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Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!
ryyan May 2011
Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.
Sharina Saad Jul 2013
She thought she has understood it clear
That love is only a game to play
When she feels bored and out of place
Someone is there,  a game to share with

She understood it so very clearly
A game of heart, so let's play it fair
To Win some, To lose some
A love game between two players
The game of hearts,
Attracting, flattering, sweet talking, seducing...
losing or winning
doesn't really matter...
the pleasure is the game...

Just a fling of romance,
In the name of a game
Steal each others heart...
and be safe and sound
a risky game...
to love for
to die for
and  to leave free upon a game over
no strings attached....understood it clear
after all.... its only a game of love

She thought the game is in the grip of her hands
understood the game so clear
Played with the rules of the game...
A game is nothing but a game...
Too egoistic to admit...
That emotions and feelings cannot be bought
can never be part of a game...
To these.....
She Lost herself in her own game
Unplanned, Unprepared, Unprofessional...
Both players were

A dangerous game... love is...
What she thought as a play of love
Is a strong flame indeed, hard to put out..
hard to cool off...
what a dangerous game of  heart
to play fire with fire
a fire of real desire...
it burns the skin so deep....

The players are hooked in the end..
lost their navigation....in the game they thought
They have understood...
What they thought a GOODBYE
after They grabbed some tokens
as the exchange of love..
is an unexpected FOREVER stays...
In this game of the hearts
Success or defeats...
unskillful Players become lovers...
attached... inseparable...
even when the game is OVER!

When she falls, she falls hard...
play not with the game of heart...
Kurt Philip Behm May 2024
The coach signaled timeout and called the team to the sidelines.  There were eight minutes left in the biggest game of their lives, and they would be playing for three minutes with a severe disadvantage.  They had committed a succession of penalties within a span of less than 60 seconds, and they would now be playing without three men on the field.  In lacrosse this is referred to as ‘Man Down.’  

Usually it’s only ‘One Man Down,’ or at the most, ‘Two Men Down,’ but few watching that day had ever seen a team go ‘Three Men Down.’  This meant that their star goalie T.J. Braxton was only going to have three defenders in front of him instead of the usual six.

T.J. had been playing great, but he now had to play for two minutes with three men missing in front of him and then the third minute still missing one. It was going to seem like an eternity.  The coach looked over at T.J. and he was standing off to the side by himself not wanting to either look or talk to anyone during the intermission.  The coach understood this behavior because he had been a goalie himself and decided to leave T.J. alone — totally immersed within his own thoughts.

As they did the cheer to break the huddle, it was for their goalie …”1, 2, 3, Go T.J.”  What would happen now brought more pressure than any goalie should ever have to withstand.  Even going just ‘One Man Down’ would in many cases result in a goal for the other team.  Going ‘Two Men Down’ almost ensures the other team a goal, and anything beyond that just puts your goalie at the mercy of the shooters on the other team.

    And Tonight There Would Be No Mercy To Be Found

T.J. already had 18 saves up to this point with only half a quarter left to play in regulation. Saves are when a goalie either blocks or deflects an offensive shot from the other team. He had only let in three goals all game, and the score was tied at 3-3.  

Pennhurst was a powerful public school with large and fast athletes.  They had not been playing lacrosse as long as T.J.’s private (all-boys) school, Haverland Academy, but their natural athletic ability and inner toughness were making up for any experience lost.  

T.J. would have to defend his goal missing three men in front of him for two minutes and then missing one man for the next sixty seconds.  It was his team’s possession coming out of the timeout, and it was all they could do being so shorthanded to even get the ball across the mid-field line.  The coach’s tactic was not to shoot the ball now but to stall and to try and take as much time off the clock as they could until they could get more players back on the field.  T.J. stood rock solid in the center of the ‘crease’ in front of his goal and looked squarely at the goalie at the other end of the field. The ‘crease’ was the large circle surrounding the goal that no offensive player from the other team could enter. He seemed to not be following the ball and his coach wondered what was going on inside his head.

Playing goalie is 80% mental, and he was hoping his star goalie wasn’t going to have a melt down when his team needed him the most.  T.J. would normally be very active inside his own goal shouting instructions to the defensemen in front of him and trying to best position them for the oncoming attack.    

               Something ‘Seemed’ Different Tonight

T.J. had entered a new zone, one that he had never been in before, and one that only he could understand.  As Haverland’s lead attackman charged the opposing goal, the ball fell out of his stick. It was immediately picked up by the opposing goalie and ‘cleared’ to a midfielder standing outside and to his left.  The midfielder made one more pass to an attackman, and the ball was coming T.J.’s way with only three defenders in front of him to help stop the charge. The ball was again passed to one of their senior captains and their strongest midfielder.  

He juked left as he faked a pass and then as he cradled the ball wildly, he headed straight toward T.J. in the goal.  When he got within fifteen feet of the goal he stopped, set his feet, and with a violent and twisting motion fired an overhand shot across his right shoulder at the ground two feet in front of where T.J. now stood.

T.J. was now eighteen and a half and had been playing goalie since he was seven years old.  He had seen and defended almost every kind of shot and from every angle in those eleven years. He had just never had to do it before with almost no defense in front of him.  As the shot left the midfielders stick, T.J. reacted.  He took two steps forward and was able to scoop the ball out of the air at ankle height before it was able to bounce off the ground. Bounce shots were more difficult to save, and his accumulated instinct and experience allowed him to get this one and at least for now keep the score tied at 3-3.

T.J. ran behind his own goal toward the end line. With the ball in his stick he was trying to take time off the clock.  Only one opposing player chased him, and he was able to do a 180-degree spin, avoid that player, and run back out in front of his goal.  He then cleared the ball, the entire length of the field, to a midfielder standing in the far left corner.  T.J.’s team had the ball within thirty feet of the opposing goal with only two minutes left to run in penalty time.

T.J.’s offense decided it was time to step up and play big.  They managed to take a full minute off the clock with uncanny passing until the referee finally called stalling and gave the ball back to the other side.

As the ball came back in T.J’s direction, two of his penalized players retook the field.  They were now playing with only a ‘one man down’ disadvantage and for only sixty more seconds.

The opposing team set up in a perimeter in front of his goal passing the ball from man to man and then behind T.J.’s goal in an attempt to unbalance a still weakened defense.  As the ball went behind the net, T.J. rotated inside the crease never taking his eye off the ball.  He thought they were setting him up for something sneaky because his fundamental blocking skills on normal shots were so strong. More than anything he didn’t want to give up a cheap goal, and he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out that his suspicions had been correct.

As they passed the ball back and forth behind his goal, an attackman turned and tried to lob the ball over the back of the goal, and T.J.’s stick, to an opposing midfielder who was charging the front of the goal from about twenty-five-feet away.  They were hoping to catch T.J. mesmerized in what was going on behind the net and then reverse field and go in the one direction no one ever expected — over the back of the goal.  

It didn’t work!  As the ball left the midfielders stick, T.J. jumped high in the air and intercepted the pass in the shooting strings of his goalie stick.  He then spun around and ran directly to the out of bounds line to his right. It was beyond the defensive box, and he stood there waiting for someone to challenge him.  He was again trying to take precious seconds off the clock to get his team back to full strength. Although a goalie, T.J. was the fastest player on his team and that speed was like money in the bank to a team that was struggling and in trouble with time running out.

He managed to get the penalty down to twenty two seconds before he finally dished the ball off to another long stick defender and then quickly moved back in front of his goal.  That defensemen got across midfield just before another penalty would have occurred for not advancing the ball.  With only seventeen seconds left on the penalty, the offense passed the ball to the four corners looking for a man who was ‘hot’ (open) who could take the shot and finally break the tie.  With only three seconds left in the penalty their best attackman, John Erasmus, took the ball in his stick and with his left hand fired a side angle shot at the right side of the goal.  It was a great shot, but their goalie made a heroic save. He was also a senior and had transferred into Pennhurst two years ago from a Lacrosse powerhouse school in northern Maryland.

With both teams now at full strength, the ball went back and forth for the final five minutes with very few shots taken at either end.  The ones that were taken were weak and from great distance, and both goalies easily picked them up and started the ball going the other way.  Each shot was critical now because the game was tied with time running out.  Possession was more important than losing the ball to the other team by taking a poor shot.  As the lights shone brightly high above the scoreboard, time ran out in regulation.  The game would now go to sudden death overtime, and it would become about the strength of the face-off men and how hot each goalie was going to be.

    It Was Now About The Face-Off Man And The Goalies

In sudden death, the first team to score wins!  No second chances here it’s do or die time, and everything is amped up to an entirely new level.  Many times, the winner of the face off at midfield wins the game because everything is geared towards that one shot, and the pressure on the opposing goalie is tremendous.  Unless the goalie can isolate himself in a ‘zone of invincibility,’ the chances of blocking a shot in overtime due to a lost face off are not very good.  Just like in the NFL, where the coin toss often determines the winner in overtime, the face-off is like that coin toss only with skill and not luck determining the winner.  T.J. thought back to all the coaches and mentors that had brought him to where he was standing tonight.  They were all somewhere up in the stands, and they were all living and dying with him tonight in the goal.

      T.J. Decided That Tonight It Would Be About Life

The Captains met at the middle of the field as the referee explained the rules of sudden death.  All who were listening thought that the term was aptly named.  They shook hands again and ran back to the huddles on their respective sidelines.  Both coaches gave their overtime strategies to their teams, and they did one more cheer before retaking the field.  Both face off men walked slowly toward each other at the center mid-field line and stared each other directly in the eye.  

The physical disparity between the two players at mid-field was huge.  Haverland’s best face off man, George Arle, was 5’6’’ tall and 160 lbs. Pennhurst’s face off man, B.J. Radford, had been an All-State quarterback on the football team and was 6’3’’ and 225 lbs.  Although Lacrosse was not his primary sport,  he had played it for the last four years and by anyone’s account he was a ‘stud player.’  The skill in taking face offs is unlike any other in Lacrosse.  It’s more similar to recovering a fumble in football or picking up a loose five-dollar bill dropped on the floor in Penn Station in New York.  It’s uncontrolled mayhem with the skill to do it only evident to those who have been there. And it’s those players who know painfully well what it takes to win the fight for the ball.

Although T.J.’s face off man George had had a good season, he always struggled against players that were that much bigger than him and usually lost the ball.  The ref. positioned the ball between the two boys sticks who were both crouched down and ready at mid-field.  The whistle blew, and George lost the ball as B.J. picked it up and charged right over George’s left shoulder.  He was headed in a straight line right toward T.J. who was standing fixed and ready in front of his goal.  B.J. passed the ball to a midfielder who kept it only a second before passing it to an attackman who was off to the right of the goal.  The attackman looked to his left and faked a pass to his right.  He then spun around and with all his might fired a bounce shot on an angle from the right facing side of Haverland’s goal.  

T.J. stepped forward, scooped the ball up on the first bounce, and in one fluid motion flipped the ball out to a defenseman on the left perimeter. This player cradled it inside his long stick as he took off down the sideline and across midfield.  The defenseman made a pass to a middie on the extreme other side of the field who then passed to an attackman. This man ran around behind the net and came out on the other side in front of the goal, shot the ball, but it went wide right.  The other team was closest to the ball when it went out of bounds, so it was Pennhurst’s possession, and it was coming back T.J.’s way.

Their goalie cleared the ball left to a long stick defenseman, who in turn made a long pass directly to an attackman, and the ball was once again in the oppositions stick less than thirty feet from the goal T.J. was defending.  This attackman had no intention of passing.  He put his head down and charged straight ahead toward T.J.  As his coach was screaming at him to pass, and it the midst of five defensive players, he fired off a shot.  It came at a side angle, and, with all of the players surrounding the shooter, it was hard for T.J. to see the ball come off the kid’s stick.  

When T.J. finally did see the ball, it had passed the head of his stick, and he was just able to get a piece of the ball with the bottom of his shaft. It was just enough to deflect the ball upwards and over the goal and into the chain link fence fifty feet behind the crease.  On instinct alone, T.J. ran after the ball and being closest to it when it went out of bounds, he picked it up in his stick and slowly walked forward. This gave his midfielders time to transition back up to the other end of the field.

