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My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby , you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see -- Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.
Tessa Sep 2014
my tea has gone sour overnight
the stars must have mixed with milk
dreams dancing into my two white pillows
why does night slip away so suddenly

tones of sadness find me early morning
I try to unsap my fatigue and fall
stumbling into the room where we keep our food
which keeps us alive

sip my new fresh tea from my country
red and warm and hugging
I miss the accents of my land
craving something familiar (like you) but not

maybe we are all so incurably alone
spinning around this globe individually
unstoppable in solidarity
maybe this was how it was meant to be.
'I want to eat you,' he said with his eyes closed.
'Why?' Still, even though she was afraid-unfathomably afraid, she was infatuated with him; this creature so terrifyingly comely that she was sometimes scared of it-she could not then help peering into his bright face; its exquisite whiteness was dauntingly mysterious, but again full of indecipherable words-just like a dangerously emotionless sea; which could but turn tempestuous in the course of just one shadowy second.
'You're simply too tempting to me,' he replied after what seemingly very careful thinking; this time with his lips coming nearer to hers, until his breath she could see emanate in bold wreaths of white, pearly bits; bits of ice-lifeless, and tender whilst in handfuls, but at times heartless with their cold souls.
She reflected on the answer for a while, then slowly formed a thoughtful smile around her lips. 'Then where would I be, if you ate me?'
'Within my soul, my blood, and all the length, mirth, and the very crown of my heart,' he uttered the last two words confidently, before further lurching straightly forward to bestow a playful kiss on her trembling lips.
'Ah, but still it won't be the same, my love,' she cupped his cheeks with her cold hands and whispered to him quietly, when they finally pulled away. 'I would no longer be here by your side. And as you have but stated before, you surely like having me here alive better than dead, don't you?' She let out a deep breath, and showed a flirtatious grin so captivating that he wanted to kiss her once more. And possibly mesmerize her. Startle her. Eat her. Partake of her. Consume her. Conquer her. Possess her. Tear her. Tear her apart. Tear all her senses apart. Break her up. Break her body up. Break it up into nothingness. Until she was nothing. Entirely nothing. No more of anything of herself but what he had. Nothing but what he owned. And secretly desired. And had always longed for. Nothing but he possessed; and treasured within his very body; and its very own capricious cells. But still eventually, be her everything; or simply, be everything to her. Be everything she ever wanted. Everything she desired. Everything she wished. Everything she, with all her human weaknesses, ever eagerly wanted him to be. Or to do.
'Don't worry, still it will be the same,' he caressed her hair with his free right hand and kissed it. And when she became puzzled by this tauntingly obscure remark, he explained, 'It will still indeed be the same, and will forever be the same, because you will dwell within me, and thus within my heart will be carved your name. So that you're the sole torch that keeps my flame. And the mere lamp that lights my soul. The medicine that heals my wounds. The very deeds of my desires. All the merriment of my days. And the very light that is thrown onto my ways.' He stopped and sighed for a while, before continuing, 'Thus, on top of all that, you will still own the same brand of addiction-to which my entire being is addicted to. Really addicted to. Incurably addicted to-as I will never be able to continue to live without it. I will prefer death, and cherishing a gruesome life among the dead, to having you not within my being-just like I will be if I ever consume you not. So within me,' he took her hand and pressed it against his chest, 'there shall be nothing but satisfaction,'-he stepped closer into where she was standing, 'with having you within me; so your soul shall blend, and merge but perfectly into mine, querida. And such is an occurrence I shall never regret; even if I eventually have to eat you.' Having proposed these last two words, he closed his eyes again; before launching his body right onto hers, and this time missing not planting his fangs onto her shoulder.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
     of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
     walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
     Victoria Grove—
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
     incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
     Place and in Kensington Square—
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
     cats can very well bear.

If the area window was found ajar
And the basement looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn’t find one of your winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her Woolworth pearls:

Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of the
     gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and
     remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria Grove. They had no regular
     occupation.
They were plausible fellows, and liked to engage a friendly
     policeman in conversation.

When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner
On Argentine joint, potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
“I’m afraid you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the oven-like that!”
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working
     together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of
     the time you would say it was weather.
They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober
     person could take his oath
Was it Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn
     that it mightn’t be both?

And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming—
Then the family would say: “Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND Rumpelteazer!”— And there’s nothing
     at all to be done about that!
harlon rivers Apr 2017
Earth Day, April 22, 2017  "give back to Earth",
as an "offering" for all the planet gives us.**
For Global Earth Day information visit:  http://www.earthday.org/


       Her ominous shadow
             shown a path
   far beyond the miles high
  a majestic mountain stood

   Silently climbing down
         million year old  
      steep canyon walls
               at dawn,
  each step chosen carefully
     coursing with purpose

    Finding a way forward
         was the only way
           to look back up
      river carved ravines
     where higher ground
              once stood

  Instincts drawn downward
       gravity feed towards
         the faint murmurs
       deep echoes tracery
   down sheer basalt cliffs

          Artesian waters'
       resounding gurgles ―
     bubble up to quench
     a lost soul’s incurably
   intrinsic parching thirst;
       to find an unfolding
       metamorphic peace
     in the trove of igneous
     fountain veins of earth

    There’s not need to wait
      on sunrise pathways lit ―
   there is no fear of gravity’s
     downward silent weight  
      nor burden to be borne

Listening beyond dark silence      .
      igneous bedrock roots
     beckon deeper expanse ;
  spirit realms of ancient souls
     whisperer like thunder
        to the soul of man ―

Awakening ruptured lifelines
    deep below earthen crust ,
    creations hidden essence
     eternally remembered
         by the light above ...



April  2017 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
deep artesian rivers flow
from the wellspring fountain of soul...
     homage to planet earth ―
Celebrate World Earth day ... April 22nd, 2017
like the inconstant moon I change,
cyclical about circumstances,
serendipity and fortune exchange
appearances for second chances,

and as we each alter our perception,
we see ourselves as constant,
each and every change in direction
still seems like a straight line

with no more than closer inspection
looking behind to the distant
fading horizon in the failing light
the pattern of circles and spirals

and zigzags, stops and backtracks
a wandering chorus line of fools
all singing things I can’t take back
the realization that I am not an individual
:
but an average of multiple formulas
complex variable algebra and simple subtraction
a vector resulting from many forces
pushing and pulling and thrusts and attractions

the color of the liquid in the test tube
fizzing and changing with every next drop occurring
an organism that adapts to its environment
to thus fill its requirements and its fleeting yearnings

a flock of birds, a can of worms, a herd of cats,
an untamable unit described in terms
of the time it exists in existing- that is
another illustration, another article, at any other time or mood

a crop whose fruitfulness is determined by unusual farmers
one field ploughed, one weeded, one fertilized, one seeded
akin to the Bible, a book of numerous authors that tries to
merge allegories into a useful, enlightening anecdote with which to furnish the brood

flesh, soul, chemical, inspired, mechanical-Angel
a temptable machine whose springs and cogs
could be found to have been hand-wound
at any given time by either His Rival’s or God’s

and if Made in His Image then I must be both
wrathful and loving, vengeful and forgiving,
quick to temper and eternally patient
yet limited in time allowed to be spent living

the difference is- my choiceful subsistence briefly caresses
this quick struggle and my purpose not yet fully defined
would fate’s justice have me on the gallows for my excesses?
or would not passion for the endowment of living grant reprieve?

