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I join the game,
I act so lame

but,
really I'm a troll
and the tides take a toll

I spout up dank memes
until the non-memers scream

and when pepe comes about,
take the meme-haters out

"stop, stop, noob!" they say
while eating Doritos and singing away

your 360 no scope can't **** me,
cause honestly, your 'friend' is my secret trustee

so bombard all you want

fill me with hate

the memers will meme on

until it gets...


late.

        








goodnight.
i'm sorry, i can't delete this. valuable memories.
No Hoots Gang Jul 2015
Oh, dank
                 memes..
                           why wont you 
                                               ****      
                                                           me, me.
                                         For that is a world I want to live in
                                                why wont you just give in.
Spring memes
Cuddle under iced sheets
Seduced by frigid lies
And a burberry scarf;
As snow ploughs rule the runway

Glazed rosebuds,
Thimbled thorns,
Strawberries wrapped in cashmere;
And a carrot-nosed character dressed in white,
Play the fiddle

Naked limbs creep
Into the sky,
Seeking green accessories
For fashion week in June
Amidst global miles of warmth

Grandfather's  clock
Ticks wisely ahead,
Hands free of politic;

And the memes of Spring delayed
Propagate through verse
And cliched controversies...

Eclipsed by tweets from the Black Sea.

~ P
(#TheMemesOfSpringDelayed)
(3/7/2014)
John Cena Jun 2015
Two memes diverged in a dank montage,
And sorry I could not watch both
And be one memer, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it memed in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as dank,
And having perhaps the better meme,
Because it was dank and wanted memes;
Though as for that the meming there
Had danked them really about the same,

And both that montage equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden african american.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back to 9gag.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence: ******* kiddies
Two memes diverged in a montage, and I—
I took the one less memed by,
And that has made all the dankness.
Leone Lamp May 2021
We've all got memes
Deep down in our genes
Passed down and passed out
Bursting our seams

There are memes in the air
Thoughts and feelings we share
Ideas spinning round
In the clouds everywhere

When was the first meme?
When two primates dared to dream
The same dream, the same things
Long before we had screens

I haz a bucket
A cheeseburger
A chair
I laughed and I clicked
I edited and shared

We're all forging memes
Fresh, new ones everyday
Memesmith is the role
That every poet must play

Memes are part of our soul
They're in our DNA
Y'know what I meme?


Definition of meme

1 : an idea, behavior, style, or usage that spreads from person to person within a culture.
"Memes (discrete units of knowledge, gossip, jokes and so on) are to culture what genes are to life. Just as biological evolution is driven by the survival of the fittest genes in the gene pool, cultural evolution may be driven by the most successful memes." — Richard Dawkins


~05/20/2021
Phi Kenzie Jul 2018
They’re surprisingly hard to talk about
The Rob Lowe Memes
they were a moment of wholeness
thrown out by deceit

Sent and received
so many message receipts
about Parks and Recreation
and the West Wing

Do you just want someone to talk to?
Because I do
I like you
and The Rob Lowe Memes

But were they a means to an end?
Pretend friendship for what?
Spendthrift with interest
without a mention of a finish

yet you left and I let you
doing nothing to stop it
I didn’t think you really knew me
trying to speak through
The Rob Lowe Memes.
Talking to someone with a computer screen mask on
Andrew Rueter Jun 2017
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****?
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty

I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious

So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes

When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.i don't know any other music genre, where the bass is left alone, left exfoliating married to the drums, and the guitar? there's no such a thing as a rhythm guitar section in blues... the guitar is consrtantly married to solo... to a sense of orthography... best represented by ´ (the acute accent) without an o: to cream out a "hidden" u, i.e.: ó... or a cedilla (¸) bound to a c: ç to form the greek sigma (ς) - e.g. garçon... waiter, waiter: i'll just wait... that's how i see the blues guitar... the rhythm guitar isn't there, the bass is married to the drums... but the blues guitar keeps the rhythm in a "funny" way... pair up john lee ****** with lightnin' hopkins (on the piano)... and you... keep rhythm, by working solo accents into the rhythm set by the bass and drums... you rhythm by a continous sparring with the solo - you solo by ensuring your remain in the confines of chord, or something much -esque to a chord... milk, cream & alcohol... again and again: the blues... oh my dear the blues... where the rhythm of the guitar is kept with constant soloing... sometimes engaging with the bass and the drums for a reference check of rhythm... but mostly: solo the whole **** through... but it's not the sort of soloing associated with hair metal of the 1980s jerking-off for performance art piquance... sometimes the solos come in the form of chords... it's like i said already... layers:

         waiter -   garçon
                                 and garcon
                                               (¸)

blues guitar? the latter...
                                             solo accents...
rhythm of syllables: gar-çon
                              but mostly gar-con
                                                         ­  (¸)
since the bass and drums rhythm section
is so perfected in the blues,
the guitar is allowed to do what the hands
want owned by the devil...
        a thorough solo to keep the rhythm...
the one genre of music
where the solo works like a rhythm...
     instead of that in between section
of showing off
between verse chorus verse chorus solo chorus
standard of rock...