T.J. was living on borrowed time.  Making one save in overtime was huge, but making two, and one with only the shaft of his stick to save it all, was stretching the limits of whatever luck the team had left.  T.J. easily passed the ball to an unguarded defenseman who ‘walked’ the ball up-field and then tossed it to a midfielder just in front of the offensive box.  

The offensive box is the restrained and shorter ‘boxed-out’ area right in front of the goalie and where most shots are taken, and most goals are scored. The midfielder made a pass to his left to an attackman, who tried to make a long looping pass across the face of the box, but it was intercepted by one of the oppositions long stick middies and passed quickly to another midfielder as it transitioned back again towards T.J. This time the ball was coming straight at T.J., and it had taken less than five seconds to get there.  His team was not set yet and this charge could be the end of it all.

T.J.’s team had been caught napping in an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty.  Pennhurst’s top midfielder again had the ball, and he was charging at T.J. who had only two players set and not the normal six in front of him to play defense.

Surprisingly to T.J., this player then made a pass to the extreme right corner and that attackman ran behind T.J.’s goal giving his defense more time to reset.  This player then made a pass to the left side, and it was once again in the stick of their best midfielder, Matt Makritis.  Midfielders, or Middies, as they’re often called are many times the best athletes on the team.  They have to play both offense and defense and run the entire length of the field while their shift is on. Makritis was a high school All-American, and he was charging at full speed toward the left front facing side of T.J.’s goal.

                       T.J. Was An All-American Too!

T.J. was also an All-American and had recently been on the front cover of ‘Inside Lacrosse Magazine’ and featured as the #1 player coming out of High School Lacrosse that year.  He thought to himself that all of that press would be meaningless if he allowed this shot to go in.  The opposing midfielder continued toward the crease unguarded, got within ten feet of the goal, and fired point blank at T.J.  No fancy bounce shots or behind the back this time.  This shot was straight at T.J.’s head, and from less than ten feet away. T.J. caught the ball in the fat part of his goalie sticks net.  It didn’t stay there though.  The power of the shot caused it to come out of his stick, in what is referred to as a rebound, as it rolled ten or twelve feet out in front of the goal.

A second midfielder then picked up the ball, and not lifting it from the ground, fired a shot right back at T.J. This was more like a golf shot than a lacrosse shot, and T.J. struggled to see from which direction the ball was coming.  As the ball came back at T.J. at a severe angle, headed toward the left backside of the net, he stretched his body out like a goalie in the NHL.  Doing a full split in front of the net, he was able to get a piece of the ball with his right cleat and deflect the ball off to the left side of the goal. As the ball rolled harmlessly toward the far side of the endline, the referee blew his whistle.  The first three-minute overtime period had ended.

    They Had Survived Sudden Death For Three Minutes

Both teams huddled tightly with their coaches and trainers.  This time though, T.J. didn’t leave the crease at all.  He was leaning against the goal with his back turned to the field. It was almost as if he was talking to someone you couldn’t see and totally immersed in a world of his own.  There are several times in a man’s life that define and underline not only who he is, but who he will then become.  This was one of those times for T.J.

                                 And He Knew It

Both teams wearily took the field.  The pressure of an extremely tight game, and then surviving one overtime period, had taken its toll.  As the face-off men bent low and readied for the ball, T.J.’s back was still facing the field.  When he heard the whistle blow he spun around and it was like someone twice his 6’2’’ size was playing goalie.  He seemed to fill the entire net with his presence and there was an ‘aura’ coming from him that surrounded the entire defensive end of the field.

Once again, George lost the face off to the All-State quarterback and star midfielder, B.J. Radford.  This time however, the look on B.J.’s face was different.  Although fairly new to Lacrosse, inside his chest beat the heart of a champion.  He almost stepped on George as he picked up the ball and headed straight over the mid-field line and directly at T.J.  This senior captain had no intention of passing, and he was going to ‘ice’ the game for his teammates and fans.  B.J. was not known as a great shooter but more for his defensive skills. He was a great athlete though, and this charge was not to be taken lightly by anyone on the defensive end of the field.  

                 B.J. Knew This Was His Moment

Without stopping or setting his feet, he raised his stick above his head and shot the ball toward the right corner of the net at over ninety miles an hour.  T.J. saw this one all the way and caught the ball in his stick.  He then ran out of the goal and passed B.J. who was still coming his way as he charged past him and headed straight down the field.  T.J. was out of the defensive box and headed toward the mid-field line.  He was looking at nothing in front of him except the opposing goalie who was now staring at him with an incredulous look on his face inside the opposing crease.

Everyone there that night had their mouth’s open in awe.  No one expected the goalie to ever make the final break, and no one watching had ever seen a goalie possessed with such speed.  The other team was in awe too and just kept watching him run. They were all guarding open men who they were sure T.J. would eventually pass the ball to.

                                  He Didn’t Pass

When he crossed the midfield line, the fans went wild and stood up.  One of his midfielders had the presence of mind to stay back behind the midfield line so that an offsides wouldn’t be called.  In Lacrosse, you always need at least three men back plus the goalie in the defensive end.  Once T.J. crossed midfield, one of the midfielders had to stay back.

T.J. approached the offensive box in front of their goalie with only one thing on his mind.  He had been acutely watching this kid all day and he had noticed one thing.  This was a fundamentally sound and ‘play up’ goalie and one would who would rise to the occasion when the heat was on.  He had transferred into Pennhurst only two years ago and based on his great skill, he had gotten them this far.  He had one weakness though that T.J. had observed — he couldn’t handle the off-speed shots, especially over his left shoulder.

The left shoulder is opposite the goalie stick’s head if you’re right handed. In his case, the only weakness that T.J. had seen,
other than his struggle with off-speed shots, were those directed high up and left.  Like a changeup in baseball, the off-speed shot often confused the goalie’s timing and could cause him to over or under react at just the right time.  T.J. continued to charge the goal.

By this time, two defensemen from Pennhurst were running from both sides to get to T.J. before he could shoot, but his speed was too much.  As he approached the crease from the right side, he raised his stick above his head.  He threw his lower right elbow at the goalie as if executing a shot.  His stick-head never moved, but the goalie bit on the fake.  He waved the head of his stick high right and then easily lobbed the ball over the Pennhurst goalie’s left shoulder.  The referee blew the whistle — the game was over —and T.J.’s team had finally won.

The other goalie dropped to his knees and then put both hands on the ground in front of him.  T.J. went over and picked him up saying: “You may have lost on the scoreboard tonight, but you never gave up. I’m proud to have played against you.”

Haverland had just won the State Championship, and most watching said it was the greatest goalie performance at any level that they had ever seen.  T.J. was voted ‘Most Valuable Player’ of the game. In the fall, he would be off to a top 10 Lacrosse University where he would major in Criminal Justice and take his goalie skills to an even higher level.

T.J.’s coach told him after the game that you can play lacrosse for your entire lifetime and never be able to play or recreate what you just did.  His future college coach, who had been in the stands watching, came down on the field and put his arm around T.J. after the game and told him the same thing.  He went on to say: “T.J., I had my whole speech ready before you went into overtime.  I thought I might have to come down here and tell you that although you lost — you lost really well.

   T.J. Did Not Want To Believe That Losing Well Was Really Possible!

“You had made all those heroic saves throughout the game for your team, and if you had to lose, it would have been a great way to do it.  The only problem with my prepared speech is that you didn’t lose. As I watched you in the goal with your back turned to the field as the second overtime period started, I said to my assistant coach Dave, who’s over talking to your folks, that our new and future goalie is in a zone that few can ever get to.  He will not be scored on again tonight.  Tonight, and for however long this game lasts — he is truly invincible. And I don’t believe I’ve ever used that word to describe a player before.”

Many years passed and one day T.J got an email from his old high school coach.  The coach told him that once again his school, Haverland, would be playing for the State Championship and he wanted to run his pre-game speech by T.J. before his boys took the field.  It was short and to the point.  What he wanted to tell the boys was: “It wouldn’t be the number of players on the field but who those players were and what was coming from inside their hearts that would make all the difference.”  He then went on to tell the story of T.J. in the State Championship Game that took place over ten years before.  

Some of the boys had heard the story, but all were in awe listening to the emotion and passion in their coach’s voice as he retold the story again.  It was like replaying that game with the current Haverland players and right before the most important game that most of them would ever play.  

Haverland won the State Championship again that day and many of the boys said that it was the pre-game speech about T.J. and his team’s overtime victory that fueled their desire and commitment to make it happen.  It was also a close game, and with two minutes to go the score was again tied. Five times during the game they had gone ‘one-man’ down but had only allowed one goal to be scored during those five uneven possessions by the other team.  Haverland was then able to strip the ball from their opponent twice in the final two minutes and convert both into scores — ending the game at 7-5.

Along a lonely hallway in the back of Haverland’s new athletic center hangs a plaque with the story of that night so many years ago.  But to T.J., and all the members of that legendary team, the thing that hangs highest — is their refusal to lose.

The possibility of being invincible would stay inside T.J. and all who were there to watch him play that night. He learned that at the end of the streak where luck ends, sometimes you have to enter that zone …

                                 And Just ‘Will It’ To Happen.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
psiór vs.
                        pśιór "debate".

every area of interests has its cul de sac,
its brick-wall, a dead-end as it were,
a point where transcendence is
welcomed, unavoidable,
but nonetheless: miserable stalled.

philosophers have the cartesian
   cogito ergo sum -
whatever arithmetic of wording
they produce, not even samson
could topple this pillar of foundation
for the temple of thought.

the same is with my example...
it would appear that the diacritical
**** ι with a floating head i
did not translate further, beyond
the same treatment of yot (j) -
(gee a jeep! yodh: serif (י) and
rashi (

yet by oath alone, hebrew orthography
invokes itself in letters...
unlike the post-roman orthography
of words...

                   ι    י      
                      Y         (    .    )
                      ي

                            ­        floating alongside
e...
         if only the greek sigma
   had the tetragrammaton of the arabic "ι" -
the initial σ (يـ‎) & the final ς (ـي) are
indeed there, but what of the isolated
(ي‎) & the medial (ـيـ‎) - unless of course
of course we treat to invoke the
upper-case: Σ - such as is missing in arabic,
and is only a question of: how much
the prolonged line?

p.s.

   why would i ever like the evolution
of gaming?
  well... teenage boy, "trapped",
by a video game,
what were my usual saturday mornings?
strapped to an PS1....
tenchu, metal gear solid...
       i am a gamer,
like most people are readers
on the *******...
      i'm here to play a game,
with indefinite time constraints,
as i am concerned about
  massaging my ****,
to ease my prostate concerns...
wankers.

          i'm still going to listen
to byzantine chants...
    because? modern gaming,
well, sure,
   it's, "free"...
but there are in-built
           payment processors...
additions, etc.,

   like me and my maine ****
cat,
      6 candles....
i know he wants to "escape"
via an open window,
but before he can "escape"
(i will let him put)...
he has to play a blinking
game with him,
i squirm, i close my eyes,
he does likewise...
  the candles are still lit...

but gaming has evolved...
"once upon a time"
you'd run into a games shop,
tongue waggling...
for the next big release...

      i know... i know...
war robots...
           that mobile game...
2 lame 2 blame...
that's my user name...
i haven't spent a dime / cent /
penny on this game...

what i do like,
is playing the game with
a...  ah! - - - - - - - - - -

but times have changed,
it was no longer about RPG games
akin to final fantasy VII,
and cheat books...

or playing Sims 3000 finding
the escape wormhole
of playing a Sim playing
a computer game: inside a computer
game...
            
when you bought a game for
$50 bucks...
and was never told:
it's "free"...
but then have to invest in
******* overpriced additions...