where is the solace for the incurably ardent?
maniacally spontaneous, courageously aloof
what cheer can be brought to the seers?
dejected clairvoyants, puppets or puppeteers to the truth

however never simultaneously clever are we
always we must be one or the other each seen
though never seemed to be separate things
now see what difficulty wrecks all my dreams
:
catharsis then epiphany then pensive then somber
an artist, a daddy, a mocked captive, an avid doubter
carouse then abolish then regret then absolve
a spouse, a skirmish, an uncommon asset, an outlet resolved

how do I bring about the determination of the jury?
which of the accomplices will abide full recognition
and be he who will stand to read the indistinct verdict
to the culpable crowd assembled in this the trial of alternation

so contempt be then to the court of constancy!
no thing in heaven or earth adheres to its philosophy
render the sentence that I may be found guilty
yet I am consented to return undestroyed, now let the die be cast

these confines beg for stasis I cannot deliver
my cell itself is afloat without a tether
these customs require that I be a quitter
yea though the pendulum returns to the tock once the tic has passed
Ah, I'm red, red, red, red, red! Blush didst I odiously-heavily and gaily, soon as my cheating eyes caught t'at sight of thee! Yes, my dear! So splendid in thy furry, silky coats, ah! silver and red just like th' plentiful breaths of thy streaming innocent gladness; and so perfectly swimming in the oceans of thy handsome face. How profuse and miraculously stunning, like t'ose proud branches of th' juvenile brown verdure-clinging to th' wreaths of cloudy smokes, but still in possession of t'eir own light-hearted lives. How my pride, and weary confidence, sulkily musically leaned away and eagerly bubbled out of my entire conscience; ah, gasping for air then I ended up, unable to **** in th' very atmosphere of th' corridors in which I numbly stood. How I was incurably merged into thee, my love! But still-can't thou see it? My wit, oh, my absurd, haughty wit-and waning intellectual dignity, all were but worse and merely remnants of desultory shadows as soon as thou heaved thy shiny self into view; and straight away-ah! in th' one very blink of th' cautious eye of thee-my thorns of meek feelings were but cheered again with unseen crowns of white dew. Oh, querida! How I plodded about th' magnanimous region of our dwellings, yes-amidst t'ose chirping buds of waterlilies and lavender-like moors out t'ere-t'is morning, with thy image so clearly evoked within my chest, before satirically-and dolefully-giving up my fragmented efforts-as I found thee not, my love! But t'is tearful evening, o, as agitated, sombre and colourless as it would ever become, soon flashed into mine t'at wildness, and yet flirtatiousness-of thee, bathed in jubilant waters of light, and deafening storms-ah! t'ose torturous storms of benevolence, hysterical prudence, and ingenious salutations. Oh, how sure and convinced I duly am now-t'at thou art th' only merit and most precious gift I shall ever love, cherish, and care for. Thou art, indeed, th' sole man I want, and am ever desirous of, in t'is mortal world-for I consider thy love immortal, and secured, for me-ah, as it hath always been-just for me, love. I love thee-I love only thee, oh my, my darling! A prince, prince as thou art, shalt break t'ese weak, ye' icy stones in which I am enveloped-for all th' virtuous akin 'tempts hath all been wan and futile-and melt, melt safely t'is stern heart of mine so I canst cherish love again.
Emmy Dawn Apr 2015
I really tried to let my nails grow out
but I just had to bite them
Waiting is simply not a skill of mine
I will admit that patience should be desired
but I will not lie and say I am fine
I took three baths today
I tried to scrub away my sadness
but the water was quickly soiled,
my body dissolving
in a tub of the burnt and boiled  
I left a trail of wet feet on old tile
and fell into my nest of isolation
I can't be bothered to even get dressed
Because it's just another day of nothing,
and yet I am incurably stressed
Ryn Feb 2017
"Would you like your groceries
bagged in paper or plastic?
will you be paying with paper,
Or plastic?"

Rock paper scissors
has been replaced
With something
more rudimentary
But essentially,
Neither have intentionality.

No matter how far you try to move
away from synthetic
you're still drinking out of plastic
eating out of plastic
driving, walking, buying, *******
out mounds of it.
You put your plastic in plastic,
leave it outside
until a man swings by
throws it into a pit
with all the other wasted ****
to exist
for all eternity.

Would you rather melt or burn?
Bankruptcy is a hard lesson to learn
But the ashes of this economy have been
Touted as prosperity
Instead of resigned to an urn
To relearn the transparency
of democracy
As it should be.

I'll trade my plastic smile
For a fistful of paper
I'll exchange it for something physical,
Something bigger
Something somehow better,
Sans the improvement.
The reanimation of the market
Capitalism! Ah,
The dream land.
“Build your monopoly
Crush your enemy”

Oops I mean your neighbor
They're all the same
in this day and age.
Community has been sold
for pennies on the dollar.
Now we’re fighting tooth and nail
To be the one
wearing the shock collar

Bzzzt!
I have the most likes on my photo
Bzzzzt
This minor annoyance
has become my addiction.
I’m shopping and sharing
And living within this tiny television.

This is post apocalyptic
You just can't see it
Because you're living in it.
Things are better, yes
But 6.7% of Americans are diagnosably,
incurably depressed.
37% are oppressed
44%  are over stressed and
81% are in debt.

Let me just say this now
From my white-privilege-podium
That keeps all adverse effects
Of free speech
From touching me

****
YOUR
AMERICA.

**** this corporate greed
that grinds itself down
and repackages itself into
“The American Dream”.

and **** us, right?
For thinking anything here was free.
rough draft rant about this $hit $how we call capitali$m
Robert Zanfad Jun 2010
The Lawncrest Acres State Hospital for the Incurably Poetic -
I think dear Granddad, the good doctor,
once practiced there as a clinician
(and as patient once, too)
his writing otherwise confined in public eyes
to those horribly dry tomes whose titles began
"On the practice of..."
whereupon he may have gone
on to expound the virtues of religion in psychiatry
as measured in cross sectional study
or harsh parenting as inherent to induction of pathology
But at home he would write
the sweetest poems to us
on birthdays or just because...
he never wrote one for me, oversight I'm sure,
as I roamed the floor
in his house, same as all the others.
So maybe that's why I secretly try
to be a poet like he was.
Tom McCone Mar 2014
hope called through a
window's pane, the scratch
marks in the single glaze
opens my letters; they
sit down to honeyed
conversation out in
the back yard. my throat
rakes small tendrils
billowing up through
the gravel, i slumber
cradled between soft
hot patches of afternoon, i
call nobody lover but misery,
still.

moribund, late light
crosses the neighbour's
rose bushes and cries
from the fenceline. all
is broken like me, but i
do it better. that, i promise.

now, finally slowing in eyelid
beat counts, my dreams tell
truths of my own small life; the
ones i won't dare live by, but
instead lay down and watch
ribs lain below
asbestos skin: i lose
hope's screaming in the garden,
knowing no fingers would want to
cross their lines,
who'd edge up to ****** up
tired little i?
nobody. that, i've been promised.
Michelle Garcia Nov 2014
There are so many other girls with perfect hair and skin and eyes and compared to them, I am a walking joke. I am an unfixable calamity of dark grey circles under my eyes from staying up all night because the thoughts in my brain always seem to bloom at the worst times. I am the weight of a thousand words that sit at the tip of my tongue but refuse to come out. So please don't ever tell me that I am flawless because that word is so far away from what I aim to be. At the end of the day, I want to be so incredibly flawed and real and incurably human but still beautiful because of what is inside my heart instead of what sits on my skin. I have slowly become a whirlwind disaster of running away from your toxicity. I am a hurricane of good intentions gone wrong but I can promise you that you'll never find a perfect person that could love you as imperfectly as I ever did.
BraileyVine Oct 2015
Comfortable syllables flow from the mouths of preachers
who tell us the words don't matter, only what's
etched incurably in our hearts.
But we know better
We must flee to be free from the gazes of perfectly winged eyes, standing upright next to suit jackets and pristine ties.

And the pleas offered up from our minds are never headed in the right direction, the one all the rosaries and pews point towards- we send
our message up to Heaven, taking avenues that even we can't comprehend. And no one believes because they won't spare
just one second.

They see the worth only in the hours squeezed out of organized bodies
and the tangible gifts and the pounded out work deliberately presented, but every hair stays in place and not one drop of sweat falls and they wonder why religion is not an appealing call
because they've lost the point under all of the
lipstick and lies they lather on.

It's absurd to grasp the notion that any god wants to hear from
a pack of perfect praisers,
raising their children to pray the same way they've always done.
There's no way to find your voice under all the babies crying and cries ringing and the fierce scolding of every beautiful thing.