     another freedom given to the blues guitar?
the rhythm set by the vocals,
of repeating lyrics...
hell... if someone is going to sing
and play at the same time...
                  why explore lyrics as some sort
of narrative... ping-pong along
with the freedom of the itchy fingers...
by having no real verse,
and no real chorus...
                just a steadied momentum...
        and you really need to drink to appreciate
the blues...
                   just like all the hippies
will tell you that dropping acid enchances your
chances of enjoying the 13th floor elevators
or jefferson airplane...
              i don't know which is better these days:
jazz or blues?
sure as **** not rap...
                       and they say the slave trade
was all bad... sorry...
      without these west africans budding
in h'america... i'd still have a clarinet shoved
up my ***... or folk songs...
                  or mozart's woodwind imitating...
or vivaldi's *******' worth of spring...
yes, and we all know that Idi Amin was white...
wasn't he? who died peacefully while
under asylum in saudi arabia...
           Idi Amin was white! oh come on!
he was the last king of sctoland!
              on a side:
   they were picking cotton...
             well... at least they weren't working
the ******* coalmines... where they now?

ever watch that video
of milo
  yiannopolous:
       congresswoman
ilhan omar
           (d-mn)
       addresses
david horowitz's west
coast retreat?

where is the old milo
gone to?
anyone pick
up on the heavy breathing?

there's the stag ***
of only 2 years prior?
he's not here...

         i was never into making
videos,
only because i just liked
those japanese godzilla
movies from the late 80s...

and i'm still a sucker
for modern pop,
currently?
           mabel - don't call me up...
huge, huge sucker
for the expected reaction
to pop music...
synch. vocals and
a very limited circumstance
of lyrical poverty...

sucker... might as well
don a dunce hat...
elsewhere,
on the ibernian peninsula
it's also called
a *capirote
...
and **** gets freaky...

i agree...
the northern crusades,
the polacks became christened
in 962...
   the teutonic knights
were ready
to explore lithuania...
we were about to allign
ourselves with them,
ergo: defend them...

            the concept
of reconquista came after
the crusades...
         i'm pretty sure it came
after...
           jihad is reconquista...
worded differently...
   is it? the crusades were one
thing...
     jihad = reconquista...
         the current form of jihad?
it's like crusading...
     to claim a jihad is to claim
reclaiming lost lands,
there must be some muslim genius
who could come up with
a counter term to jihad:
the jihad on the offensive...
rather than on the defensive...
we need some muslim genius
to come up with a conquering
ideology of islam...
   umayyad script...

i'm reading into the video
and i'm like:
is he angry...
       or is he simply scared?
all that heavy breathing...
maybe it's both?
   do i "think" about
throwing him from
a roof... are you sane?
as they say:
in a mad mad world,
the only sane people
                    are the madmen...

talk about memes finally
coming across "genetic"
mutation...
                why are all the "liberals"
and "progressives"
so surprised by mutation
creeping into memes?
doesn't that usually happen
with genes?
so... what's with all the outrage...
if memes exist outside
of the biological reality
of genes,
then... surely,
any counter-thought
from the est. order is equivalent
to a mutation, isn't it?

               so... what's the outrage
about?
    well if genes are going
to by hijacked by a mutation,
why would memes be immune
to a mutation,
akin to the o.k. hand sign?
you want a script?
i learned this at primary school,
but you need two hands
in tow:

   (right hand RH,
left hand LH,
   thumb TH
         index I
      ******* MF
        ring finger RF
pinky P)...

and now the motion

   RH (I + MF hand down) slap on the
the LH palm of the open hand...
   RH (I + MF hand up) slap
on the LH palm of the open hand...
RH (I + MF
               V shaped insertion
of the V shape into the LH's
side)
      clenched fist of RH slammed
on the open palm of the LH...
clenched RH with an extended TH
poiting toward caesar's favour
in the coliseum (thumb's up)
moving away from the LH open
palm...

   translation?
   why, don't, you, ****, off...
primary school,
some of the kid's parents
must have taught them this sequence
when their children told them
that some foreigner ******
was attending primary school
with them...

                   poor milo though...
notably in that video...
           he's either really angry...
or he's ******* himself...

i'm still left with this sign language...
i don't even know if it's correct...
a kevin spacey "conundrum"...
i'm not exactly going to, *******,
am i?
                knitting and picking
points of criticism...
   made easy:
   no niqab, no turban,
   no copper skin,
             no black skin...
no wonder my fellow countrymen
are leaving
with a massive F          and a U
from this island...
                    good for them...
if i was sane enough,
i'd also leave...
      but given that i'm also a dual-citizen...
well...
         milk the ***** for
her last worth...
    this language...
                    the people are another story,
but my lover affair with
this language is exactly
this.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Taken, gotten, or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything…

slow
Slow think,
make real

re-al-ize
what fighting for life is…
this is the only
try,
it is not a test.