- - - - - - - - - handicap!
        i like war robots,
because?
       i like playing with a handicap!
the people who spend money?
mostly Koreans, Russians,
Kazakhs... H'americans,
Brazilians...
            you know,
what really evolved in gaming?
the chance to play in a non-NPC
environment...
   to play alongside live gamers...

that **** broke the ******* camels
****, sack, and *******...
last time i checked...
women were more into gaming
than the men were:
candy cwash saga...
   men fathomed gaming
via the narrative component...
but what of this additional
payments?!
in the good old days:
you paid 20 quid, you had your narrative...
now, "fwee"... but,
no wait... there are... additional
payments, you see?

i like playing a game,
handicapped...
in a free game environment...
when, your prized asset
is patience?
and all the rich arabs / russians
are spending money,

   and you, simply, wait...
and perfect your tactics?!
while they are buying up all
the "cheat codes"?
        sure... they'll serve the purpose
of staging 4000 battles...
you, eh... around 300+...
but their % rate?
      6... they have a 6% rate of success...
with 4000 or so battles...
while you?
           300+ battles?
roughly in the range of
60 - 50% success rate...
        gaming, has changed,
games were never "free",
as they are "free" now...
        
   hell, i'm not a gamer to be honest...
some people treat taking a ****
as the only time required to read
a book, i treat the same "timed" allowance
to play a game...

                 my mother is a gamer,
we've reached a moment in history where
women will play more mobile games
than ever boys would play,
video, narrative games...

          my mother is a gamer,
that's just eerie...
                   i have a second game
in tow....
   a blinking game with my maine ****
cat, surrounded by 6 candles...
oh he has the garden for the worth of
night...

but gaming has changed...
    i like the handicap dynamics of
war robots...
       like **** will i spend any money
on the game...
  i want to play against
the paying russians, chinese, arabs
and kazakhs....

          ******* - my favourite mode...
team work...
every single time i leave
my rogatka to jump and sprint
capturing beacons
when the battle is almost over...

thank **** i just bypassed
the evolution of PS1 into PS2 and PS3
and whatever else came...
     i missed about 10+ years of
gaming...
   and i hit the beehive jukebox...
of games without NPC characters...

i revised gaming at the right time,
when NPC disppeared,
completely,
and gaming became revised
by the internet live-event
game-membership.
Sleepz Dec 2013
Lets play a game,
The one where we act like we know each other.
Let's play a game,
The one where I'll pretend to never hurt you.
Let's play a game,
Lets play a game.
People get used to pushing others away,
People get used to being on their own,
But it shouldnt be that way.
Let me understand you,
The way you understand me.
Let me show you a different game,
Let's call that game Life.
Let's play it together and cheat as much as we want,
Take off our masks,
And show the world what we really are.
Even if I'm ugly inside, and you are filled with happiness.
Even if I'm afraid of myself, show me that you aren't.
Show me a good future,
And I'll help you forget about the past.
Let's play this game,
Even though it wont last long,
Until the time comes where you have to come back home,
Back where youre alone trapped in your thoughts,
And you can't help but to be depressed.
You can't help but to wish you were dead.
Theres something missing here,
And you could use some fixing.
Let's play a game,
Where we could all pretend all these problems didnt even exist.
The one only me and you could understand.
Let's play a game,
Where you could escape and never come back.
Truth is I'll miss you,
Even though we pretended to know each other all along I fell in love with your disguise
But he thing is,
I know some truth about you,
I could see it in your eyes.
Let's play a game,
Where we dont need to act surprised
Where we dont try to hide,
It'd be impossible cause I'd always find you.
And when I do you'll have tears going down your eyes,
Its a side you never really let me see.
I remember you gave me the key to your heart,
But I still find myself knocking,
And you always answered the door.
Let's play a game,
Where I never saw you again.
Let's play a game,
Where all I really needed was your permission.
Let's play a game,
Before we ever have to go back to reality.
Let's play a a game.
emily  Jan 2019
jigsaw puzzles
emily Jan 2019
hey I want to play a game

let's play the game where you say I look good with him and I laugh, thinking it's an insult
let's play the game where I can't see him as a friend anymore after you said that
let's play the game where I contemplate my feelings towards him
let's play the game where I imagine a life with him because I fall so fast
let's play the game where being locked in the storage room for several years makes me afraid that he's a boy
let's play the game where I pick him apart to rebel against myself
let's play the game where I tear myself apart because he isn't my dream girl
let's play the game where I think about him for three months and it breaks me
let's play the game where I accidentally fall in love
let's play the game where I risk my heart and confess on a Tuesday
let's play that game where I'm crying in my best friend's hair and everyone passes by saying he wasn't worth it anyway
let's play the game where I wait for 8 days tearing my head apart
let's play the game where he finally calls and says "I want to be with you"
let's play the game where I get all I ever wanted
let's play the game where I'm happy with the love of my life and he's happy to be with me
let's play the game where he actually loves me too

Never mind, forget it
I don't want this
I don't want to play anymore
Prigs

Prigs keep chanting empty phrases,
Selling lies of “peaceful ways,”
Preach their “light” in glossy phases —
Profitable, self-praised plays.

They inhale the lies unceasing,
Spewed by darkness to the crowd,
Sworn to “positivity,”
Twisted youth that thinks it’s proud.

Like a Boy Scout’s oath, deceiving,
Vows are childish, crude and vain.
Fascism — the brain’s misweaving,
Just like Red indoctrained chains.

Realists? A rare mutation —
Skinless ones who feel the fake.
Many met obliteration,
No protection — raw and flayed.

Wounds cut deeper, grief grows vaster,
Madness sings a lullaby.
Prigs don’t get it — “onward, faster!”
They can’t see, and don’t know why.

Realists — their work is “*****,”
Truth is gruesome, rough, and stark.
Lies, while numbing fools unworthy,
Drive the thinking to the dark.

Truth must rip the lie and burn it —
That’s the labor. Grim the fate:
If you don’t praise all that’s vermin,
You’re erased. You’re not “the state.”

Censorship grows ever bolder —
Clear thought’s always in the scope.
But they pass the swampy smolder,
Let the prigs inhale and cope:

Wash their masks with fresh illusion,
Pose as strong, serene, and bright.
Realist — a weak intrusion,
Labelled sick, dismissed from sight.

Life for prigs is streamlined fiction,
Synced with chaos, world-approved.
Every step — self-justification,
And they love how they're “improved.”

So it was with ******’s legions:
“Swear and serve” — a proud refrain.
Off to war they marched as “heroes,”
Died in glory. Died in vain.

Realists? They met the prison.
Rashism plays the same charade:
Apes are taught to “see no schism,”
While their minds are cut and caged.

See, the split will shred your thinking,
If you’re not a **** — beware.
Are you one? Then keep on shrinking,
Kiss the ground and never dare.

But the prigs will face deletion
With their rot-born world, enslaved.
Satan grins at their submission —
Evil’s just “a smoky wave”

That disturbs their “happy forging,”
Forged in gold of sweet deceit.
Storms are coming. Truth is surging.
Earth will rise — and cleanse their feet.



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



Prigs will kneel — and burn with lies,
Truth ignites what filth denies.
Sweet illusion rots the core —
Storm is coming. Cleanse the floor.



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



The Deadlings

A twisted web of empty chatter —
Deceit, futility, and fear.
World’s madness shapes the soul to shatter —
And life turns ashes, year by year.

Not ashes few — the world’s infected
With walking corpses all around.
To call them “fools” is too selective —
Their Spirit’s gone. Not to be found.

These soulless creatures? Legion, truly.
And brains they lack, yet still they preach.
They mumble “God” in manners duly —
That’s propaganda’s rotting leech.

Fascism now rules the Madhouse —
A Global One, where filth is king.
Spirit fades, like breath in silence,
Mind is nearly vanishing.

The full-scale picture I have painted
In stanzas just a step before.
We all are guilty. All are tainted.
If you don’t fight — you're done. No more.

Your soul will shrink in forced compliance,
Your mind decay in deadly calm.
And you’ll become one of the “deadlings” —
The bottom reeks. BURN DOWN THE SCAM!

The judgment's passed — it came from Higher:
The Sun is lit — the wrath is real.
It will incinerate the liars,
This rotting world that cannot feel.

A twisted web of empty chatter —
Deceit, futility, and fear.
But those not chained by this brain-splatter
May yet survive. Reject the smear,

Reject the lies, the fear — and boldly
Slam the door with final might!
If nothing else — then go in glory,
Unmasking every Beast in sight.

Few will hear — the fog is blinding,
Propaganda eats the sky.
The deadlings kneel, their herds complying —
The ruling gang just lets them die.

They “heal” and herd — like with CowID,
They showed it all. The scam is plain.
But now the Reaper comes — from Higher.
The **** will writhe in holy flame.

The Reasoned few — the Earth will save them.
The tares — He’ll burn. The rot must end.
So stay relentless, clear, and brave then —
Only a slave dies mute, in bend.



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



Deadlings kneel — the Beast commands.
Burn the madhouse! Cleanse the lands.
Rot must die, or all is lost —
Truth survives at any cost.



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



Dead within, yet souls can wake,
Through the ash, the dawn will break.
Chains of madness — shatter, fall —
Spirit’s rise will purge it all.



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



Weeding Out the Truth — The "Left" in Science

"If facts don’t back the theory — toss them out."
— Arthur Bloch, Murphy’s Law shout.


They cull the data they don’t like —
The core of science sold and bought.
Few strange attractors, all alike —
False proofs churned out in heaps and fraught.

Scumbags cook “evidence” on call,
If orders come — no need to think.
Media spreads their toxic thrall,
Poisoning minds to the brink.

But facts that could bring falsehood down,
A flood of truth they hide away.
What reaches ears is rotten sound —
Support for lies that rule the day.

For Satan’s hands direct the show,
These lies come wrapped in dark disguise:
Fake AIDS, CowID’s deadly blow —
And fascism’s cruel, sharp lies.

They think a syringe will **** more than bombs,
While honest scientists grow few.
Colleagues crush each other’s qualms —
Betrayal’s root runs deep and true.

A “theory” made to fit the scheme —
Proofs fabricated in a snap.
From top to roots, this crooked dream
Is built on lies, on greed’s own trap.

All theories now are just a game —
A painted picture of decay.
The ****** of science share the shame —
They hunt the fool who’ll lose his way.

The fool believes, and soon will see —
The Darkness rising, victory.
While those who fight hide silently,
Clear minds outnumbered by decree.

Few fight the Evil, few stand tall,
So chances slim — the darkness looms.
But if you do not bend or fall,
The mad delusion meets its tomb.

That madness bred by falsehood’s seed,
Religion’s chains, Satanic creed.
Life’s not lived — just pain and bleed —
While fascism holds the world’s lead.

“Science” turned faith in fascist hands:
“Proven!” cries the zombie crowd.
Drenched in cretinism’s commands —
The slave is proud, and loudly loud.

Mad slaves churned out in endless line,
Production smooth, a steady flow.
Next step: turn all men to swine —
Science leads them to this low.

Look at Russia’s “Putin” scheme —
A mirror world sunk in the grime.
The bottom of the darkest dream —
A fallen world lost out of time.

Yet here’s a glitch — the warming rise,
“Science” says cows **** climate lies.
A gut instinct warns: the sacrifice
Is Death — the world must pay the price.



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



Flow is No Good

Far more vital is to watch the flow’s own dance,
Than digging deep in moments long gone past,
Torn out from streams where changes shift and prance —
The present’s pulse outstrips the dead-held grasp.

The flow’s alive — no frozen snapshot’s worth,
Studying that is futile, empty pain.
Give me experiments that breathe real birth,
Where life’s not cut and chopped, but free to reign.

Nature’s a flow — but you’ll rip out a thread,
Tear from its pulse some lifeless, stiffened part,
And dissect that — rewards will fill your head,
As if the essence lies in sliced-off art.

Then come your brutal, ruthless classifiers —
A savage sorting tool to earn your fame.
This monstrous gift will please the soulless liars,
Who bow to beasts and play their cruel game.

For beasts alone have served false science well,
Centuries darkened by their wicked rule.
The world’s in darkness, cursed in this hell,
Where ******* drag us all to madness’ pool.

CowID proved what lies can engineer,
Through false science, war on minds is waged.
The Spirit wiped from theory’s core appears,
And life’s true root is lost, its soul disengaged.

Spirit rules over mind in nature’s stream,
But cruel they seek to banish it from sight.
Worse than beasts is soulless void and dream,
Clay molded by monsters in endless night.

These fiends forge monsters blind and vile and grim,
While lies conceal the chaos worldwide spun.
Corrupt “science” feeds the lie’s wicked hymn,
Falsehoods echo until the mind’s undone.

Since childhood, foul nonsense torments the fools,
Tools of dulling minds, a brutal reign.
“Culture” is dumbed down by beastly rules,
Decay and rot infect the world’s domain.