So our prayers remain hidden, buried deep in the wind that carries them away. We pray every second of every sequestered and lonesome day. We fill up our spirit in the way we hope as we desperately pull on our clothes that today we won't be too late.

We lift up offerings in the tortured songs our tears sing as they run over all the keys engrained in our faces by all the fingers that forlornly stroked our cheeks.

We pray by shaking our fists at the sky as the trees rock and sway, upset by the storm that heads our way, as we fall to our knees because we've no better way to express our need than to let it seep from between our clenched fingers.

Every swish of a desperate eyelash, momentarily hiding the lake frozen inside is a viable thank you that at least no one treads the length of our ice and a request that one day it will melt and even if it leaks from between our lids, we will be able to let it go

Every moment, birds fly from our chests, greeting
the infinite clouds with timely beggar's leaves clutched in their mouths

Misery is not what we claim, but as we walk, we pray, each step pleading for a better path to follow and a heart that doesn't beat with
everyone else's blood pounding so hard
against our own
Please critique.
Austine May 2014
With the days that pass by
Along with the moments we hope to leave behind
Come the lingering feeling
Of what should have clearly been

As the contingency gets scanty
And the feelings, grievous and empty
Even with desperate cries for help
Why do I stay incurably unheard?

I extend my arms and try
Try as I might to fly
For when they say follow your heart
It’s with you I want to start

Yet my hearing must be impaired
'Cause it hears your voice that says we'll not end
Tell me how could I not hold on to these words
When in my heart they broke through, heard

As we dare and lose a zillion times
As our laughs retrogress to cries
As the hugs turn into meters apart
Does the end really need to be that we depart?

Then here I hope that all the pain leads us farther
That the past was nothing but a mere poseur
'Cause when we again find one another
It’s up to the flame we cannot smother
One day, I'll find my way to you once again. One day, I'll never let go ever again.
Zywa Sep 8
that it soon will be over

that I'm not here, not now
that I feel everything I don't want
that I feel nothing but aversion

that I fell into a sinkhole
that I might be filmed and
that I'm not recognizable, he is, so

that I have proof
that I dare to show
that I don't know who he is
that I'm afraid of what's to come
that I'm going to die painfully for the reason

that he infects me incurably, but also
that he himself will perish much worse
that he will be humiliated by everyone
that he wishes himself miles away, of misery
that he falls into a sinkhole

that it will swallow him up frightfully, yes
that it buries him alive
that it dazes him in a scary dream

that he roams in it for years
that he only after that will fall asleep exhausted
that he wakes up from his delusion again

that I stop him with love
that I receive him with love, but
that I don't get pregnant

that meanwhile, I'm thinking all
this
Collection "Silent walk"
Kakorrhaphiophobia
Achluophobia
Contreltophobia
Iop­hobia
Eremophobia


Many things scare me. I am afraid of *failingtests and failinglife
. I am afraid that what happenedinninthgrade will happen again. I am afraidofthedark, and beingalone in it, and beingmyself in it.


Ligyrophobia
Erophobia
Androphobia
Hedonop­hobia


I am afraid that I don’t deserve tofeelgood after what happenedinninthgrade. Happened because I was afraidtoscream because I was afraidofhim because I was afraidofmybody


Scopophobia
Haphephobia
Eisoptr­ophobia
Rhytophobia
Mnemophobia
Agateophobia
Necr­ophobia


I am afriadofbeinglookedat and ofbeingtouched because of what happenedinninthgrade. I hate lookinginmirrors because I never know what I’ll see. I am incurably afraidofmemories they make me feel like I’ve lostmymind. And last of all, I am afraid of everything I see; I never know if they’re **trulyalive
We hire the consultancy firm,to firm up the prices which we're going to charge you,and charge you we will,
Charge you until your pockets squeak,charge the poor and the weak,the old and the sick,and we might get it into our head to charge the incurably recently dead.

That's what we're hired for,to hike up the prices you charge at the front door,no one comes through who hasn't paid through the nose and those who chose not to, simply do not get through.

The consultancy firm and with a firm hand, will show you a profit by turning and biting the hands that have fed it,through the thick and the thin,all it takes is some spin,
and we're good at that.
Graff1980 Apr 2017
Two petite pretties 
pranced before me
paragons of the 
impoverished society
that values surface 
over depth

The dancing debutantes
Dangled their dangerous
And dubious dispositions
Directly in front of me

Enter stage bad boy
Blustering buffoon
With a silver spoon
So far up his ***
He spewed silver polish
On his nice Polish pants

Cash in hand
He passed around 
His affluences
Like it was influenza
Vomiting vague
Platitudes with 
So much attitude 
As if he had 
Anything valid to say

But this crowd was rapt
With the vapid vocalist
He drank expensive ****
To prove he was valid
No valor just vain vagaries
On display to frustrate me 
Greatly

They celebrated the success of a 
Failing millionaire who was premade
By the fortune that his father made
To bail him out of all of his mistakes
As he played society like a broken violin
I was trying to bring talented art back in
But society placed me in the trash bin
Before I could even begin
To purge the poison
The incurably incurious
Perpetuators of 
Shallowness

So I bow out of this
Cause I thought 
We were working together
To make each other’s life better
But it turns out I was 
Running a race 
I did not even know about
Elioinai Nov 2020
Every time I slow my mind down
I have a moment of peace
but then I freak out

Because pace is something I don’t have
if direction is sight, I’m incurably blind

When I stop to reflect
I want to throw up
And jump out

But I can’t run
when I’m stuck in exhaustion on this couch

I wrestle with believing I’m worth more than this
and feeling I aught to be more grateful that I can even walk

Aught
I find you lie to me
Should
You cannot stay with me
Duty
Only love is power in me

Freedom is stepping forward in hope
and taking what I prayed for
Because I am worth more

I’m worth the crown God gave me
(tongue in cheek
by this moldering geek.)

Thy marriage doth incurably ail,
even strangers would vouchsafe
     (with nary any cavil),
     and perhaps even avail
herself (sight unseen),
     with a moderate chance
     zee spouse might bewail
this bread crumb

     winner, chauffeur,
     bill payer latching
     on to mine tattered coattail
in an effort to
     sustain this misery loves
     company wedded
     harrowed distress,
     where future prospect

     appears dim (sum) mutt
     unlikely to curtail or halt
     this (mine button nose to the
     grind stone) pennilessness
     only promises inevitable derail
ment, since grow
     wing unflattering pessimism
     only harkens more (spiraling

     down rabbit hole re: abysmal)
     substantial hardship
     (possibly even homelessness),
     asper my remaining lifetime
     woeful struggle - as sigh exhale
before figuring out what to write
     for these ensuing
     lines, yet strongly anticipating zero

     lucky search for a female,
if this mister didst
     decouple from his caboose -
     whereat Abby Robin (the missus)
     will holler "VAMOOSE"
     as an opportunity to exit
     clear and present danger field
pinning optimism for a gal,

     who exhibits ambition,
     earns her own income
     (or per slim or fat chance
     might be independently wealthy),
     plus bing hearty and hale,
this chap communicates
     no outlandish fanciful
     general electric sponsored idea,

     which elaborate or general sketch
     for some ideal counterpart
     might immediately impale
any likelihood on
     a figurative crucifixion
hmm...maybe turning
     to a life of crime,
     and befriending a foul mouthed,

     heavily pierced, and
     tattooed in jail
professing pseudonymous party privy
     to access Swiss Bank accounts
     own much moolah - kale
as said in the narco
     world wide webbed trade,
     thus such laundered legal tender,

     would clearly evince
     natural "green thumb" talent
     in tandem with sharp (as a hawk)
     business acumen spiriting over
     financially choppy waters
     as doth a lugsail
with this aging
     baby boomer male

he generally steers
     toward straight and true
     analogous to an ace
     carpenter blindly hammering
     the head of a nail

pounding out frustration unsure
     if asking price over-scale
regarding negligible
     demand for preowned,
     housebroken, and domesticated fellow,
     whose demeanor pastorale.
jz Oct 2019
my mom says she needs to talk to me but how am I supposed to listen when all I hear is grinding teeth and cold ice sharp enough to scratch my skin and my dogs won’t stop barking but it’s not their fault they’re supposed to be quiet all the time what if they have something to say sometimes too and no one ever listens to them either and all they want is to play but everyone’s too busy and everyone’s too sad and everyone’s dying so time just goes by because the smell of hospitals is ingrained in my body and stops me in my tracks and I want to sleep all the time not because I am incurably tired but because I am insatiably sad but I need to do my physics homework so please wake up but sometimes I just need to think about something else to distract myself from what you’re saying because I can’t hear this right now. stop.
Eshwara Prasad Apr 2021
Don't talk of the present.
It's too bad.
Leave it.