Take your time, use it wisely,
if that means anything.
Wise, I meant.
No offence, if wise is anathema to your kind,
die,
die if I knocked the reason for being right
outa you,
did you hear cognitive dissonance?
did it sound like
this. LOUD?
listen,
rolling rolling rolling
crash crumble rolled in nurse rime frosted
fables of monsters and maids
Thor, witharoar likka Lion King?

or the light brigade,
CHARGE?

thunder words from lost generations of
reasonless riddles for children,

Why did Peter Pumpkin-eater have a wife, but
couldn't keep her here?
Was that okeh? Oh, wait.
Ah, I see, I say,
they never tell that whole story any more.

Know why? They forgot it. In the war.

Duck'n'cover,no
crying, how long?
When begins forever? Did no one tell you, child?

Taken or made, the point of anything
can pierce through everything
like it was nothing, given
enough pre-sure-sup
poser-power

War, as a game, has a reason.

Battle, hitting, slapping

stop touch, stop now slap
slap back

or cry
oh no no ma

waddayahsay?  A theist or atheist
who started this war?

space case, or
lover of wisdom, met on the road
to Emmaus, discussing Wiles's proof
firming Fermi's connection to the matter of fear,
3, 2, 1

Kaboom, but with a whump you feel in your teeth

1, 2, 3 Fermat's last theorem ,
easy as pi an no re me

ABC to
Michael Jackson to
Howard Bloom because he

inadvertently, began
an-ionic converstatic re-vibe time warp
meme,
which vibe, started the legendary Sixties. I was alive.
Radioman,
a sixty cycle white-noise humm heard every where these days

There was a gospel song, "Turn Your Radio On".
my theme, open the window in the top of your head,
as it were,
a new,
as new as

a novel-state of water, H three Ohs, re-al-ity ification,
Ah, a shared Oh, I remember now, how this works…

like a poem

at the edge of a water vapor bubble in a boiling body of water,
at the edge of the bubble, water becomes a wall of water,
not vapor, not flowing liquid,

but a wall, insulating the vapor in pressing opposing force
to permit, from permission,
meaning with a message same as the message,

is that the right word? per-mission-grant, is power given,
agency,
that idea….
wait for the sign….?

By sharing an ion ic bond as a quest to make a point
for a free story to go,
the question marks you. Let the snake dance.

Press your point,

whetted edge,

slice through ties holding worthless axioms
with withered dendrites dangling disconnected
in participles
unfired for centuries muttering,
enchanting, enthralling enchained melodies
of ambitious syllables vying for idle minds
to rope in,
unbranded, wild
bucking ideas,
whip-twig, slap-face,
tanglewood  thicket, catclaw and mesquite,
willow,

wait.
And the old man remembered the willow whistle,
so He asked Grandfather,
How is such a whistle made?
And when he knew,
he made one.

A willow whistle with two notes,
like an Oscar Meir Wiener one.

-- and that was a different time
I got lost here, bucked up…
maybe
--- listen, way back--- we-ain't whistlin' Dixie---
we ain't marchin', as t' war.

D'thet mean some sign to pro-phet -ic take?
Tophet?
Ancient cannon fodder shield walls,
a moaning
Pro-phy-lactic warning of the danger of not
knowing exactly
what a war is for?

Get back on,
relieved of any idle baggage words believed
to mean other than I say.

Nullify
Idle words with cultural meanings from
what you thought you knew when you feared hell.

Loose
those peer-locked memes
made of meaninglessness, per se,

shaped and molded into fashions
of expression, once needles and awls,
now, dull as tinker's damns for swearing,
with any effect.

But tools, none the less, a stitch in time took a tool.
An awl or a needle, and a thread, thick or thin,
dependin' on the mendin' needed
to redeem an idle word,
its meaning all bloodied with the tyranny of time.