We do not live — we rot beneath the strain,
For Spirit’s spark among us fades and dies.
Beneath the cruel devil’s grinding pain,
Last hope dissolves before our very eyes.

The end approaches, brutal, cold, and grim,
Yet fools and beasts will face their final fall.



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



Wheel of Ages

Putin’s doomed to fade away,
A new vile beast will take his place,
Spewing filth through screens each day —
A rotten plague on human race.

Perestroika thrown to trash,
And all the rest, no cash, no hope.
The nightmare grows, the systems crash —
No strength in spirit, no mind to cope.

We reap what we deserve and sow:
False sickness, horrors thick as night,
Wars raging, famine’s bitter blow —
We earned these curses in our plight.

If we endure, enslaved by lies,
The foul deceit of Satan’s breath,
Only a fool trusts such disguise —
Too late for tears, the hour’s death.

Armageddon looms worldwide,
For brainless slaves, a special fate.
The world unravels, torn and fried,
Its final fall will come too late.

Schwab spews nonsense, vile and grim,
No will remains, just “Swab Zones” rule.
The crowd is fed this trash and dim —
Await the next false plague’s cruel tool.

Putin falls — and all will fall,
Ashes cold beneath new hell.
In the wheel of ages’ call,
A “new” dark world will cast its spell.

Putin’s idol — just a spark,
A cigarette stub, a lost disgrace.
A camp disguised in social mark —
The world enslaved in dark embrace.

The wheel of epochs spins so fast,
Straight into void, new CowID’s lair.
Reason dies again, the past
Repeats its shame in fresh despair.



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



Fists and Pills

Bitter pill each waking day,
Can I breathe here, free at all?
Hardly — life just slips away,
Burdened by the endless fall.

All’s grown stale, and worse to come —
Poisons in those pills we take.
No more bullets, no more drums —
Just the lies that world will break.

With the venom of deceit,
Madness rules the broken land.
Free cheese traps replaced with cheat —
By the vile, cunning hand.

Bitter pills — I’d rather die
Than be crushed by clenched fists’ shame.
Those in pockets hold the lie —
Slaves who feed the Devil’s game.

Slave protests? A nightmare’s grip,
People knead like dough they’re made,
Lies are served as bitter dip,
Dough is shaped, then oven laid.

Darkness came, no spring ahead,
Fools will throw their stones at wise.
Evil laughs while feeding dread —
Soon the feast will claim the skies.

If the fiend should choke and fall —
Then there’s hope, a fighting chance.
We can rise and break the thrall,
If honor leads the last advance.

Honor gathered from the dust,
Small success to light the way.
Conscience called when all seems lost —
Faint but firm against decay.

Conscience small, like mind bereft,
Yet not all is lost in hell.
Though the cards are harshly dealt,
Not all fiends nor fools do dwell.

Numbers won’t always prevail,
Brains will lead the final fight.
Now outcasts, still we sail —
Guided by the flickering light.

Morons swarm like armies blind,
Traitors fill the ranks mid-grade,
Monsters lead and misalign —
No reason to be afraid.

Better death than yielding low,
Better fallen than enslaved.
Through the dark, the pathway’s woe —
Death’s the door to be braved.

Often it’s a brutal way —
Exit sharp, the final cut.
Lies destroy, soon all will pay —
Soon the fiends will face their rut.

But the tide will turn and rise —
Cataclysm will cleanse the blight.
This sick world will vaporize —
Fascism lost in final fight.

All the traitors crushed and burned,
All the fools who sold their soul,
Those whose spirits turned and turned —
Rot and shame will pay the toll.



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



To the False Scientist

You peer into the lens,
Your microscope so small.
You’ll find some worthless filth,
Then bury it for all.

With efforts wasted, blind,
You torture minds so dull.
Pour poison in the grind,
The fools applaud your pull.

More venom in the mix,
Any liquid will do.
Idiots cheer your tricks —
A hero, not a *****.

To fools you spread your lies,
Deceit surrounds your name.
They munch and slavishly rise —
You herd them all to shame.

You lead us to become
The beasts they want us to be.
The monsters cry, “Attack!” —
You pull the strings, you see.

We live within the Spirit —
It’s sovereign, strong, and free.
But you, you wretched parasite,
Sell arrogance as key.

You build this wretched world,
A land of cheap deceit.
They order you the cheese —
You spread it at their feet.

To banish Spirit’s light
Is Darkness’ twisted goal.
In your so-called “proofs” and “facts,”
You shove it from the soul.

We swallow that nonsense —
Mechanism, decay.
We **** ourselves with lies —
Fascism’s foul display.

Rot is what remains
From all your hollow claims.
The goat stands as a god,
Dark servants call his name.

You’re one among the cursed,
A broken mind, unhinged.
Your soul is dead to Light,
In theories, lost, unhinged.

Your doctrines all a trap,
Phantasms bought and sold.
They **** us, tear us down —
Your tales are poison cold.

We are the Children of Light,
Our bodies just decay.
Will you ever understand?
You’re trapped, led all astray.

In your throne of error,
You rule a kingdom blind.
False scientist, you fool,
A shadow of the mind.

CowID exposed your game —
A lie to start the plague.
And with your wicked schemes,
You lead us all to vague.



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



To the False Scientist — Brutal Truth

You squint inside your **** lens,
Your microscope, a joke.
You’ll find some worthless ****,
And shove it in a poke.

With your sick grind, you break
Dumb minds like fragile toys.
Pour poison, watch ’em fake —
Your fools, your stupid boys.

More venom in the brew,
Any filthy flask.
Morons worship you —
No thief, just their mask.

To idiots you lie,
Your fraud spreads thick and fast.
They chew and crawl, comply —
You herd the worthless mass.

You lead us all to rot,
Beasts chained to your hell.
The monsters scream, “Attack!” —
You drag us down this well.

We dwell within the Spirit —
The true power here.
But you, foul sellout,
Breed nothing but fear.

You build this filthy world,
A crapfest paved with lies.
They pay you for their cheese —
You smear it, filth in disguise.

To exile Spirit’s spark —
Is Darkness’ only aim.
In your rotten “theories,”
You **** the sacred flame.

We swallow your ****,
Mechanics of decay.
We slit our own throats —
Fascism’s foul buffet.

Rot spews from your mouth,
Your hollow ******* throne.
The goat is king here —
Darkness claims the throne.

You’re one of those cursed freaks,
A broken, twisted mind.
Your soul is dead, extinct —
In your lies confined.

Your doctrines are death-traps,
Ordered lies, grotesque.
They poison and **** —
Your fantasies grotesque.

We’re children of the Light,
Your bodies rot away.
Will you ever see the truth?
Or just decay and stray?

In your throne of madness,
You’re king of fools and lies.
False scientist, you’re just
A shadow in disguise.

CowID laid you bare —
A plague you called your own.
Your poison’s just begun —
You reap what you have sown.



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



Into the Void

Poems fly into the void,
All else is shallow crap —
Self-love and pride employed,
But lacking any spark.

When you adjust to readers,
Will they find a flame?
They'll find some blind believers —
It’s lies that play the game.

If truth appears, they scoff —
Sharp words are out of style.
Praise lies, dress truth off —
“Love” is poetry’s file.

Slaves cannot love, they’re many,
The herd is thick and blind.
When you bring wrath and warning,
Success you’ll rarely find.

For just a chosen few,
When dirt is piled so high,
And madmen sell their virtue,
Self-justified and sly.

Poisons of false knowledge,
They cloud the narrow mind.
If you strike at these lies,
Your verses must be lined

With edge, with fire, with grit —
No pleas, no weak request.
Wash blood with every bit —
Your poem’s baptism test.

A filthy devil sits
Above, no mercy shown.
Your verse? A pit, not hits,
If sanity has flown.

Instead, they churn out trash —
“Love” in rotten Hell.
Goats bleating with brash flash,
Turning verse to hellish smell.

Poems fly... I don’t know where —
Perhaps some other Hell.
I do not grieve or care —
I fight what’s raised by hell.

See **** once more crucified,
Spouting nonsense to the herd.
A new **** poem’s cried —
I couldn’t give a word.

Will madness praise or trample? —
Art moves on its own way.
If you don’t rant or sample —
Your days will waste away.

In fruitless toil, you’ll be,
Yet still a spark may shine.
This world’s foul tyranny
Presses with crushing spine.

At least a grain of truth,
In verse, brings some success.
Half-truths breed the youth
Of **** and wickedness.

Far worse than cunning lies,
Is poison hid so deep —
Their twisted nature flies,
Earth’s core will soon reap.

This Hell on Earth will burn,
Sun scorches all the mess.
Chaos will crash and churn —
And purge this wickedness.

So sellout ways won’t help,
False grandeur just a chain.
A burden to the self,
A shackle on the brain.

So fly, my verse, take wing —
No matter where you land.
If brave souls hear you sing —
You’ll never lose this stand.



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



Reflecting World Decay in Verse

No harder task exists than this:
To catch the world’s decay in rhyme,
To mirror all its rotten bliss,
Its wild delirium, grime.

To write such themes in verse — a grind,
Almost beyond control.
To grasp the madness of the mind,
The rot that swallows whole.

You’ve got to think, and think some more,
Invest your time and soul,
To dissect how vile worms implore
Small minds to serve their goal.

They cloak their hate in “truth” and “love,”
Disguise the foul and sick,
Demand your sacrifice thereof —
Your spirit, torn and thick.

Relentless tension shapes the beat,
The rhyme must strike like steel,
You’ve got to be yourself — compete,
Or else no truth you’ll feel.

If passion fuels the rhyme and thought,
The weak will fall behind.
No lazy fool will find the sought,
No meaning will they grind.

Reflecting such complex decay
Through verse — nothing’s more true.
Though many fail to light the way,
A few will make it through.

To pierce the dark, begin the path
Toward Light beyond this blight,
For endless won’t endure the wrath
Of foulness, scorn, and night.

The poem holds a spirit’s soul,
And Spirit rules the few,
Where Mind has not lost all control —
Their vision pure and true.

Spirit plus Mind — Spirit leads,
That’s what the verse restores.
If so, then all that truth proceeds —
No madman’s feeble wars.

The “angry poet” in this world,
Is therapist and blade.
He adds catharsis — truth unfurled —
To madness and charade.

With harsh style cutting lies apart,
With facts the verse unfolds.
Yet soon we all will leave this part —
To Spirit’s realm untold.

Who’s learned this hell, yet kept his soul,
Not sold to beasts or lies,
Will rise above the murky shoal,
While falsehood fades and dies.

To crush the lies — the poet’s task,
If Mind will lend its hand.
Sharp verses cut — no luck or mask,
But wisdom’s strict command.

For minds are often sieves and holes,
Like water lost in sand,
A cruel habit, bred in souls,
To feed the darkness’ brand.

This circus tightrope nears its end,
The soul may drift away,
If servile fool, no will to bend,
You’ve lost your light and sway.

Defiance, will unbent — the code
Of verses fierce and raw.
The stench of rot — a heavy load —
If lesson’s lost, no law.

Complex themes must be addressed
In order, line by line.
It won’t bring joy, but nothing less —
Than truth to break the spine.

No other path can heal this blight,
The sickness deep, insane.
Say no to madness, lies — take flight —
Escape the world-wide chain!



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



Land of Losharya, Planet of Trash

Land of Losharya,
Planet of Trash:
Where Evil scripts
Maim souls in thrash.

Big are the wins
In this cruel game —
If you’re not “with it,”
You’re cast to shame.

If honest and bold —
You’re hunted down.
If vile and cold —
You wear the crown.

Or feed at troughs,
Trampling the weak.
Almost asylums —
The slaves who seek.

Madness is norm
In that dark place.
A world sunk deep
Beneath disgrace.

Beasts who rule
From shadows’ veil,
Wild morals loose —
Like rats that flail.

Land of Losharya,
Planet of Trash:
A haze so thick
Of lies that thrash.

From childhood lies —
You’ll lose your mind.
Perfect method —
You’ll never find

Freedom’s spark,
While serving freaks.
Lifelong fooling,
Truth never speaks.

Planet of Trash
Drifts to its end:
Souls withered dry —
Await their penance.

Soon the reckoning —
Through cataclysms’ roar,
Then cold will come —
To cleanse and restore.