Even hope is incurably sick.
Gant Haverstick Oct 2024
the vampire hunter and his son
were like "lone wolf and cub"
if you know about that one

well they were always together
battling the undead
through all types of weather

then one fateful eve
they could not help but perceive
the shining blood moon meant war
they were not naive

outnumbered they were
and survival wasn't assured
but they battled and brawled
until it all was a blur

but when the smoke cleared
it was not as they'd feared
for all the fanged beasts
had been successfully speared

the hunter then turned to his boy -
victory! they both were about to enjoy
but the hunter saw something that made him a wreck
two tiny red holes in his child's perfect neck

for his son had been bitten
and so it was written
this would be his final dawn -
he was incurably stricken

fate was something they could not ignore
so they waited until the dark was no more
he vowed to always remember his son's final night
as they walked, hand in hand, into the sunlight
Gant Haverstick 2024
Is narcissism inherited, or is it something people are born with, a sickness that grows quietly inside them until it consumes everything? I keep thinking about that, because sometimes I wonder if he got it from his father, the way he carries himself like he owns the world, the way he never apologizes for hurting anyone. Or maybe he got it from his mother, the way she enabled him, the way she whispered that the world owes him something just for existing. I don’t know. I only know that he is exactly what he is—a narcissistic ******* through and through.

And I hate it. I hate him. I hate that he walks around thinking he’s untouchable, untouchable and untouching, while leaving chaos and misery in his wake. It’s infuriating. He thinks he’s clever, untouchable, like consequences don’t exist for him. But they do. They exist.

I want him to rot. I want him to feel the weight of every lie he’s ever told, every manipulation, every time he made someone doubt themselves because of him. I hope he burns in his own ego, that every ounce of arrogance he carries is turned against him. Because someone like him doesn’t deserve mercy. He deserves the opposite.

I hope he suffers. I hope he wakes up one day and realizes that the world doesn’t bend to his whims, that it never really has, and that the harm he caused is finally coming back to him. I hope he is sick—not just sick, but truly, incurably sick, the kind of illness that humbles him completely.

I don’t care about worst-case scenarios. I don’t care about the what-ifs. He fits the punishment perfectly. The universe, or karma, or whatever you want to call it, has a way of giving people exactly what they deserve, and I hope he is no exception.

I want him to feel every single thing he made others feel. I want him to look in the mirror and see the hollow, unrepentant person staring back. I want him trapped by his own arrogance, forced to confront himself, forced to understand the ugliness inside. Because that’s what he is.

I hate the way he smiles like nothing is wrong, like he’s above all of it, untouchable. I hate the way he convinces others to follow him, to bend for him, to give him power he doesn’t deserve. I hate that people fall for it. I hate that I even had to witness it.

He thrives on control, on manipulation, on the destruction of anyone who gets too close or dares to see him for what he is. He doesn’t love, he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t understand the meaning of empathy. Every action he takes is calculated, self-serving, cruel in ways that seem effortless to him.

And yet, despite all of this, he has never faced real consequences. He has never truly been humbled. And that makes my blood boil because it’s only a matter of time before someone else falls victim to his lies, someone else suffers because he can’t see past his own reflection.

I hope that time comes for him. I hope it comes suddenly and painfully. I hope it is unavoidable, inescapable, and that he cannot manipulate or charm his way out of it. I hope it teaches him something, though I doubt it will. People like him rarely learn.

I hope every day reminds him of the pain he’s caused. I hope he remembers the betrayal, the heartbreak, the manipulation, every time he looks at himself. And I hope it haunts him because that is all he deserves. That is justice in its purest, most righteous form.

I want him to see that his actions have consequences, that the world is not his playground, and that the people he destroys are real, breathing, feeling, and capable of surviving without him. He is not the center of anything except his own narcissism.

And when he finally understands the emptiness of what he has built, I hope he has no one to blame but himself. I hope the arrogance, the cruelty, the manipulation he has perfected for so long finally turns inward and consumes him from the inside out.

Because I don’t forgive him. I cannot forgive him. I don’t even want to. I want him to live with the weight of his choices. I want him to feel the fear, the despair, and the emptiness that he has inflicted on others.

And through all of this, I will survive. I will not let his narcissism define me or break me. I will carry the lessons, the scars, and the anger, and I will use them to grow stronger. I will thrive while he remains trapped in the prison he built for himself.
thick faced *******
Paths of Knowing

Grotesque and gaudy scenes they draw —
"Reality" — a twisted fraud —
The "scientists" with minds of straw
Bring poison where the Spirit trod.

No Soul, no Fire, no sacred spark —
Just lifeless charts and sterile schemes.
Their world is but a festering dark
Of Satan's bureaucratic dreams.

The priests, the pundits, lab-coat ghouls —
All loyal dogs of Hell’s parade.
Their strongest skill? To fool the fools —
And keep the donkey's eyes well-shade.

For centuries, they weave the lie,
The common man — a walking *** —
They **** with fear and lure with pie,
And drive him down the cliff en masse.

The goats that lead are blind and proud,
Yet strut as if they knew the path.
This rotten boil will soon explode —
The Day of Light will strike with wrath.

You lost the Truth, forgot the laws:
The Soul comes first — the Mind obeys.
But donkeys bow to every clause
Of creatures spewing twisted praise.

Their only "truth" is lies and breeding —
The training’s deep, and starts from birth.
They keep the herd in blind stampeding,
While draining every drop of worth.

Don’t want to be a donkey? Fight!
Tear through the veil of rotting lies.
With introspection as your light,
Let questions in your Soul arise.

Defy the sludge they teach as fact —
Their "guidance" is a dead machine.
True knowledge is a living act —
No fool can guide where you have been.

My verses carry no disguise —
They're Soul distilled in sharpest flame.
Now pull the Creatures’ sting from Mind —
And cleanse the Source they try to maim.

From cradle till your final breath
They sting you with propaganda’s brew.
And yes — that poison lives beneath
The surface of what you call "you."

To cleanse the Mind must be the start.
Then add INTUITION — fly!
The brave alone unlock the Heart —
Without the Soul, you're born to die.



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



Expose or Rot

Their truths are lies, their light is rot —
Break through — or die the slave you’re not.



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



Marine of the Spirit

A flood of rotten chatter
From fear of empty skies
Was fed to you — but shatter
That filth, and hear the cries

Of Soul within. The swinefolk
Devour the pulp and slime.
To not become their kind — walk
The Spirit’s path through grime.

Decay is all around you —
Deceit, and fear, and fog.
The herd is blind — they hound you,
And worship every cog.

Their “consciousness” is darkness,
No depth, no light, no spark.
The torture of the heartless
Is hailed as progress — stark!

The world is bent and broken,
By fascist, demon hands.
Their words are poison spoken
To stain the sacred lands.

But if you dare and dive in
The silence of the Void —
A path begins, though drivin’
By dread you once employed.

You’ll stumble, cursed by phantoms,
Not conquer all in stride.
The sheep want quick enchantments —
A shortcut to their pride.

But in the Sea of Lying,
You must descend with grit,
To rise — a Spirit-Marine,
Who serves no shade but Wit!

You plunge like deepest diver
Into the core of fraud —
Then rise — a Truth survivor,
Awakened, raw, and awed.

