkness outlines her figure, filling the rest of the room. Her eyelids are missing in the video, just as her eyelids are missing in person, but she grasps to consciousness in the video, and she turns her eyes frequently with nervous twitches, wheezing and whimpering in the Skype window on the phone.

“Incoming call, 785-135-1581,” a white screen with green buttons interrupts.

I touch “Accept” and pick up the phone.

When my ear touches to the phone, I hear heavy breathing.

“No breeding, Jonas.” a male voice whispers.

“How do you know me?” I ask.

“Mating. They want to keep you from it,” the man continues.

“I won’t let that happen,” I assert.

“This was in protest, the first. Eyes open, so they can see,” the man says on the phone.

The male voice I heard on the phone, The Heavy Breather, inhales and exhales.

“Are there anymore?” I ask.

“I didn’t need anymore. Find out about her. See for yourself.”

I check her wallet.

I see credit cards, visas, and a 5x7 with her standing behind a podium in a lodge in a small town with a banner behind it, and a picture of a man racing on foot, crossing a finishing line with an arm outstretched in front of another racer to prevent him from finishing.
On the banner, a slogan reads, “Keep unborn and unflowered: cleanse the youth.”
Seated before her in the lodge are several lawyers, doctors, and town leaders conversing, smiling, and greeting.

“Look what they’ve done, colluding together, excluding us.  Leaving us alone. Partying while we suffer. Those in The Colluded of the Equinox kiss their wives and girlfriends and children in public they hoard and tell it all to us, flaunting their miscreant deeds. They hide in shadows and do every wrong thing, but they only rarely do wrong in public, and they are never together at the same time. They keep hidden company. They rejoice in their evils, oppression. We live not more than a few miles from them, wherever we live at anytime. We live with them. One sin from an unlucky man is worse than a thousand sins from a lucky man. Is that it? Is an unlucky Christian worse than a lucky atheist? They spew their mantra: 'It’s so much worse than you think.' They tell you you’re not what you think, that everything you know is wrong. 'Submit,' they say. You know what I did? I did what I wanted. This woman on the ground before you is what I wanted.”

“All this to stop from reproduction? This society…” I ask.

“I hate it, also. Be it willing or unwilling conspiracy, it is still conspiracy, high crimes, ” The Heavy Breather responds.

“Crimes before whom?” I question.

“I don’t know,” The Heavy Breather admits.

“I know some. First, they stare. Peeping in your windows, following. Then, records, whole security camera videos, receipts in stores, gone…written in ink that disappears. Records of existence...gone.Wherever you were, you were never there. That’s what they want for you, to delete every backed up conversation, memory, and recollection, so they can instill new things. I shopped in stores, and the devices were amnesiacs,” he recounts.

The woman on the floor moans and stirs, but she settles again feebly.

"They can't get rid of all that at once," I interject.

“No, but they keep scraping the little details of life away, proof of life, covering them up. They have cleaners, cleaning up our little spills of progress and success. Witnesses, like the devices they own, are amnesiacs." The Heavy Breather asserts.

"Even if the electronics are wiped clean, they must have seen us at stores or parking lots, somewhere. They can think for themselves and put it together, right?" I ask.

“Those that remember us have no incentive to continue those memories. The Colluded of the Equinox brainwash. Married people are telling the ***** not to get married. They force celibate priests, figures in white hoods.
The Colluded of the Equinox force people like quivering lures, closing doors until the only ones left are of seclusion and chastity. They are in all religions, hierarchies, in every ruling body, replacing reproduction with work, with ‘purpose,’“ he continues.

The body on the floor twitches as I hear the Heavy Breather grunt on the phone.

“These are their protocols. These are the Colluded’s motives. The Colluded condemns displays of affection, physical acts of love, reproduction. The Colluded controls the population. The Colluded tells the women to focus on each other and obey advertisements’ models of how they should behave and look…conformed and emotionless. The Colluded are survivalists, locking the reproductive organs of selected citizens to save money and keep control. The Colluded use the magnetism of credit cards to lock your urethra…the tingle you feel when you sit down on your credit cards in your wallet…it lowers your ***** count,” he growls.