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



Land of Losharya, Planet of Crap

Land of Losharya,
Planet of Crap—
Where Evil scripts
Soul-crushing traps.

Big wins here,
Feeding the beast—
If you’re sane,
You’re cast to the least.

Bold and honest?
You’re hunted, crushed.
Vile and slimy?
You sit and hush.

Or lick the trough,
Step on the weak,
Crazy asylum—
Slaves that reek.

Madness is law
In this hellhole.
World drowned deep
In filth and control.

Monsters rule
Behind the veil,
Loose morals,
Rat-like, frail.

Land of Losharya,
Planet of Crap—
Lies choke air,
Brains snap and snap.

Since childhood fed
With poison and lies,
You’ll lose your mind,
Never to rise.

Think you’re free?
You’re their **** fool—
Life’s a lie,
Serving the cruel.

Planet of Crap
Heading to death—
Souls shriveled dry,
Pay with their breath.

Coming soon—
Cataclysm’s fire,
Then cold purge—
Burn it entire.



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



The Stench of Earth’s Breeding Pit

Two hemispheres,
A mess of neurons—
I’m a ******* lost
Among loud morons,

If I buy the crap
That brain’s the source
Of all our thoughts.
Listen close, of course—

Put a point in this fight:
Brain’s just a receiver.
You’ll soon see the blight—
A nursery for evil deceiver.

You’ll judge it fierce,
Call it the FALL
Of this world, where creatures
Rule through decay’s thrall,

Mind and Spirit crushed,
All puppets in hand.
“Life’s just fine!”—they hush,
Lulling the land.

Spirit’s life’s core,
Mind must obey.
Dissenters? Outcast—
“Not sharp,” they say.

World turned inside out—
Lies, tricks, and spite.
This final age—no doubt—
Brings reckoning’s bite.

For the perversions
Alien to Light.
Destruction looms—
Monsters face the fight!

Slaves fallen low,
Beneath the pit’s rim—
Burn with the creatures—
Farewell, stench grim!



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



Bell’s Theorem

Boldly it revealed—
The world’s unbreakable thread,
Where “causality” is weak,
A pauper, a myth to be reckoned.

Particles of God entwined
In nonlocal binds, combined—
A UNITY, a sacred lace,
That holds all space and time in place.

Break all dogmas, break the chains,
Spirit’s bond forever remains.
Only with your gut you’ll feel
This binding force, so raw, so real.

Believe the “strict” world order,
And you become a puppet’s warder,
Under control of venomous fiends—
Their science spits out tainted schemes.

These monsters sweep away the truths
That challenge cause-and-effect, and sooth
The fools who buy the lies they spread—
By toxic media’s poison fed.

Schools churn out the numb and blind,
Who chew their thoughts, their wills confined,
Milling nonsense all around—
Souls decay where lies abound.

Fight the tide of madness, flee
Back to Spirit’s clarity,
Where madness ruled as “norm” before—
Dare to rise, or be no more.



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



Mind’s Forshmak

“Buy — find; sell — you lose.”
An old proverb, sharp and true.

Mind’s forshmak filled with lies,
With fears disguised by faint hopes’ guise—
Just enough to keep the sludge and dread
Alive inside the hollow head.

Exploiting hope’s been old as earth—
New fools born to prove their worth,
Pushed to worship ancient lies,
With powdered cheeks and hollow eyes.

Dressed in trends to sell the show,
Then crushed by “wisdom” from below—
That’s the core of every evil scheme,
A nightmare cloaked in false esteem.

Abstract idols rule us all,
Democracy’s the greatest fall—
A circus farce, a joke so grim,
No deeper nonsense found in him.

Bought and sold, your soul’s the cost,
Feeding on the meaningless dross.
But chiefly, heed the media’s call—
They rule governments, one and all.

From Covid’s stage they showed the way—
A phantasmagoria’s play,
On screens, vile puppets holding court,
Not elected, but the sport

Of hidden hands that issue laws,
With “advice” to mask their claws—
The festering sore democracy—
A farce, a cruel hypocrisy.

Mind’s forshmak now takes new form,
Crafted by **** in brewing storm—
A “new world” built on false disease,
Where “care” means death with cruel ease.



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



Mind’s Forshmak — A Poisoned Slop

“Buy — you find; sell — you lose.”
That proverb’s poison, cold abuse.

Mind’s forshmak — soaked in fear,
With fake hopes drizzled to keep you near—
A sludge that suffocates the soul,
A bitter grind that swallows whole.

Exploiting hope — a cruel, old game,
New fools bred just the same,
Forced to kneel before old lies,
Painted masks to blind their eyes.

Dressed up fresh to fool the crowd,
Then crushed beneath “wisdom” loud—
The core of every sick design,
Where evil’s roots and poison twine.

Idols forged from empty words,
Democracy — the joke absurd—
A circus freak show, vile and grim,
A stinking pit, a rotten hymn.

Sell your soul and buy their lies,
Feed on garbage they devise.
But mainly trust the media’s grip—
They run the world, a venomous script.

Covid’s mask revealed the farce,
A nightmare stage, a rigged charade—
On screens, the puppets play their parts,
Not chosen, but enslaved by arts

Of hidden fiends who pull the strings,
Their “advice” a cloak for kings—
Democracy’s festering wound,
A foul cesspool, tightly wound.

Now mind’s forshmak’s brewed anew,
By **** who build a world untrue—
Fake plagues unleashed to **** with care,
Where “concern” is death laid bare.



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



Time of Change

Change means lies and betrayal,
Stupidity, fear, decay,
Black crowd comes to replace hell —
That’s why fascism’s here to stay.

Demons ruled this world before,
But hired lackeys, fat and sly,
Feasting while they wage their war,
Sipping tea as time goes by.

Few of those can launch the war
With CowIDs and their lies.
But the **** will try much more —
Lies that flood and hypnotize.

Fools obey these fiends’ commands,
Ready just to bite and chew,
To obey with open hands —
Even “fetch” they’ll do for you.

Demons told their ****: “Build fast
A Digital Camp, prepare!”
And they’re running full at last —
Noise, barking dogs, despair.

Look around, you’ll see those mutts
Barking loud, in every place.
Noose or noose — it’s all the cuts,
Bites that poison, leave no trace.

Dogs don’t bite to **** outright,
They bite often, slow and mean —
Till the body loses fight,
Then the mind gets crushed between.

Change is coming: those ****** dogs
Are prepared to take your place.
Don’t surrender, break their logs —
Death’s harsh Reaper holds no grace.

Nonsense: old hag with her scythe
Will be worse than demons’ game.
If your life’s a sieve, no blithe —
She’ll shred you up, there’s no shame.



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



Writings and Priests

Catechism of lies — a crisis
Brews for souls, a dark abyss.
Aiming for Heaven, they’ve fallen
To Hell’s pit — fools’ cruel twist.

Those who trust get filtered truth,
Only parts allowed to see.
Madness wrapped in broken logic,
Nonsense spreads like misery.

Strengthening faith in the notion
That the fat priest is God’s link,
Not a brazen, filthy tyrant —
Slob who’ll push you to the brink.

Satanism’s the core of faiths,
Buddhism lags behind, it’s true.
Chains on soul weigh heavier
Than on body — fascism, too.

It invades your mind and spirit,
Masked as kindness, smiles fake.
False contagions have been shown —
Only few refuse to break.

Schools and priests breed ******* slaves,
Propaganda serves the beast.
Blindly trusting servants’ lies —
Faith reduced to painful feast.

If you seek the path to Freedom —
Doubt, search deep within your core.
What you find is still unknown —
Don’t demand, explore much more.

You may get heresy or madness,
When you walk through empty mind,
Vanity, cheap chatter, nonsense —
Junk that’s easy to find.

Yet a few will find the spark,
Not the dung, but shining stones —
Diamonds born of Spirit’s miracle,
From the Mind’s eternal tones.



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



Flagging Wolves with Paper Chains

Endless paper chase — a trap,
Where nonsense rules the business map.
Often paperwork outranks the deed,
If you’re a sly fox, sharp to breed.

You can trick the filthy fiends,
Who'd bend you with their greedy schemes,
Taxes crushing like a noose —
Judgment made in law’s abuse.

Tax fiends watch your every move,
A flock enslaved, with none to prove:
You’re born for profit, beast’s delight —
If sharp, your life’s a grueling fight.

See it clear — your work’s in vain,
Only films enrich the main.
Real life’s darkness, stench, and waste,
Where promises are swiftly chased.

At best, a raider’s grip will claim
Your hard-earned business — gone, no name.
Such fates for ventures in hard times,
No saints survive these crooked crimes.

The mind, drunk on hope, will fail —
Less watchful means a freighted jail.
Learn misery, the sum, the cell,
But never bow to logic’s spell.

If mind obeys your Spirit’s flame,
It grows and thrives — no greed, no shame.
Spend your years on this alone —
And never join the cruel drone.

Not being ****’s an art, a fight:
Shape your senses, clear your sight,
Serve not mind, but Spirit’s ray —
Your inner Light to guide your way.



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



Life Worth Just Broken Coins

Thoughts to "fly" from balconies?
Well, worse harm there simply isn’t—
Life, a broken coin by all degrees,
Priced cheap, a worthless imprint.

Life shattered, cracked, and worn—
Fear and lies have done the breaking,
A fiend exposed, forlorn,
Truth’s facade is simply faking.

The fiends delight to bow to Night,
Media drowning all in sludge,
They help to ***** the faintest light,
Drowning truth in filthy grudge.

If you refuse to join the pests,
You need not be their kind of ****.
Rise UP! Don’t settle for the rests—
No life among the rotten, numb!

For Spirit’s Height, prepare your mind,
Though world’s a madness dressed anew,
New fascism and dumbness bind,
The **** infects both me and you.

They swarm around, the dull and lame,
Smart minds vanished like a ghost.
The mind in darkness runs its game—
Signal clear, but not a toast!

Not from the balcony you’ll leap—
Cataclysm would be your fall.
To Spirit’s Spheres your soul must keep,
Or dumbness drags you through the thrall.

To fly or fall — the choice is yours.
The fiends approach, the final fight.
Only in battle’s searing wars,
Can you save your soul from night.

Hear only it—your inner guide—
Or be lost to endless dread.



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



Melancholy and Creation

To banish grief — a wasted fight:
You must command it with your might,
Bend all the pain and stress inside
To art’s sharp edge — don’t whine or hide.

Melancholy’s natural when chained,
So sort the lies and filth ingrained,
Use sorrow’s fuel to grind your verse,
Turn aching dust into the curse.

If you’re a writer, there’s more ways
To shade the meaning, weave the phrase,
To dance on edges, fine and sly,
Before your lines in nonsense die.

For artists, harder still the load—
Churlionis once showed that road.
Today you drown in madness’ sea,
Better Lira’s words might be.

But music’s fate is even worse,
Most folks are fools who crave the curse.
Pop hits are served on silver plates,
While wise ones seek more cryptic fates.

And film? The last resort, my friend:
With money’s skill, the fiends defend
Their “mainstream” traps — in broke despair,
All else decays beyond repair.

Collect your grief — explode with force,
Surpass the shame, the oily course.
These final times demand but rage,
Just hold on — end’s near the stage.

For Cataclysm sums it all:
No more deceit, no more the crawl.
Give all your last to Melancholy,
And leave this Hell both fierce and folly.

Grief squared, grief cubed — a symbol raw,
A harsh world’s truth that cuts and gnaws.
Better harsh symbols, clear and bright,
Than sellout cretins lost in blight.

Raise up a monument to Grief,
As you depart this hellish reef.
Beyond the spheres, perhaps, is joy —
Here in this Hell, just filth and ploy.



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



Time to Die

It’s time — the den squeezes tight and chokes,
No SOS — “save our broken folks!”
This cursed world: dumb slaves bow down,
Before the Evil’s iron crown.

No chance to rise within this mess,
It’s total — media’s distress,
A slave confined since first day’s dawn,
By wicked **** who rule the spawn.

Directives given to the fiend,
Who thinks of profit, never heed.
He sets the Overtonian bars —
Windows, walls, and endless scars.

Relentless, cruel, he plants the pain,
For those who feel, no light remains.
The den’s no place for minds that think —
Just fools and ******* on the brink.