If you don’t grasp the vastness
Of all the layers of lies,
Your path will break in pastness,
And never pierce the skies.

Go inward — Light is burning
Beyond what eyes can see.
The world is not for yearning —
You are the Flame to be.

At first you'll find but hollow,
But then — the Depth begins.
No sorrow left to swallow
Once Spirit truly wins.

The world’s reversed — their glory
Is truly Hell’s decay.
While heights, in ancient story,
Are Depths found on the Way.

So drink the slime, get sickened —
Let every falsehood die!
Be born again, and quickened
By Ocean vast and high.

The core of all beginning —
Desire — to seek the Fire!
The fool is ever spinning
In “light” that can’t inspire.

He walks the dry illusions
And chants of “Path” and “Grace” —
But God is no delusion
You’ll find in such a place.



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



Dive or Die

Truth starts where liars drown.
Dive deep — or stay the clown.



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



No Light on Land

The heights are found below —
Dry souls will never glow.



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



Lullaby

If you trust the news,
If you chant their creed,
You’re a sold-out weasel
On the Devil’s feed.

Trapped in Incarnation —
This dumb world of pain,
Baptized in damnation,
Worshipping the Stain.

Satan is your “savior,”
And they call him "God".
Turn around — behold their
Lies in every nod.

Lies are all around you:
"Science", "faiths", "beliefs"...
Rot disguised as virtue,
Priests and ******-thieves.

No more land or nation —
Nothing left to feel.
Gone: love, trust, relation —
Only war and squeal.

Squeals of propaganda,
Stench and poisoned air.
Fiends in grand command, and
Rot is everywhere.

Traitors, fat and sated,
Smile while stabbing deep.
"Leaders"? Just mutated
Swine that herd the sheep.

Cattle made from children —
That’s their core design.
Soullessness is written
In their thin-spined line.

They shoot lies like rifles,
Fire through your doubt,
**** the Soul in cycles,
Crush the Spirit out.

Even Earth is aching —
She is still alive!
And with Light she’s breaking
Darkness to survive.

There’s a higher order:
Sun ignites the flame —
Burns away disorder,
Torches every shame.

Human filth and Creatures —
Fascist to the core —
Feel the rising features
Of a Solar War.

No more dreams and screaming —
Let the fire rise.
Bye-bye, lies and scheming!
Burn, sweet lullabies.



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



Burn the Lie

The Sun is rising — lies must die.
No lullabies. Just cleanse the sky.



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



Sleep, Little Sheep

They sang you lies till you were numb —
Now wake — or perish with the ****.



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



Break the Spell

Beyond the rot, a Fire calls —
Awake! The Soul breaks through the walls.



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



Rise or Rot

The Soul breaks chains or dies in rust —
Transcend the lie — or bite the dust.



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



Echo Beyond

Where all dissolves, the Light remains —
A silent spark beyond the chains.



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



From Veil to Flame

Illusion fades — the Core stands true.
Go inward. Truth is born in you.



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



Rot

Idiots aren’t coupons here —
They shear us, piling madness.
Fools build walls with doubt and fear,
Monsters set the trap’s badness.

Scarier than Führer’s face,
Is the herd that trusts the lie.
Culture’s crushed, no sacred place —
Only smoke where nations die.

An idiot might still wake,
Grasp a spark, resist the slime.
But most choose to feed and take,
Breed the evil all the time.

They choose to gorge, not think, not feel —
Embrace the Devil’s bribe.
To gnaw and grasp, their fate is sealed,
Pursuing vice alive.

The **** who sell their soul and flesh —
No longer men, but freaks.
Satan’s idols, cursed afresh —
Their reign lasts decades bleak.

Maybe more — who dares to know?
History’s depths are blind.
Everything’s a hollow show —
Darkness chains the mind.

Fake science shapes the present day,
Creates what suits their game.
Spreads lies in a brilliant way —
Look at CowID’s shame.

Idiots block our way,
Führer’s but a clown of night.
No peace here — just pens to stay
For cattle, masked as right.

Few wise remain — they fade away
Each day without a trace.
This rot must burn — no more delay!
The fire must scorch this place.

That fire comes from Sun’s own light —
It’ll burn this mad façade.
But sheep won’t see, lost in their night —
The feast of lies goes on.

If fools obey the beast,
And dance their vile command,
The deeper grows the venomed feast —
The faster burns the land.

Sun and Earth are wise and true —
Fake science meets its check.
If madness reigns among the crew —
The end comes in a wreck.

No need for idiots here,
No traitors or vile pests.
Who rule in lies and endless fear —
All rotten, none are blest.



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



Rot Burns

Rot spreads fast — the fools obey.
Burn the lies! Burn it away!



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



The Harm of Nonsense

The harm that nonsense deals to minds
Can’t be measured, can’t be weighed.
Its trail is everywhere — it blinds,
Makes life a twisted masquerade.

Among the fools — the throng is vast —
CowID showed the glaring truth.
For centuries, the fiends hold fast,
And **** the Purest Mind of youth.

Where reason fails — the void takes hold,
And nonsense fills the empty space.
Where once stood humans, now the cold
Are beasts who lost their human face.

They build a Digital Camp
For all who grunt and blindly bleat.
Sick in mind, easy to stamp,
To scare, oppress, and then defeat.

They herd you out from stable stall
To "brave new worlds" of false parade —
Schwab and ******’s ghosts recall —
The end is near, the mask will fade.

Satan’s idol shows his face,
The world is lost to rotten craze.
No cure for this corrupt disgrace —
While waves of lies drown out the days.



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



Nonsense Kills

Nonsense spreads — the fools obey,
Mind decays — no light, no way.



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



Nonsense, Torment...

Miracles are strangers
To slaves of endless drivel —
They serve the lowest dangers,
Feed off the rotten evil.

The Wonder lives in Spirit —
They serve the foulest beasts,
The end link in the merit
Of food chains, cursed feasts.

Blind slaves, they call it fine,
Accept their narrow world —
“The rich oppress, but we’ll be fine,
Our joy will soon unfurl.”

If fattened up with money,
They think they’ve won the fight,
But trapped within that honey
Is endless, crushing blight.

No happiness is given
To slaves beneath the yoke.
You perish dumb and driven,
Your children bear the joke.



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



Slave’s Fate

Miracle’s denied,
Slaves in drivel die.



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



TNS-VP

“The world is a hospital for the incurably ill.”
— Arthur Schopenhauer


Dr. Mengele walks the grounds
Of this global death camp’s field.
False diseases, lost and found,
Mark the minds that won’t quite yield.

Tagged as “normal” by his hand —
Assets for his twisted game.
Once the rack and solder’s brand,
Now the syringe has claimed its fame.

Schopenhauer and Nietzsche’s lore
He studied close, learned it well.
A new breed stalks — they adore:
“Serve the Dark — or cease to dwell.”

The Dark revealed through CowID
Its cruel, vile, venomous face.
New kind — dumb pests breed
A charter Schwab will soon place.

Gates will lock a digital chain
Around the globe, no soul spared.
Plans packed in a massive case —
The herd awaits, prepared.



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



Digital Chains

Serve the Dark or fade away —
Mengele’s heirs are here to stay.



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



Revolt Code

Chains may bind the blind and meek —
But souls awake refuse to break.



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



The Prigs

The prigs spread nonsense far and wide —
A polished little world they weave,
And justify with hollow pride
The “positivity” they breathe.

Their lies flow fast, a toxic stream,
From Darkness’ fools with tainted minds.
Their “perceptions” break the dream,
Youth’s promise twisted, blind.

That vow, like scouts’ absurd oath sworn,
Is fascism’s warped disguise.
Distorting minds from early morn —
Communism’s old reprise.

Few realists remain today,
Who feel the sting beneath the skin.
Lost through ages, gone away,
For wounds cut deep within.

The prigs won’t grasp this pain and dread —
Their path is easy, soft, and blind.
Realists walk roads steep and red,
Their work is dark, by lies confined.