“The answer came to me. 'Write your message on her insides,' said the sentence that was scrawled within my closed eyes in neon. It should read: ‘She threw us a stone instead of bread, the way corrupt people do.' You can go, now. I have work to do,” he suggests.

I heard a motor crank on the phone.

“Should I expect the authorities here?” he asks as the sound rumbles in the background.

“Carry on. I didn’t see anything,” I reply.

I grab the cell phone from the stool, press the 'End' button, put it in my pocket, and walk out of the bathroom, pushing the woman on the floor with my foot on my way out far enough from the door to close and seal it in front of her, nodding to the convenience store clerk as I push the glass door open and walk out into the street, cranking up my car and leaving to the open road.
Christos Rigakos Dec 2012
oh it's the end, the world will end today,
the Mayans said, they said it long ago,
according to opinions people say,
the modern sayers saying what they know,

it's noon, the morning hours i have survived,
now fifteen minutes till the clock strikes two,
i find in all the silence i'm alive,
the sayers thinking twice 'bout what they knew,

survivalists in barricaded doors,
with rifles loaded, ready on the walls,
will pace upon their dusty wooden floors,
awaiting for that ring when death makes calls,

today for many, dying one by one,
the prophecy was right, their time is done

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
English (Shakespearean) Sonnet

Written today, December 21, 2012, the supposed "End of the World" by those "experts" who came to this conclusion because the Mayan calendar was unfinished (or rather discontinued).  Yes, for many people today is the end of their world, just as every other day is the end of the world for other people whose time in this Earth is up.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2021
We Are So Lightly Here

“So come, my friends, be not afraid, we are so lightly here
It is in love that we are made, in love we disappear
Though all the maps of blood and flesh are posted on the door
There’s no one who has told us yet what Boogie Street is for”
Leonard Cohen “Boogie Street”


                                                     <~>

my body, my eyes, my entirety, tattooed, with a city map,
here, at this exact place, our eyes glanced, our eyes closed,
who among us does not possess such a living guide,
memories presented in a 3-D versions, constantly edited.

placed your hand on my privacy, bid you enter, not a dare,
more an invitation to risk, become a true love of mine,
share exhilaration, desert valleys that pockmark unexpectedly,
changes us to we, regresses, you and me, post-survivalists cut.

2 gather, modify highs/lows, meet & peaking@peculiar tunes,
ever embraces residuals a sour film upon our lips, a puzzling,
what excites, pacifies, returns us street corner, X’d our map,
glances exchanged across an empty street, seeing each, not.
Ken Pepiton Feb 28
then the full corn, in the ear.

¿Has the seed faith evidence,
made the dedicated monk

useless, due to evolving knowledge,
horticultural returnings to old knowns,
bringing hope to survivalists,

intent on living on Earth, warless

for the ever after this?

No, fighting
for a faith that must be kept,
pristine, clean, cleared of science logic,
such has left all reason bleeding,
use the rags remaining from the old
folded and put away worlds
in storys held
stuck in the stars,
so we may remember, lest we forget.

Those who knew nothing as we ought
to have been knowing by Christmas,
all are forgiven, or nothing is true,
self-evidently…

washed, cleansed from perceived stains,
white as new-fallen snow…

Deep Mind white room cinema effect,
preceding the ever after this…

you be come this far, alone.
You be edging up on after all's

been said and done, what you did's
been said to have done nothing,

nothing, thus
nothing done wrong,
nothing done to no effect.
What a release life offers for seekers willing to bet there is more than mortality involved in making peace with priceless joy at having one more day...
JVPC Mar 2015
Everything against
No room to breathe
Options discipated
From another's disease
Cloaked as ideas
Control an illusion
We've all known
But sickness us
Keeps to play
Know not one
Another's way
Look we've become
Sow seeds so numb
Layered in culture
Survivalists cult
Of days passed
Oneself to all
Those whom lay
Know not of soul
Til daze Til cold
Then cry we may
Bucolic praise
Morrison Leary Oct 2014
Steadily lay my lips upon slender hips,

hypnotized, aroused by this gentle kiss.

Our eyes, they formulate an idea,

the birth of a soul connection,

Finally finding the intertwining dimensions,

the design to be joined together at last, feeling alive.

We become lost in the storm,

traveling farther into the carpets of the forest, the unknown.

We adapt, we become like the Tinamou, afraid to sleep alone.