The den’s a cage, a home of slaves,
Where filth and dullness spread like waves,
And spirit’s torn by Hell’s own maw,
Devoured deep beneath its law.

Only Cataclysm will suffocate,
Who keeps a soul in this dark state,
Will flee the den, and rise anew,
To Spirit’s Spheres — beyond the rue.



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



In the Dungeon of Darkness

Gray shades of measure hold no sway—
Darkness through the gray ensnares our way.
Stop chasing shadows, hues, and tones—
Only Light can save us in these bones.

Nonsense all—that Light alone
Can’t live without the Shadow’s throne.
These twisted words would bend the mind,
And reason suffers, falls behind.

Such "dialectics" drag the crowd
Into a madness, bleak and loud.
God’s spark depends on none of this—
No “fuel” can dim eternal bliss.

In Inner Spaces high and vast,
Tyranny drives falsehood fast.
It crushes Freedom’s fragile flame,
And drowns the soul in guilt and shame.

Dulling minds and rotting hearts—
The fate that tears all worlds apart.
What saves us? Consciousness, or pain?
Or dumbly marching to the slain?

Ten percent must grasp the Dark,
This fires the rage that strikes the mark.
Without the fight, you’re lost, undone—
No battle means the war is won.

Awareness, Light—that’s where we fight,
To rise from knees and claim the right.
In Hell, only together strong,
Yet chances seem forever wrong.

The Cataclysm will erase—
Soon dawns a clean, reborn embrace.
From scratch will Beauty then arise—
A Light without the Shadow’s lies.

But those who kneel will never see
Such truth as Beauty’s victory:
A little Shadow makes you weak,
A wretch, a fool, a soul to break.

There are Spiritual Realms above—
Where Light is both foundation, love.
ONLY LIGHT—no Shadow’s seed,
Shadows live in Hell’s dark breed.




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



Modern Ku Klux **** and Their Plan to Wipe the Sheep

Ku Klux ****’s plan is lost, decayed—
Ruined by CowID’s cruel raid.
Too few fell, though the sheep obeyed—
A shame, disgrace, their coup delayed.

They need to fan the flames of war—
The reason’s old, but still in store:
They’ll mark with brands to rule some more,
Subjugation’s deadly core.

That brand’s inside the dullest brains—
Idiocy now reigns as gains.
It crushes like a louse’s pains,
This ****** world that still remains.

The modern ****—once strict and planned—
Now chaos strikes with sudden hand.
The Cataclysm’s near at hand,
A global lord will soon command.

Behind him comes the Weary God,
Who’s tired of this vile fraud.
Earth’s evils gnaw his spirit’s rod,
But fools are deaf, blind, and flawed.

Involution’s not the scheme,
That once they dreamed, or dared to dream.
The world’s now close to empty stream—
Cataclysm brings the gleam.

For those who’ve stood and not yet fell,
The Spirit’s Spheres will serve as shell.
For beasts lost deep in lies and hell,
Their homeland will be smoke’s swell.

The sun now shines with fiercest flame,
To burn this madness down to shame.
Hey fools, get tight, prepare your aim—
Just ‘round the bend awaits your game.

The fool "thinks"—he’s not the prey,
But shooter in this deadly play.
Move with your last strength today—
The time to burn the targets, hey!



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



Modern Ku Klux **** and Their Plan to Exterminate the Sheep

Ku Klux ****’s lost every plan—
CowID crushed their weak scam.
Too few sheep fell for the scam—
Shame and scorn on every man.

They gotta spark the flames of war—
Old tricks, yeah, but still *******:
Brand the herd and keep the score,
Slaves beneath the iron floor.

That mark’s drilled deep in stupid brains—
Idiots now run the plains.
Crushing like a louse’s pains,
This filthy world with toxic stains.

Modern ****’s a broken joke—
Chaos crushed the twisted yoke.
Cataclysm’s the final poke,
Global hell’s about to smoke.

Behind it comes the Weary God,
Tired of Earth’s vile rod.
Spirit gnawed by filth and fraud,
While fools stay deaf, dumb, and flawed.

Involution’s not their scheme—
Their dark plans break at the seam.
World’s nearly void, lost its gleam—
Cataclysm’s the harsh dream.

For those few who’ve not yet dropped,
Spirit’s spheres where they’ve been popped.
But beasts in lies, their fate is locked—
Their grave is smoke; their bones are mocked.

The sun blazes hotter still,
Burning down this cursed ****.
Hey dumb sheep, stand firm and chill—
Around the bend’s the killing drill.

The fool “thinks” he holds the gun—
Not the target, but the one
Pulling triggers till it’s done—
Burn the marks, the final run.



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



Modern Ku Klux **** and Their Sheep-Slaughter Scheme

Ku Klux ****? Their plan’s a joke —
CowID crushed their rotten cloak.
Too few sheep bought the **** lie—
Shame and spit on all that try.

Time to light the ****** fire—
Old war games for fresh desire.
Brand the dumb to keep control,
Stamp the herd—destroy the soul.

That brand’s burnt deep in stupid heads,
Idiots feeding on the dregs.
Crushing fools like lice infest,
This filthy world, a noxious pest.

Modern ****’s a shattered farce,
Chaos tore their crooked charts.
Cataclysm’s coming fast,
World’s last breath, the final blast.

Behind it stalks a God worn thin,
Sick of Earth’s corruption, sin.
Spirit’s gnawed by filth and ****,
Fools stay deaf, dumb, deaf and numb.

Involution? Hell no, friend—
Their vile plan has reached its end.
World’s a void, a wasted space—
Cataclysm cleans the place.

For the few who’ve kept their flame,
Spirit’s spheres will stake their claim.
But beasts lost in lies, ****** souls—
Their fate is ash, their graves are coals.

The sun burns hotter every day,
Scorching all the lies away.
Hey dumb sheep, get in line—
Death waits just beyond the sign.

The fool thinks he pulls the trigger—
Not a target but the killer.
Pull the cord with twisted grin—
Burn the marks, the death begins.



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



Modern Ku Klux **** and Their Plan to Slaughter Sheep

Ku Klux ****? Their worthless scheme
Got smashed by CowID’s steam.
Too **** few sheep bought their lie —
Shame on all who let it fly.

Time to spark the war anew,
Old tricks, filthy, stale, and cruel.
Brand the fools, their minds enslave,
Keep the herd — obedient, grave.

That cursed brand’s inside their brains,
Idiots drowning in their stains.
Crushing sheep like vermin pests,
This rotten world feeds on their mess.

Modern ****’s a broken joke,
Chaos ripped their plans to smoke.
Cataclysm’s hammer falls,
Final curtain — death calls.

Behind the scene, a god worn thin,
Sick of Earth’s vile, twisted sin.
Spirit gnawed by filth and grime,
Fools remain deaf, dumb, and blind.

Involution’s not the game
They planned — it’s all ash and shame.
World’s a void — a hollow shell,
Cataclysm rings the bell.

Few remain who keep the spark,
Spirit’s realms to light the dark.
But the beasts in lies, they rot,
Ash and smoke become their lot.

The sun’s a blade that cuts and burns,
Scorching lies, the tide now turns.
Hey, dumb sheep, line up tight —
Death waits just beyond the light.

The fool thinks he pulls the string,
Not the target, but the king
Of destruction — twisted grin —
Burn the marks, let death begin.



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



Modern Ku Klux **** and Their ****** Plan to Slaughter Sheep

Ku Klux ****? Their rotten plot
Was crushed, destroyed by CowID’s shot.
Too few fools swallowed all their lies —
Shame on sheep who close their eyes.

Ignite the war, fan hatred’s flame,
Old poison, sick and vile game.
Stamp the mark on dumb skulls tight —
Keep the herd locked up in fright.

That cursed brand’s a plague in brains,
Dumb as dirt, soaked through with stains.
Crushed like lice beneath their boots,
This hellish world feeds on their roots.

Modern **** — a festering curse,
Chaos tore apart their verse.
Cataclysm’s wrath will rise,
Final reckoning in skies.

Behind the scenes, a god worn thin,
Sick to death of Earth’s vile sin.
Spirit gnawed by filth and slime,
Fools remain deaf, blind, and blind.

Involution’s twisted lie —
Not what they’d planned — watch it die.
World’s a wasteland, void, and hell,
Cataclysm rings the knell.

Few survive — keep spirit’s fire,
Rise beyond the blackened mire.
But the beasts trapped in their lies,
Burn to ash, smoke in the skies.

The sun’s a blade — cuts, burns, rips —
Scorching all their coward lips.
Hey, dumb sheep, march tight and close —
Death’s cold grip around you grows.

Fools think they pull the strings — no!
They’re the trigger, bringing woe.
Power drunk on hate and spite —
Burn the sheep, ignite the fight!

This world decays, rots, and bleeds —
Puppets caught in madman’s deeds.
****’s last breath, a twisted roar,
Cataclysm’s coming door.

No mercy for the blind and dumb —
The end is near, the beat of drums.
Wake up, rise, or burn in flame —
Only fury wins this game!




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



Modern Ku Klux ****

Their rotten schemes all blown to dust —
CowID crushed their poisoned lust.
Too few sheep swallowed poison whole,
Shame scars the herd’s corrupted soul.

Ignite the fires, fan the rage,
Old lies scream from every cage.
Stamp the brand on numb skulls cracked —
No mercy now, no turning back.

This cursed mark, a plague of fools,
Brains boiled dry by their cruel rules.
Like lice crushed under tyrant’s heel,
Their shameless lies the darkness seal.

Modern ****, a festering blight,
Chaos tears apart their night.
Cataclysm’s hammer falls,
Final curtain, death’s harsh calls.

A god worn thin, bloodied and raw,
Tired of Earth’s vile, rotten law.
Spirit gnawed by filth and shame,
But fools remain deaf, blind, and tame.

Involution’s sickening lie —
Not what they dreamed, only die.
World crumbles, rots, decays —
Cataclysm ends their days.

Few stand tall, fierce in the fire,
Rising up from the funeral pyre.
But beasts trapped in their own lies,
Burn to ash, smoke fills the skies.

The sun’s a sword — it slices deep,
Burns the coward, scalds the sheep.
Hey, dumb sheep, line up tight —
Death’s dark shadow blots your sight.

Fools think they pull the strings? No!
They’re the trigger of their woe.
Power drunk on hate and spite —
Burn the sheep, ignite the fight!

This world festers, bleeds, decays —
Puppets dance in madman’s plays.
****’s last howl, a desperate roar,
Cataclysm breaks the door.

No mercy for the blind, the numb —
Drums of doom, the end has come.
Wake or burn in hellish flame —
Only fury wins this game!

Rise! Rage! Smash the chains, break the mold,
Burn down the lies, shatter the cold.
This final battle — no retreat!
Hell awaits, but death’s defeat.



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


Modern Ku Klux ****

Their rotten plans lie smashed to dust,
CowID crushed their filth and lust.
Too few sheep drank their toxic brew —
A shameful herd, a poisoned crew.

Ignite the wars, fan blazing hate,
Old lies that drag the world to fate.
Stamp that brand on cracked, numb minds —
No mercy now, the last binds.

This cursed mark, a plague of fools,
Brains drained dry by rotten rules.
Like lice beneath a tyrant’s heel,
Their lies in shadows seal and steal.

The modern ****, a festering blight,
Lost their grip in chaos’ night.
Cataclysm’s hammer drops —
End of lies, the body flops.

A god grown tired, worn and raw,
Fed up with Earth’s grotesque law.
Spirit gnawed by filth and shame,
But fools remain deaf, blind, tame.

Involution, death disguised,
Not the plan — just world’s demise.
The system crumbles, rots, decays —
Cataclysm seals their days.

Few still stand, defiant, fierce,
Rising up through smoke and pierce.
While beasts of lies and cursed ****
Burn to ash, and doom will come.

The sun slashes deep and bright,
Searing cowards in the night.
Hey dumb sheep, get in line tight —
Death looms just beyond your sight.

Think you pull the strings, you fools?
You’re the trigger, you’re the tools.
Fueled by hate and spiteful lies —
Burn the flock, hear their cries!

This world festers, bleeds, decays —
Puppets dance their mindless plays.
****’s last howl, a desperate scream,
Cataclysm shatters the dream.