To understand, to sever lies —
That’s the realist’s grim crusade.
But praise the filth, and meet your demise —
Your fate is set, your soul betrayed.

Censorship’s a ruthless game,
Always aiming sharp and cruel.
Clear minds targeted in its name —
Filtered water, twisted rule.

The prigs just scrub their image clean,
“Smart, strong, realist” they proclaim.
Living life within the screen —
Proud to play the perfect game.

Under Nazis pride was bred —
****** Youth’s proud, blind decree.
“Heroes” front lines — or early dead —
Death’s grim dance for loyalty.

The same repeats — the new regime —
Tamed monkeys lost their will.
Destroying dualism’s dream,
To silence truth and ****.

Dualism tears the mind apart —
Unless you’re one of prigs’ kind.
****? A fool with broken heart —
Believe, obey, stay blind.

The prigs will fall with rotten ranks —
Faces twisted by the night.
Satan’s spawn who hate the ranks,
For evil dims their “light.”

“Positivity” a mask to wear,
Hiding storms before they start.
The Earth will cleanse, the skies will tear —
The reckoning for every heart.



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



Prigs Fall

Prigs scrub lies, but truth will burn —
Darkness falls, and tides will turn.



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



“Savior on the Blood”

“Savior on the Blood”…
Tear your faith apart:
The fool believes in life
That never breaks or starts.

Only Hell is eternal.
The fool’s delight, you see —
Thinking this small world
Will fatten endlessly.

Hell will melt that fat,
And spread its stench around:
They’ll call it “holy oil.”
Pour your sins profound.

Break bread with flesh and blood —
Thankful, cannibal’s feast.
I’ve become a monster
Believing in such beast.

Take away “eternal life” —
The show, the empty cries.
A funeral for the mind,
The Spirit’s own demise.

Few will come enticed,
But lie about such “life,”
And hordes will rush in frenzy —
Hold fast! Brace for strife.

“Savior on the Blood”…
Think hard, don’t cry, don’t wait —
A dreadful turning’s near,
You stand before your fate.

Cataclysm will come:
World fascism’s sweep,
Sweeping all the slaves away —
Into eternal deep.



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



Blood Savior’s End

Fools believe, but Hell’s the flame —
Slaves will burn, none left to blame.



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



Writing Poems — A Grim Fate

To write true poems is a curse,
When honesty burns fierce and clear.
But spout the crap, and then you’re worse —
A tool for fools, lost in their smear.

A servant to the beastly herd,
Between their nonsense and the crowd.
You’ll simply be the worthless word
With rotten brains in drivel drowned.

Rot’s everywhere — to dig it out
Is task for many, poet too.
But now the bard’s a digging scout,
Unleashing chosen garbage through.

His crap just builds the shameful wall,
The stupid herd’s dull, fearful reign —
Where lies and chaos loudly call,
And ignorance drives minds insane.

Write with fury — ink is dead,
The old ways gone, they’ve had their run.
It’s time to write with TNT instead —
There’s just too much **** under the sun.

Blow up the filth — let come what may,
The herd’s not yours to worry ‘bout.
And when the crowd condemns your way —
You’ve broken free from rotten doubt.



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



Blast the Rot

Poison spreads — tear down the wall,
Write with fire, or not at all.



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



The Barracks, or “School”

Slave drills start in the barracks:
Searching “meaning” in the chains.
Cowards find their tyrant’s marks —
Call it “new regime” remains.

“We’ll build happiness in order,”
Every third one’s a star.
Driven by the media’s border,
Yet the pen is still a scar.

What we build’s a pigsty’s face —
All foremen to the wall.
But our bold Chief knows his place,
Knows the grander plan for all.

The state’s clean face is money,
Built on greed and hardened laws.
Cruel customs rule the colony,
Ranks imposed with iron jaws.

Crowds of hungry for their food,
Cheap goods, *****, and empty noise.
Who works hardest? Who’s subdued?
Where’s the firmest herd, the toys?

Doesn’t matter — slavery’s one,
Just in varied shades it shows.
Filth grows deep behind the sun,
Backstage where the darkness flows.

Changing rules like surgeons’ gloves —
For slaves, a growing storm.
Angry “demiurges” move,
Shaping chains in every form.



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



Slave Drills

Chains tighten, media roars,
Slaves march on through pigsty doors.



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



Lies Interceptor

You catch the lies mid-flight,
Tear them piece by piece:
“White threads” run through the blight,
But madness swallows peace.

Who needs it? Ask that later —
Then you’ll see the full decay
Of evil’s verbal crater —
Clear as night from day.

Look close at every thread:
Time’s always running thin.
No matter what’s said,
Nonsense seeps right in.

Turn on your intuition —
The key to judge the lie.
Destroy it — no omission!
New targets on the fly.

This hybrid war’s relentless.
Lies Interceptor — an eagle.
Spirit’s warrior, relentless,
While low are goats and feeble.

Those who trust the creatures’ word
Are worse than beasts themselves —
They build the pens absurd
For fools, the war’s dark shelves.



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



Intercept Lies

Catch the lies — tear apart!
Keep your spirit, guard your heart.



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



Foolish Relations

Unspoken weight drags down the ties,
In every troubled bond.
Obvious quarrels cloud the skies,
Yet deeper woes respond.

For masks collide, not true selves meet,
False images displayed.
Fools deck out lies with tricks discreet,
Deceit in grand parade.

Sobriety then takes its toll:
Beneath another mask,
Ego shatters — sudden roll
Like lightning’s cruel task.

Tension builds, then sparks ignite,
A shockwave swift and harsh.
The foolish mind, again, despite,
Blames partner — “scoundrel’s march.”

The cycle turns, repeats the pain,
Same bitter aftertaste.
When ego spins its selfish chain,
Truth and trust are replaced.

It breaks apart, the tension grows,
Silent, it swells inside.
The first sign — irritation shows —
Just when “happy” should abide.



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



Ego’s Trap

Words unsaid, the poison spreads,
Masks and lies inside our heads.



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



Independence of Judgment

Judgment’s always relative,
Bound by chains of age-old pain,
Artificial strife’s narrative —
Linking tribes, poor rich, in vain.

Books themselves can harm the mind,
Chains that trap the intellect.
Darkness spreads, corrupts, confines,
Through schools, through kindergartens decked.

The docile fool moves in line,
Learning promised paths to “win.”
But it’s all a cruel design —
A circus where the freaks begin.

Most are soulless, broken breeds,
Brains like jelly, mush and sludge.
Wrapped in “knowledge” that misleads,
Flooding lies like toxic sludge.

Burn those lies within your mind —
In that muck, no light will gleam.
True judgment’s yours alone to find —
Unshackled by the herd’s dumb dream.

Independence means to choose,
Answer all without their noise.
Most opinions are misuse —
Empty babble, void of poise.



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



Think for Yourself

Chains bind minds in endless spin,
Break free — the truth begins within.



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



So-Called “Culture”


“Miniature culture” —
Big forms weigh too much.
Literature’s buried deep,
Films and clips have the touch.

Idiots watch in droves,
The wise are counted few.
Culture’s death throes
Under fascist, satanic view.

Poets fade away,
Lost or drowned in the trash.
The last Reason fades
By homeland’s pitiful clash.

Total lies have spread
Across the global stage.
This “copper basin” dead
Will skin the soul’s last page.

They hear commands on air,
Rushing to break the last.
Serving, obeying without care —
Their way to live, aghast.

When survival’s the game — no art,
Just carrots for the blind.
With blinders on, they march to slaughter,
“Donkeys’ Paradise” signed.



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



Donkeys’ Paradise

Blind fools march, eyes sealed tight,
Culture dies — they crave the bite.



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



So-Called “President”

A Botox rat, a double’s mask —
A nightmare turned to real, grotesque.
No meaning dwells in this mad task,
Just vile nonsense, loud, grotesque.

That nonsense calls itself the “bonds,”
And bonds all with a broken clone.
For any sane asylum’s bounds,
It’s madness deeply overgrown.