Creating a soft melody, only to entice the soothsayers ear,

a certain tone.

Construction of a pathway, cloaked by fear.

Thriving to find the opening, attempting to be in the clear.

Far away from the degenerates that roam,

the ones hiding in the plains, listening for our whispers, our euphony.

Carried across in the rain, the location, the destination,

Illuminated by the Moon's eye.

A bridge under the terrain where we bathe, we consume the gaze,

stars exploding and dying, while we lay.

Wishing upon the ashes,

A faze only for the tamed runaways.

Growing from within, a conundrum downpour.

An orchestration of the ultimate love survivalists.

Listen and absorb.
ABadPenname Oct 2014
Missunderstanding is a very important part of what I am composed of; in fact it could be even Healthy for you.
          Someone might, in a mad world, try to—as opposed to cutting back on gluten or red-meats—someone might instead try to
experience confusion, like, an hour a day.

       I Hope one day when Natural Selection takes it's toll on idiots and the unlucky, and only Hunters and Survivalists survive- perhaps in tribes and cities like in Medieval Times, and Rome (which only burned symbolically), I hope a little desperately that (human)honesty evolves enough so saying words like, "You're getting the wrong idea" could be considered a common courtesy for any conversation being had between a led on individual, and somebody in their right mind.
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
In all environments,
the best friend of survivalists.
On the battlefield or not,
it is quality encased in brass
& can kick your ***,
fast.
The ocean floor is littered with whale bones
Ivory dreams that sink forgotten amongst silt
The fish swim in between ribs like birds flitter through mine
Asphalst graveyards lined with tiny carcasses
Where once survivalists and now just carrion
I saw a signpost for a crematorium and thought of
The way your hand burns against my cheek
Everything on heaven and earth is eaten by sunlight and decay
In the distance there are trees being felled
I hear nothing and so pretend they have not died
But I can feel their groaning bodies, I can feel the axe swing
In my sharp exhale when you put your palm to my knee
If I close my eyes I see the temples that used to stand here
Where once we prayed to Gods and now buy coffee
The prayer on our lips much softer now
But I still feel like a sacrifice when you kiss me
A pyre dream, quick as flame and soft as smoke
Who's dreams do I carry with me in this life?
Who's aching heart do i remember when the wolf howls?
I witnessed birds die midflight and fall by the hundreds
My atoms rocked into memory of their first journey
Spread across a thousand stars that crashed into yours
Became then the fish that was born between whale ribs
How many lives do I carry inside of me?
What histories lie beneath my feet?
Who's bones am I standing on right now?
Who's deaths will fall like ash atop mine?
jeffrey conyers May 2015
Oh, as much as we craved independence.
Somethings brings us back to reality.
Then our independent ways fades.

With every single thought  we admit too.
The hardest one to accept is we in need of one another.
Even when , we crave our freedom.  

Which can be interrupted by God in a moment notice.
When his lights is our more importance.

Through, whatever shock that comes before us.
We realize just , how much God gets acknowledge.

Sudden lost of lights rather day or night.
Shocks many when it's not available.
And you realize things you depends upon lights for.

Oh, it serves a mighty purpose.
Even to these survivalists, where the sun and moon assist them.

It shock us to be without running water.
Which holds various importance to us in life.

Without it , you see the complaints.
Like farmers crying about the need for rain.
Which we do to take a bath.

Oh, we have the rivers and the streams.
Which shocks us back to reality  of its importance.
Where we see the vitalness of Genesis in play?

Where the Almighty created every single thing?
And it's still something for us to witness too.
That lights, even water  is the key to this earth.

And when you look around your house you see, it operates things of importance to us.
Same, as the word, we come to know called love.
jeffrey robin Oct 2015
.



preparing


///

Perhaps

Only the

SURVIVALISTS

                           shall                      Survive

•. •

Really

No - One is watching

Our dying

( even THAT is.     boring )

"""

All we do that  people like to read about

Is **** & cry

//

//

In  mountain fortresses

Lovers gather to live

//

Preparing

//

While we do

Well
(?)