No mercy now for blind, numb sheep,
Drums of doom their souls will keep.
Wake or burn in hell’s fierce flame —
Fury’s all that wins this game!

Rise! Rage! Smash chains, break the mold!
Burn the lies, shatter the cold!
This final war has just begun —
Hell’s at door, and we won’t run!

No more lies! No more shame!
Face the fire, call your name!
For those who bow and blindly kneel —
Only ashes left to feel.

See the tyrants shake and sweat,
Their false empire’s final debt.
A broken throne, a dying god,
Bound to rot in filth and sod.

But Spirit’s flame still burns inside,
A fierce, untamed, relentless tide.
They choke on power’s bitter taste —
But time will end their foul disgrace.

So stand, you few, the brave, the strong,
Your souls the fire, your hearts the song.
The end is near, the veil will tear —
Justice rises from despair.

No coward’s path, no easy way,
The fight is fierce — no time to stray.
For only those who dare to rage
Can break free from this cursed cage.

The world will burn, and from its ash,
New light will rise — a bright new clash.
The ****’s dark reign, the fool’s disguise,
Destroyed beneath the blazing skies.

So scream your rage! Let fury fly!
No more lies, no more “goodbye.”
This final battle’s brutal call —
For freedom, fury, end of all!




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



The Modern Ku Klux ****

Their rotten scheme? Crushed under CowID’s heel,
A blighted plague that no sane sheep could feel.
The poison they spilled—too weak, too thin—
The herd rejected their venomous sin.

Burn the world in wars of lies, ignite the hate,
Old poison brewed to seal our fate.
Brand that shame on every mind —
A plague of idiots, broken and blind.

A crawling lice upon the flesh,
A filth that festers, grows afresh.
Their twisted lies choke out the light,
A world sunk deep in endless night.

The ****, once proud, now rotting corpses,
Their dark plans crushed beneath fate’s forces.
Cataclysm comes, no mercy shown,
An end to tyrants’ ****** throne.

A god grown sick, corrupted, spent,
His hollow soul, earth’s torment.
Spirit crushed beneath his scorn,
Yet fools stay deaf, dumb, and forlorn.

Degeneration, rot, decay —
Not plans, but ruin’s cold display.
The world collapses, black and bleak —
Cataclysm’s fire, vengeance speaks.

The few who keep their souls intact,
Rise from ashes, counterattack.
While beasts of lies and vile deceit
Burn to cinders beneath our feet.

The sun sears down with blazing wrath,
Incinerating fools in its path.
“Move tighter, sheep! No place to hide!”
Death’s sharp breath waits just outside.

Think you pull strings? You’re the **** pawn—
The trigger pulled at crack of dawn.
Fueled by lies and venom’s flood —
Burn the flock with boiling blood!

This world reeks of death and shame,
Puppets trapped in mindless game.
****’s last scream, a shrieking blight,
Cataclysm’s hammer crushing night.

No mercy for the blind, the numb,
Hell’s bell tolls, the final drum.
Wake or burn — the choice is yours,
Fury’s storm breaks all the doors!

Rise up, rage! Break every chain!
Burn the lies, purge the stain!
The war’s begun — no turning back!
Hell’s storm unleashed — attack, attack!

No lies left, no shame remains,
Only ashes, only flames.
Those who kneel and bow will fall,
Dust and echoes, nothing at all.

Watch tyrants shake, their empires crack,
The rotten throne, the poisoned pack.
Their false gods drown in filth and gore —
Death’s cold kiss at their front door.

But Spirit’s fire still roars inside,
A tidal wave, a rising tide.
They choke and scream on bitter lies,
While truth ignites the stormy skies.

Stand, you few, with hearts afire,
Your rage a wild, untamed pyre.
The end is near — the veil is torn,
Justice rising, new world born.

No coward’s path, no soft retreat,
The battle rages — no defeat.
Only warriors who dare the flame
Can shatter chains and break the game.

The world will burn and rise anew,
From blackened ash, a sky of blue.
The ****’s dark reign, the fools’ disguise,
Shattered beneath the furious skies.

Scream your wrath! Let fury fly!
No more lies — no more goodbyes.
This final call, the battle’s roar,
Fury unleashed — the end of war!



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



The Modern Ku Klux ****

I. The Rot and The Poison

Their rotten scheme?
Crushed beneath CowID’s heel —
A blight too vile, too weak to steal
The minds of sheep who see the deal.

The poison poured — a failed design,
The herd refused that tainted wine.
Burn this world with war and lies,
Ignite the hate before it dies!

Brand that shame on every mind —
Idiots blind, the herd confined.
A crawling louse on living skin,
A filth that festers, grows within.


II. The Fall of Tyrants

Once proud, the **** is now a corpse —
Their dark plans crushed by fate’s fierce force.
Cataclysm comes without a plea,
To break their throne and set us free.

A god, now hollow, sick and spent,
His spirit torn, earth’s discontent.
The fools remain — deaf, dumb, and blind,
Consumed by rot, they lag behind.


III. The Ruin and The Rise

Decay, destruction — not a plan,
But ruin’s cold and final span.
The world collapses, black as coal —
Cataclysm cleanses soul.

The few who keep their souls intact,
From ashes rise to counteract.
While beasts of lies and vile deceit
Burn to dust beneath our feet.


IV. The Fiery Reckoning

The sun blazes with wrath untamed,
Incinerating all unnamed.
“Move closer, sheep! No place to run!”
Death’s sharp breath waits — the end begun.

Think you pull strings? You’re just a pawn —
The trigger pulled before the dawn.
Fueled by lies and venom’s flood —
Burn the flock in boiling blood!


V. The Storm of Justice

This world reeks of death and shame,
Puppets caught in mindless game.
The ****’s last scream — a shrieking blight,
Cataclysm’s hammer shatters night.

No mercy for the blind and numb,
Hell’s bell tolls — the final drum.
Wake or burn — the choice is yours,
Fury’s storm will break the doors!


VI. The Rise of the Few

Rise up, rage! Break every chain!
Burn the lies, purge the stain!
The war is on — no turning back!
Hell’s storm unleashed — attack, attack!

No lies left, no shame remains,
Only ashes, only flames.
Those who kneel and bow will fall,
Dust and echoes — nothing at all.


VII. The End of Tyranny

Watch tyrants shake, their empires crack,
The rotten throne, the poisoned pack.
False gods drown in filth and gore —
Death’s cold kiss at their front door.

Spirit’s fire still roars inside,
A tidal wave, a rising tide.
They choke and scream on bitter lies,
While truth ignites the stormy skies.


VIII. The Final Battle

Stand, you few, with hearts afire,
Your rage a wild, untamed pyre.
The end is near — the veil is torn,
Justice rises, new world born.

No coward’s path, no soft retreat,
The battle rages — no defeat.
Only warriors who dare the flame
Can shatter chains and break the game.


IX. The New Dawn

The world will burn and rise anew,
From blackened ash, a sky of blue.
The ****’s dark reign, the fools’ disguise,
Shattered beneath the furious skies.

Scream your wrath! Let fury fly!
No more lies — no more goodbyes.
This final call, the battle’s roar,
Fury unleashed — the end of war!



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



The Modern Ku Klux ****


Their plan’s all wrecked — dead on the floor,
CowID crushed it, broke the core.
Sheep refused, swallowed no more,
Shame and guilt — what a bore!

Fuel the fire — war’s the game,
Stamps of submission, brands of shame.
Brains are fried, dumb and tame,
Lice crawl deep, spit the flame!



Modern ****’s a rotting mess,
Schemes collapsing, nothing less.
Cataclysm’s coming fast,
Tyrants fall, their reign won’t last.



God’s tired, broken, torn apart,
Earth’s foul stench clawing his heart.
Fools stay deaf, blind in the dark,
Rotting core — a poisoned spark.

Decay’s not what we designed,
World’s a shadow, fate aligned.
But from ashes, those who fight,
Rise to claim eternal light.



Modern ****’s a rotting mess,
Schemes collapsing, nothing less.
Cataclysm’s coming fast,
Tyrants fall, their reign won’t last.



Sun burns hotter, no escape,
Madness burns this human shape.
“Come closer, sheep!” Death’s at gate,
No mercy now — it’s far too late.



You think you’re puppet? You’re the gun,
Pulled before the morning sun.
Lies and venom fill the flood,
Burn the flock in boiling blood!



Modern ****’s a rotting mess,
Schemes collapsing, nothing less.
Cataclysm’s coming fast,
Tyrants fall, their reign won’t last.



Rise up! Rage loud! Break your chains!
Burn the lies, wash the stains!
This war’s on — no turning back,
Hell’s storm unleashed — attack, attack!



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



The Modern Ku Klux ****, the song


Yo!
The ****’s plan’s a joke, destroyed by CowID —
Sheep swallowed whole, but it ain’t enough, you see!
Time to light the fire, old tricks still alive,
Brand the herd, make ‘em crawl, make ‘em strive!

****’s outta moves — yeah, their plan’s a mess,
CowID took their scheme, turned it to stress.
Sheep all fallin’, shame and guilt all around,
Too **** little, the herd’s still bound.

Gotta stoke the war, get the flames to rise,
Old brand burns deep, in the sheep’s dumb eyes.
Stamp the mark, push ‘em under control,
Mindless zombies, lost all soul.

Modern KKK, rotten to the core!
Plan’s a wreck, but they scream for more!
Chaos coming, cataclysm’s near,
Sheep fight last battle, drowned in fear!

Tyranny’s crushing, choking all light,
Spirit’s grinding through endless night.
Fools bow down, deaf, blind to the pain,
The world’s a prison, a godless chain.

Involution’s poison, choking the breed,
No salvation ‘til the world’s freed.
Cataclysm’s mercy, breaking the cage,
Rise, few left, from madness and rage!

Modern KKK, rotten to the core!
Plan’s a wreck, but they scream for more!
Chaos coming, cataclysm’s near,
Sheep fight last battle, drowned in fear!

Sheep, wake up! Tear off your chains!
No more lies, no more pains!
Burn the darkness, claim your soul!
Fight the devil — take control!

Sun blazes hotter, world burns to ash!
Idiots line up, ready to crash!
No mercy given, no time to hide!
Fight or fall — do or die!
Iva McCarty Jun 2014
I talk a big game
About How I am not stuck on you
Yet, most everyone knows I am.

I talk a big game
About how I am going to stand up to her,
Yet it's more like slight raising from chair and then being seated again.

I talk a big game
About how I will tell you all of the things that I still feel for you,
Yet my words and courage remain paralyzed.

I talk a big game
About how I am not going to call text or email you anymore,
Yet my resolve fails me again and again.

I talk a big game
About how I am going to be my own person,
Yet, who in my life does not have ownership over my deeds?

I talk a big game
About how I will be a more decisive person
But I'm pretty sure I'm not.

I talk a big game
I'm going to do this and I'm going to accomplish that,
However, I'm just the queen of to do lists.

I talk a big game
About what I would do differently if I could go back in time,
But those claims are easy to make because The Doctor reminds me that I cannot cross my own time line.

I talk a big game
About what I want,
Yet, from day to day I don't even know for sure what that is.

I talk a big game
About what I want to do with and to you
Yet, when your skin touches mine,
I seem to become immobilized by your touch.

I talk a big game
About how we belong together
Yet, I'm terrified to tell you.

I talk a big game
About how you really know me,
But do you?

I talk a big game
We are meant to be
But there's so much about you I don't know.

I talk a big game
About how this poem is not for you,
Yet it has your name all over it.


© Misty Bishop-Martiss
kirk Nov 2017
The television is getting worse, I have noticed on its viewing
What the **** is going on, what do you think your doing ?
Maybe its ungrateful, but our minds are just left stewing
Why must people endure repeats, through years of program queuing?
An example is the game shows, there on every side just brewing
We're paying for the privilege, its the public that your *******

We don't want Deal Or No Deal, with all those crap crisp boxes
Q.I. is not that interesting, it has too many paradoxes
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire ? is that just a stupid question?
I would love to Strike It Lucky, so what is your suggestion?