This plague — a fog, a mental blight,
A monstrous conveyor belt of spite.
The wild grow few, subdued by lies,
Donkey’s blinders seal their eyes.



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



Rat Clone

Botox rat, nightmare real,
Blindly trapped beneath the seal.



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



Rashists

Kherson’s melons — no one picks,
The enemy lies on his belly, fixed.
Loving to ****, cold fascist ****,
Rashist filth — they’ll come undone.

But skies will clear above the strife,
Soon Dnipro’s crossing ends their life.



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



Rashist Rot

Enemy sprawled, thirst for death,
Kherson’s fruits saved by breath.



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



Rashist Doom

Lying low, they spill their hate,
But Dnipro’s flood will seal their fate!



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



Rashist Curse

On bellies crawl, they bring the plague,
Kherson’s blood stains lies vague.
Fascist **** in shadows tread —
Dnipro’s wrath will drown the dead.



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



Rashist Abyss

They crawl like worms, spawn death and dread,
Kherson bleeds — the cursed dead.
Fascist filth, a festering blight,
Drowned by Dnipro’s darkened night.

No dawn awaits their hollow cries,
Only silence ‘neath black skies.
The river’s wrath, cold and supreme,
Erases all their cursed scheme.



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



So-Called “Doctors”

Quacks and puppets, singing praise
For fascist **** who bite with lies,
Believing stings are easier ways
Than marching forth with battle cries.

They lie and sting — death piles concealed,
Hidden deep, as always done.
In this foolish world revealed,
Genocide’s become the run.

Betrayal made the daily grind,
Executioner now wields the syringe.
In this world of fools confined,
They turn us all to cattle fringe.



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



Quacks and ****

Fascist dogs with poison lies,
Doctors turned to killers’ guise.



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



The Task

The soul is worn, the body tired,
Despair has filled the mind’s expanse.
But one thing keeps the heart inspired —
Your task remains, not done by chance.

So bear the weight, do all you can,
The rest is fuss, mere fleeting pain.
When finished, then you’ll understand —
You’ll rest in peace beyond the strain.

For living here is dull and bleak,
But purpose grants the strength you seek.



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



Last Stand

Soul worn thin, body weak—
Hold the task, don’t dare to break.



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



Endurance

When soul and flesh grow tired and spent,
The unfinished task fuels intent.



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



Don’t!..

Don’t trust, don’t fear, don’t beg or plead,
Don’t wait, don’t blame, don’t lie or need.
Don’t crave, don’t shear, don’t burn with heat,
Don’t rage, don’t cry, don’t face defeat.



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



No!

Don’t trust, don’t fear,
Don’t shed a tear.



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



No...

Trust not, nor fear the night,
Beg not, nor seek the light.

Crave not flames that blind the soul,
Let silence keep you whole.



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



No...

Trust not the whispers of the night,
Nor fear the shadows’ silent flight.
Beg not for fate to guide your way,
Nor seek the dawn to break your day.

Desire not the burning flame,
That scorches soul and fans the shame.
Resist the urge to rage or cry,
Let tears like rivers pass you by.

In stillness find the hidden fire,
Beyond the reach of false desire.
Embrace the silence, vast and deep —
Where secrets wake and shadows sleep.

No chains to bind, no gods to plea,
Just boundless, timeless mystery.



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



The Hidden Chains of Slavery

Slavery’s “invisible” —
The world itself enslaved.
From childhood, fools “with greetings,”
Dumbed down, lost, depraved.

No borders can be found,
Except inside the mind.
Monsters hold the nations down,
In filth they bind.

Illusions rule the crowds —
So goes the centuries’ reign.
Creatures, from their heights endowed,
Spread sorrow and pain.

Behold the broken masses —
Slaves bred like cattle there.
Few have the strength to fight —
Fools dwell unaware.

They claim the “best of worlds,”
Where happiness abides,
Yet harsh to those nearby,
In fear the slave resides.

Before the beasts they quake,
Children on the block,
Raised for endless labor,
Victims of the clock.

All grievances replayed,
In minds not truly free,
Another fool will rise again,
To pass the chains endlessly.

To their own children’s ears,
A barrel full of lies,
Hiding doubts and wounds,
From lives spent hypnotized.

Slavery’s well concealed,
While mad slaves fill the ranks.
Amidst the herd of cattle,
The wise hold feeble ranks.



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



Silent Chains

Slavery hides in plain sight,
Fools breed fools, lost in the night.

Voices wise are weak and few,
Among the herd, drowned through and through.



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



Tractrix


Tractrix? No — a twisted snare!
A child’s mind is overloaded,
With nonsense, lies, a cruel despair —
To drag it down, deranged, corroded.

Words are picked to **** the spark,
To crush bright thought in hellish schools,
Where learning’s dark and grim and stark,
And thinking breaks the slavish rules.

The spirit crushed, the mind so frail,
All efforts in the adult world
End up consumed in endless jail —
A soulless drone, a fate unfurled.

The heartless consumer fits the throne,
Where rulers praise the weak and small.
If fragile minds are left alone —
The highest grade they’ll ever call.

The clever taught through tales complex,
More tangled every passing day.
Mathematics’ cruel reflex
For fanatics’ cryptic play.

From this harsh “school” you’ll rise by force,
Your fragile mind pressed, bruised, and torn.
Pseudo-knowledge holds its course —
The sacred bird of truth is shorn.

The world’s a spirit, not a sine,
No plus if minus dominates.
A minus minus draws the line —
The sum: a void that suffocates.

You’ll be nothing if you trust
The vile lies that chain your mind.
Lies total, condemned by dust —
Like bullets, falsehoods blind and bind.

CowID showed this cruel decay —
Lies killed many, darkness grows.
The fiends of night pursue their way,
By killing minds, the world’s repose.

Their goal achieved: a global hell,
A death camp looming close and near,
Where those who think will cease to dwell —
The mad condemned, consumed by fear.



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



Tractrix’s Snare

Child’s mind trapped in twisted lies,
Crushed by darkness, thought denied.

Falsehoods reign, the spirit dies —
In this hell, all truth’s defied.



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



The Final Age — The Age of Idiocy

Some time after fields of Moldavia
Were drenched in DDT and poison's sway,
A generation grew, school-aged, and
The schools for fools grew tenfold, they say.

Each year more children fall astray —
The nation frailer, duller grown.
A scheme unfolds in food and pills:
Silent poisons, seeds of bone.

Pesticides — a weapon's guise,
Not for pests, but for mankind.
A rotten breed, earth shudders sore,
Madness grips the fragile mind.

Insanity becomes the norm,
Yet vile efforts waste away.
Earth won’t bear this stench and dull,
Nor endless doom’s dismay.

Cataclysms will sweep this filth,
The age of idiocy’s come.
Flaming suns and magma rise,
Earth’s fierce heart will burn the ****.

Fools don't see the aphid’s plight —
Like fleas in dust, oppressed and crushed.
Try feeding fools with poison’s drip,
Carbofos better than rotten honey hushed.

The clouds grow thick, but fools remain
Blind to this poisonous, creeping pain.



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



Age of Idiocy

Fields drenched in poison’s deadly rain,
Children grow numb — schools for the insane.

Earth groans beneath the toxic lie,
Madness spreads while fools comply.

Cataclysm brews — the final blow,
Only fire can cleanse this wretched show.



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



The Last Century — The Century of Madness

Fields drowned in poison, silent and cold,
Children born broken, the weak and the old.
Schools for the fools now rise tenfold,
A plague of dull minds, a nightmare untold.

Earth trembles beneath the weight of decay,
Madness like shadow steals reason away.
A generation twisted by venom’s embrace,
Lost in the void of a hollowed-out race.

Insanity blooms as the norm of the day,
Vile creatures sow lies, but Earth will not stay.
Cataclysms rage, fiery wrath will descend,
To purge the corruption, to bring this to end.

Fools remain blind to the poison they feed,
Like fleas doomed to perish, enslaved by their greed.
The skies grow heavy with ash and despair—
Only fire’s judgment can cleanse the foul air.