Whatever we do
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2022
In the quandary the future holds for us now, that climatic extremes become exponentially more extreme, that deterioration of the natural order of things accelerates to the point where mankind can no longer comfortably exist, where rising coastlines inundate dramatically and inexorably, where food can no longer be grown on the Eastern side of the nation, where the western side of the nation is inundated with continuous rainfall, where land values plummet on one side of the nation and soar on the other, where the population is forced to flee unwillingly, screaming outrage, from one area to saturate another. That social disorder breeds the seeds of revolution in the face of the chaotic inequities being suffered at the hands of governments no longer capable of coping with it all.

The sage words of Sir David Attenborough echo down the corridor of sudden shuddering inevitability in that the scenario described above pertains to NOW not further down the track, not to some distant future….it pertains to our brittle, susceptible world of NOW!

Environmental analysts are screaming the message that deep ice sheet temperatures are rising dramatically, glacial thicknesses reducing forcing mass calving into warming oceans. Oceanic salinity is reducing and oceanic current velocities and directions of mass flow are radically changing with catastrophic effect on weather patterns globally.
Ionosphere particulates and mass atmospheric pollution is changing the nature of our skies, increasingly they metastasize to phenomenon’s of extreme which flail oceans and land mass with violence and unprecedented wrath.

In 1997 the Kyoto Conference conferred, (with a sense of great nobility), in that 90% of the nations of the world were represented and agreed, after exhaustive debate, on a programme of emission control and environmental conservation….they all congratulated themselves and each other on the intention of the monumental climatic task ahead…..and went back to their home shores and did precisely NOTHING!
After paying lip service to the great speeches made, after preening themselves with the glowing mantle of adopted environmental responsibility, they went back to their respective governments and conceded to immense political pressures and kick backs of Big Oil, Big Money and the Banks.
Political concessions had to be made for GROWTH, ideology was cast aside for the immediacy of Nationally urgent issues…. MONEY….the economic necessities of the moment…(In time we will get around to the Kyoto crap and that irritating child, Greta Thunberg)!
In Truth…..
The responsibility lies with the main polluters, China, India, USA, Russia, Europe, Japan and Brazil. All unwilling to acknowledge, all unwilling to submit to the pain of real emission control. All unwilling to realistically unite to combat the environmental Armageddon, now, at their doorstep.
Russia, for example, is more willing to start a war with neighboring Ukraine, killing thousands of fellow Slavs, brutally destroying infrastructure and priceless artifacts, sending millions to flee in terror to the West……instead of dealing with the monster in the room of thawing permafrost over the vast steppes of Siberia or combating the enormous sinkholes that are occurring with profusion in the East of that land. China will not communicate productively on environmental matters with the West despite rampant, continuous air pollution in Beijing and the problematic encroachment of desertification from the West. Brazil allows the systematic felling and burning of vast areas of its rain forest annually for the development of commercial palm oil plantations… thus destroying forever a significant amount of what represents the lungs of the planet, the Amazon rain forest.

The planet will force the issue, it is applying an in-ignorable  force now….EVERYWHERE…..ISN’T IT?

The two primary polluters must come together to show the way, The USA and China have to get into lockstep, forget their combative ideology’s, forget their nuclear standoff, Come together as survivalists…for that is what they are. Formulate an immediate plan to combat the atmospheric pollution, the runaway acidification of the expanding oceans, the steady implacable rise of the temperature of the air we breathe. Combine their technological and monetary wealth to develop new research into the immediate replacement of fossil fuels………If they achieve this, the rest of the planet must fall into place behind them, they have no choice. But the Big Guns must first, SHOW THE WAY!
TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE!
If this does not happen, the words of the wise, Sir David Attenborough will apply……THEN, WE, HUMANITY AS A CIVILIZATION, SHALL END!

M.
Foxglove@Taranaki, NZ
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2021
The experiment in Political
Eugenics has gone seriously
wrong because the UK upset
a collectively conceived plan
for a cancel culture of which
they were not having a bar of.

All the great and surviving
dynasties have queens and hives
and live alone in bee loud glades.

Butterflies have Monarchs as do
ants, the ultimate survivalists.

Who gave us Cruffs, Pedigree
dog food, Debrett, Correct Form.
Lumley, lineage, language?

Sprouting Brussels has been
pruned and just as The Irish
left the Commonwealth to an
uncertain destiny, one can but
commend The Brits for GALL.

— The End —