Pointless has the correct name, cos that's exactly what it is
Has Jasper Carrot got Golden *****, or is he *******
Why is there ***** Money, did they ran out of toilet tissues
Julian Clary had Sticky Moments, and outrageous camping issues

Whenever Opportunity Knocks, well just open the door
If your going to Take Me Out, then what are you waiting for?
Don't Name That Tune In One, I'd rather hear it all
A Question Of Sport is so boring, its hardly on the ball

Is it the Weakest Link, because the chain is full of rust?
Didn't Blockbusters close down, and the video shop go bust ?
Why Should I Supermarket Sweep, Dale can sweep it himself
The pyramid Game is just, an apex polyhedron triangular shelf

I Don't want to go on Mastermind, and look like a ******* fool
If I went Through The Keyhole, then I must be minuscule
Why Would I Lie To You? wouldn't that be a bit two faced
I'm not sure if Celebrity Squares, are really all straight laced?
Could you please repeat yourself, I did not Catch that Phrase
Just how many crystals where there, in the Crystal Maze?

Was Spin Star cancelled, because celebrities where break dancing
Or was it Bradley Walsh's giant fruit, that needed some enhancing?
Why is it called The Chase, when there's no chasing involved?
The Chasers are sat on there arses, so The Chase is never solved

I don't think it is the Wheel Of Fortune, even if you do
You don't really get much fortune, till you solve the final clue
Paul Daniels said Every Second Counts, so forget the introductions
Just get on with the game play, don't even bother with instructions

Philip Schofield played with Five Gold Rings, isn't that just wrong
I thought that Five Gold Rings, belonged to a Christmas song
Ted Rogers read such stupid clues, it made it hard to win
No wonder 3.2.1 contestants, usually won poor Dusty Bin

I would really love to drink, some of that Celebrity Juice
But first I'll have to find out, which ones are tight or loose
I'm not lucky enough to have 300 Blanks, with a lovely lady in a bed
I'll have to hand it to myself, and have a Blankety Blank instead

Mr & Mrs is outdated, most Marriages are not enforced
Those couples who where happy once, are probably divorced
Treasure Hunt used a Helicopter, clues found by Anneka Rice
She ran around quite frantically, but her **** was rather nice

Isn't Ann Widdecombe a dark horse, she liked a Cleverdick
I Suspect if she had the chance, she'd like a **** that's thick
There used to be Telly Addicts, but now they are history
We no longer want Noel Edmunds, or crap games on our TV

Poor Bully tried to play Darts, but his aim was far to high
It isn't all that great or Super, missing the Bullseye
Come on now Jim its not fare, making the contestants cry
To look at what you could have won, and kiss the prize goodbye

Naked Jungle was a one off, Keith Chegwin in the buff
I'm glad it did not continue, so please don't Call My Bluff
Countdown has been on for years, we've had a ****** enough
Only Connect and 15 to 1, are hard and far too tough

Family fortunes and Eggheads, we don't want all this stuff
Fort Boyard and Mock The Week, stick them up you chuff
Going For Gold and Gladiators, too old and looking rough
University Challenge and Impossible, there really dull and duff

Never Mind The Buzzcocks, it's a forgotten piece of Fluff
Crosswits and Chain Letters, should be dragged of by the scuff
Hole in the wall and Alphabetical, are so right of the cuff
The Cube and The Million Pound Drop, I'd walk of in a huff

Many game shows throughout the years, all needed a good host
But there isn't any spontaneity, so none of them can boast
Instead of reading from a script,and acting liked their dosed
Take the plunge make it your own, don't be a mindless ghost
Why don't hosts try to be their best, and try to be their most
Wouldn't it make more sense, to keep your audience engrossed

Ben Shepherd comes to mind, he doesn't seem all there
With his ****** expressions, weird smile and stupid stare
How did he become a host, was it all based on a dare
Why is his act robotic, its more than we can bare

Its like watching a recording, this isn't really fare
If we are subjected to this crap, then we deserve a share
I guess its our misfortune, its enough to make you swear
We're already at our Tipping Point, so we no longer care

Now I'm not saying that every host, is as bad as old Ben Shep
In fact there is at least one guy,who has a better Rep
He may not be a large man, in fact he played a Lep
But at least he isn't wooden, and he's with you every step

Warwick Davis's Act is Tenable, and he has not compromised
With good hosting skills, jokes and quips Warwick has realized
Although I'm not a game show fan, I am pleasantly surprised
He stands tall over the other hosts, even though he is pintsized

Why keep making game shows, was there a voting pole?
I believe there are too many, they are so ******* droll
As bad as all reality, the schedules they both stole
Axe the ******* lot of them, and chuck them down a hole

Just take a look at Brucie, may god rest his soul
He was around for decades, and hosting was role
Taking over all the shows, seemed to be old Brucie's goal
The years weren't kind to old Bruce, they definitely took there toll

There is a Brucie Bonus, available for every Generation
All you really needed, was the right kind of motivation
Nice to see you to see you nice, was Bruce's obligation
Life was the name of the game, in a family situation

A cuddly toy on a conveyer belt, in a prize observation
Didn't he do well all, depends on your own determination
If You Play Your Cards Right, Dollies Dealing a sensation
You don't get anything for a pair, maybe its infatuation

You can freeze but you cant stick, all dealt in isolation
Do you want to bet on it, was a gambling invitation
The price was always right, just use your imagination
Come on down to old Bruce, win a car and a vacation

Maybe he's a legend, with Bruce's game show graduation
A chance to host a new show, a Good Game realization
What's on the board miss ford, moving on to a new creation
It turned camp when they shut that door, and hired Larry Grayson

What was it with Bruce Forsyth, he was far too keen
He monopolised the hosting, on the game show scene
Seizing every opportunity, ever since he was fourteen
Just like Command and Conqueror, on the TV screen
He took on all the game shows, maybe he's just mean
But I cant help but to wander, where else has he been?

With all of his catchphrases, and a chin that was obscene
A wig that was like shredded wheat, it never should be seen
I don't know if I'm being harsh, it maybe his routine
And its all in his makeup, and part of Bruce's gene
Perhaps he liked the studio, and had too much caffeine
Along with the all dodgy food, in the BBC canteen

Now Challenge screens the game shows, but there all so ******* old
We've already seen all these games, they've already all been sold
I do not mean to sound too flippant, but why wont you be told
Your sending your viewers up the wall, and your audiences cold
Now let me state what's obvious, I hope I am not too bold
We don't want all these rehashed games, there hardly TV gold
Nhlanhla Moment May 2013
And after the last Galactic War, those from the stars came and gods became. They indulged in the pleasures of the Earth. They created and mated. Over time they got bored and got innovative. They created hybrids to work for them and adore them. This hybrid had a confused consciousness. Once this hybrid was one (whole) but because he was too god-like and powerful, he had to be separated. Male and female were born. Because this separation caused a void in each and a longing for freedom, laws were made and temples built. And the world as we'd have it would be As It Is In Heaven. There were different civilizations of lords and they contended with each other as to what the best way to rule man was. So each sect had its belief system. However this didn't build a bridge to close the gap between male and female. These laws of Conduct and Engagement became integrated into what is called the Game. If you were a man you had to court a woman in order to have her company but because of intense ****** activity and interbreeding you had to marry before having ****** *******. The women were encouraged to make the men trail, suffer and earn to have ***. This was effective to the lords for man would concentrate on the illusion of the game rather than the divine art, mystery, sophistication and connective power of ***. So *** outside of marriage was ridiculed, the participants scorned.

There were brawls and arguments about who had the right to court which woman. The highest honour was laying with a goddess or god; as it gave you all knowledge and ability - This was forbidden by other gods as it would amplify the mobility and authority of man. It was decided then that those of the genetic line of the dominant gods of the time or the empire with the largest influence had a birth-right to marry the fairest women. It was at this point that kingship was born, the MacGods of pure blood. They would then be the intermediary between man and the gods. They would see that the game is carried out  as well as other affairs. This new style of relationship conduct caused much conflict, hate and intolerance. And as the ages went with man defending himself with passive oppression; as division was succeeding with language, culture and tribes... Those who were in resistance sought to restore or imprint the liberty of humankind; they were known as the Rebellious Liberals. In those days if a man fornicated without being married he was hanged. These acts of tyranny and Authoritarian dictatorship led to man hating the gods; yes man hated his selfish parents. So the wars against the gods began. And the kings sought to protect the dynasty of the gods. The gods that were conquered hid in the underground, others fled into other galaxies and planets and colonized there. The beauty of love had endured a grotesque wound. Man helpless continued to submit to the rules of the game. As the world fell from 4-D to 3-D man was taught that he would communicate with his ancestors in the afterlife for guidance, as well as when asleep and in trance states.

However the game survived under kings, although peoples separated and new tribes were formed; men held on to rituals and believed it was the will of a god or another. This consciousness tore the heart of the Earth and the insecurities of self expanded, an incessant feeling of fear and an imbalance of self-love. This led to many looking to and aspiring to kings... Over the ages the glamorous have had an upper hand to court and lay fairladies. The indoctrinating dogma that is religion sprout patriarchal homes.

This bred insubordination and woman became the place of weeping. The ages passed and men grew arrogant, women bitter and helpless. The institutions of the game, marriage and religion were now attacking the love they claimed to protect. The world grew careless and bitter, male and female drifting so far apart as though they were never one. Consequent to this there were poets and liberals, there were also charlatans who were lackeys for the game. The male charlatans giving advice to men, the female charlatans giving advice to women. So psychotic ideologies were passed from father to son, mother to daughter - father to daughter, mother to son. A new age sprung with the evolution of man, or rather devolution of man as mystics would have it, this was the age of Banking. Not that there weren't enough troubles. Now money grew itself an ego, an ego to be protected, protected by the very descendants of the gods-MacGods, they were the gatekeepers. It was expected that bank-robbers would be heroes and the new face of man. All this in effort to uplift a self long wounded. It wouldn't be long that gangsters would be overthrown and police the new heroes... But a crazy world it was as both faces would grow to be corrupt with no one investigating the source.

The source now devised Feminism, this would bring justice to women on the face of it but rather vengeance to men. Men would wear a new garment of infants and senseless idiots. What happened to the justice? There was no justice.

Women would replace the face of old obnoxious, selfish and abusive men. With better jobs, equal opportunities, better insurance; the sky was the limit for women. Men faced a new threat either than themselves or the threatening boundaries of the game (which leave you a public fool if you don't follow, a player if you do) - and players were cool - the threat was the wounded vengeful woman who was now given the power to run the game. Judicial systems protected woman, Education systems, Banking Systems, Insurance Systems and Media and Industry; all protected woman. The game promised self-esteem if its rules were followed but it only led to folly, sorrow and despair. As women have wide coffers, power they can bear and power was given to her by the source. Justice became vengeance, impatience became resentment, being broke meant loneliness. Institutions of poetry, art, fiction and even the white magical arts were under attack. The new god was money and everyone would be made to bow, his guitar would be love, esteem, health, cognition and consciousness; and masterfully play he did.

It was now up to the few descendants of the liberals to uplift the consciousness of the world once more... That there be love, peace, harmony, hope, equality and human liberty. The 144000 Pleiadian Warriors led by the General Immanuel who fought for humanity promised to return in a burning, blinding and stormy white cloud. Hovering in a ship of space (spaceship). And the liberals and poets of old from the ashes would rise and the Game of the Lords meet its demise. One again we shall be, whole and eternal.
Various sources or references inspired this story... In effect love is its destined glory
william murphy Jul 2015
I played a game once, it had two players and no winners
It was a game to see if we could defy the odds
If love could triumph all! A game where we would look past one another’s flaws
The rules were you had to ignore what was rational and just believe in each other
This game ran its course and we both lost,

I played another game once, it had two players and still no winners
It was a game to see how long we could trick one another
We would have to see how long we could go before it showed that neither of us cared
The rules were you had to ignore how you really felt because you at least deserved play
This game had no winners

I played a game once, it had two players and I felt like I won
It was a game where I would see how long I could go without caring
I would change my answers as quick as players in this one
The only rules were you can’t tell the other player what the point of this game was
This game only had a cheat not a winner

I played a game once, it had one player and I know I lost
It was a game to see how long I could deny the ever pressing truth
That maybe I wasn't cut out for this, and that the time for games was in the past
It had one rule, see how long you can survive knowing that you spent your whole life playing rather than feeling
The games are over I quit

— The End —