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



The Final Century — The Reign of Madness

Fields drowned in silent death’s embrace,
Children born to rot, devoid of grace.
Schools for the broken, halls of decay,
A plague of lost souls, stripped away.

Earth shudders beneath the poison’s curse,
Madness spreads — a slow, relentless hearse.
Minds unravel, sanity torn,
In the shadow of lies, humanity’s mourn.

The norm now insanity’s cold breath,
Vile fiends weave threads of death.
But Earth will not endure this blight,
Cataclysms rise to end the night.

Fiery magma from her core will burn,
Ashes of ruin, none shall return.
Blind fools swallow the poison fed,
Like fleas on a corpse, chained and dead.

The sky chokes on smoke and screams,
Nightmares invade their fractured dreams.
Only the flame can cleanse the stain,
In fire’s furnace, rebirth from pain.



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



The Last Century — The Age of Decay and Madness

The earth convulses beneath poison’s shroud,
A generation born hollow, minds unbowed.
Schools of the broken, temples of despair,
Where souls wither in poisoned air.

Madness seeps into the marrow of time,
A creeping void, a deathless crime.
Reason drowns in a sea of lies,
As shadowed puppeteers tighten their ties.

The plague of fools swells, a vast dark tide,
Blinding the world, swallowing pride.
Yet beneath the rot, the core still burns,
Awaiting the moment when chaos turns.

From magma’s depths, the fury will rise,
A cleansing fire under ashen skies.
Despair’s heavy cloak will finally tear,
Revealing a spark in the fetid air.

Fools chained like fleas on a corpse decayed,
Enslaved by poison, blindly betrayed.
But from the abyss where all seems lost,
A silent whisper, a spirit’s cost.

Destruction’s veil, a doorway wide —
Beyond the ruin, the soul’s true stride.
The last century’s dark and twisted breath
Is but the passage through shadow to death.

And from that death, a new dawn born —
The phoenix from ashes, the shattered torn.
For even in madness, despair, and night,
Burns the eternal ember of light.



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



The Last Century — The Age of Mad Decay

The earth convulses under poison’s reign,
A generation born hollow, drowned in pain.
In halls of broken minds, the lost reside,
Souls consumed where shadows hide.

Madness spreads like a creeping blight,
Feeding the void, devouring light.
Reason, crushed beneath lies’ weight,
Fades slowly into endless night.

The plague of fools swells, a ravenous sea,
Blinding the many, shackling the free.
Yet beneath the rot, the core still burns,
Awaiting the moment when fate overturns.

From magma’s depths, the fury will rise,
A cleansing fire beneath blood-red skies.
Despair’s black cloak will be torn asunder,
Revealing truth beyond the thunder.

Fools enslaved, like fleas on corpse decay,
Beguiled by poison, lost on the way.
But in the abyss where all seems dead,
A whisper stirs — the soul’s thread.

Destruction’s veil, a threshold wide,
Passage through shadow, where spirits hide.
The last century’s dark, maddening breath
Is but the crucible of death.

And from the furnace of ruin and flame,
Emerges rebirth, the spirit’s reclaim.
For even in madness, chaos, and night,
Burns the eternal, undying light.



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



The Last Century — Alchemy of Madness and Ash

Beneath a poisoned sky, the world decays,
A crucible where innocence betrays.
The children born of chemical embrace,
Wander lost in a shadowed place.

Their minds — eclipsed by veils of blight,
Fools dancing blind within the night.
Schools turned crypts where reason dies,
Truth buried deep beneath false skies.

A harvest reaped of poisoned seed,
Where lies are sown and madness feeds.
The plague of ignorance spreads like rust,
Ashes gather in silent dust.

Yet in the heart of this abyss,
A spark endures — the soul’s own kiss.
The ancient fire, long concealed,
Waits beneath the wounds unhealed.

From magma’s forge, the old world breaks,
Flames consume the web of fakes.
Despair’s dark shroud will rend apart,
To birth anew the purest heart.

Fools remain like fleas on rotted flesh,
Bound by venom’s silent mesh.
But death’s embrace, a sacred door,
Unveils the light at spirit’s core.

The final hour, the dark descent,
Is but the sacred alchemist’s intent.
To turn decay to golden flame,
To cleanse the soul, to break the chain.

Through chaos’ storm and shadowed pain,
The phoenix rises once again.
For even in destruction’s night,
Burns the eternal, blazing light.



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



Mad Pendulum, or There Is No “Golden Mean”

To hold the balance — you must fly TO THE EDGE,
Then turn back, to rein the swinging gauge,
To push the boundary far away,
But here’s the truth I must convey:

The middle ground is just decay,
A place where spirit falls away.
If halfway through you stop your quest,
You fail your Muse, deny the rest.

“Hell” and “Heaven” — edges sharp,
The pendulum swings wild and dark.
To balance is an art severe:
You’re “happy” or “unhappy” here —

That’s secondary, the flame
That drives you through this risky game.
Control the flight with fiery might,
So deeds, not words, prove what’s right.

Don’t fear to crash and break apart,
If on the last beat you depart
From “hell” and “heaven,” push the line —
Your breakthrough marks the grand design.

Break past the edge — the rest is noise,
Such flight’s no path for timid boys.
Don’t gauge your balance by fools’ rules —
“Cold thought” won’t save the wise or jewels.

Only your instinct, sharp and true,
Will help you find your rhythm through.
And if the pain becomes too great,
In middle ground you can await.

So take your flight, come what may be.
Trust only in your own heartbeat.
The crowd will judge — as crowds will do —
For rhythm dies where minds are few.




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



The Mind’s Forshmak

“Buy and find; sell — lose.”
A proverb old and true.


The mind’s fors’hmak fills with lies
And fear, a bitter stew.
Sprinkled faint with hopes for “new,”
To make the fog endure, the dread pursue.

Exploiting hope is ancient craft —
As old as this foolish earth:
New fools are born to serve the past,
Old idols given false rebirth.

With rosy dust they’re lightly dressed,
As “trendy” now, then crushed again
By “wisdom” of the idol’s jest —
The source of every system’s pain.

Abstract ideas serve as gods —
Like idols false, revered by all.
Take “crapocracy” for example —
Absurdity that makes you fall.

You buy — you sell your very soul,
Yet purchase nonsense, dust, and waste.
But most important now is this:
To heed the media’s embrace.

They serve the powers, sly and cold,
As CowID revealed the scene —
A phantasmagoric world unfolds,
With **** on screens, unelected fiends,

Who rule the people through commands,
Their “advice” masks brutal might —
The festering sore of false democracy,
A foul and endless blight.

The mind’s fors’hmak gets new layers,
As **** designs the “new world’s” face:
Fake diseases resurrected,
Where “care” means death in cold embrace.
If a person kills an animal (or facilitates this), they inflict at least double harm (evil):

The first harm (evil) – upon themselves, their energy/soul.

The second harm (evil) – upon the killed animal, as its energy/soul departs to the crossing ("to the other side") prematurely… (However, if the animal is incurably ill… experiencing severe suffering, it may be reasonable to alleviate it… to help it pass to the crossing… but one must be certain no other aid is possible… In such situations… each decides for themselves how to act…)

Perhaps if a person faces extreme circumstances and must **** an animal to survive, it should be done. Yet even here… each decides for themselves how to proceed.

It is 2025, and we—intelligent beings—must recognize that food is "fuel" for our bodies… and "fuel" can be obtained from vegetables, fruits, grains, dairy, etc. … enabling us to prepare delicious, nutritious meals (without killing animals, facilitating it, or committing evil…). If modern people still consume animals as food, how do they differ from primitive humans… from savages?

By caring for animals and nature—a person benefits all beings, everything, and all, but first and foremost themselves personally, their energy/soul. They increase their chances… of exiting samsara or rebirth with a better fate (minimal suffering)…

p.s. (1) Why harm yourself… your energy/your soul…

p.s. (2) Be mindful… live here and now, but consider your future beyond the crossing.

p.s. (3) The crossing awaits us all… sooner or later.

— The End —