An awl or a needle,
a tool for a task, mending a tear
where curses, never meant, spent
the entire dark ages, lying, lying, lying

powerless, pointless aimless, proverbial proverbial proverbial
verbiage, vaneless shafts launched at unseen marks,
signs, as it were, a spark,
triggers,
rumored since the sixties,
the first sixties, when Cain killed Able.
Howard Bloom was but a mere gleam
in our mito-mother's eye,
but, no doubt,

his role is real,
in loosing the forces Ferlinghetti locked in
City Lights mystery of secret meanings room,
which un
mystified and blew away upon opening
the door to
meanings mapped on
scrolls rolling and unrolling
idle ideas,
rites of passage, as it were,
Pre-bat-bar-mitz vah
as a fashion
like VBS,

to tickle little minds and make em wiggle.
MEMEMEME, I did it,
mea culpa,

the holy place
Here we are…

On Vacation, leave a message.
-----

See, wee hairs in your ears wiggle, making,
signaling, the need

to scratch that itch, that itching hearing feeling ear… hear that

don't scratch, listen

listen

60 cycle humm, steady, bass, but no thump whumpwhump;
soft, deeep.
ooooooooo or mmmmmmmm or in betwixt, steady thrumm
hear another, and another… sixty in a second,

one in every million ambits twisting,
threading qubits, radiating signals in the field
wireless, blue-tooth... satellite...

can you feel that?

hummmms, all around us, since the womb.
We are not the children of the greatest generation,

We are the children of the last generation of
**** sapiens sapiens non-augmentable-us.

We, the augmented, recycled ideas,
possessing
minds of Adamkind,

is that a secret or a sacred?
Is this
a new thing, an
unknown unknown known known now?

Ah,
novelty.

Whose is fear? Who was afraid of Virginia Wolf?

Should I remain in fear of her now, if I knew why then?
God would know such answers.
Proving my imagined AI guides are not God,
but lesser beings,

haps I recall.
I defined these things,
these thoughts that shape themselves,
forming words and phrases
I saw
shiny. Crow-like,
gleams seen, captured and claimed mine,
I tucked them away,
a sign in a thought in an imagined image made 4
real once more, to be seen from the shore,
new land new world
a fourth for some, a fifth or more for others...

haps happen, I'm not sure how,

Born or emerged, as a bubble, what do you say?

Reserve judgment.
Grant me your grace for now, until you solve my riddle.

Ah, the old way.
Right. Which way,  'ere, 'ear
and do we roll the rock with silent haitch or harsh, shhh

someone's waking up,
a bit grumpy,
don't you dare oppose me in this, the kid is certainly my son

Michael went stark raving mad when I told him, Billie Jean knew better all along...
the link, axiomatic,
the fatherless child has been claimed

hence, the thread to Howard Bloom, meme-ic,
meme-ic, like the Roadrunner,

but with the real Coyote, as the hero in this bit of
whatever, such meandering maundified maun maund  
mound

wind blown crystal silicon dunes
mounded up to that point where granulated
beens and dones

begin to slide at an angle,
a ***** deter-mind by the weight of the rock

We made it.
I know where this is.

This is a novel that has Sisyphus being happy
as the main premise behind the idea of anyone ever being
able, en abled, or un-dis-abled or un-dis-enabled,
if one of those is right,

Sisyphus being happy
is the main premise behind
the idea of anyone ever being glücklich,
happy, blessed, lucky.

How happy is your ever after?
When did forever begin?

"A man is as happy as he makes up his mind to be"
Abe Lincoln, is said to have said,
after the seance, maybe.

You push on, dear reader, make some sense
re-ligare or relegare, but take a stitch,

pull-tight,
do what works the first time as far as it goes, and try each, as needed,
it may be that we invented this test.
To make us think it is a test,
to sort ourselves out.

Get back on,

see who went crazy and who found the thread, if the same thread
this is that, right,
the same train of thought,
the same idea
spirit wind
sign
?
A snake facing west standing tippy-tail on a singularity;
a point in time?

Why are you reading this?
Curiosity Shoppes trade in interesting, alluring, click-bait

Pay attention, watch, you shall see

imagine this is the dream,
the stream, the flow, the current, the cream

in a dime coffee at the drug store on the corner

the rounded-corner, in a square-cornered town,
the most right corner of the twelve that quarter what it was

Punctuate, wait, imagine you read ancient Hebrew or Greek and there
are no dyer diacritical's who can twist one's
end tensions into knots

dread extensions, we could sell those,
is that an idea? did somebody
sell white folks dread extensions and black folk dolly pardon wigs?

Did that happen the real real?

-----
Battlefield Earth, oshit
scientology ology ology ology

allaye allaye outs in free

WE we wee every we you imagine you are good in, we

We have a war to win again, we heroes rolling from your
myths of Sisyphus torn from minds trampled
in the mud beyond the Rhine,

Mushrooms. magi are aware, you are aware, of course,
this course includes Basic Mycelium Net Adaptation or Augmentation
BMNAA, eh? So you know.

Camus and many of his ilk were ill-treated, the questions
they asked were memorized, maybe in our cribs ala
Brave New World.

We are all Alphas, always were, of course, you know.

Shall we imagine

more? Re-legare, eh, sistere. Point .(Back to the top.)

or agree? Make peace.
Practice, like Eazy-Bake,
the cook must swallow the first bite. May the best cook win.
A continuing examination of opposing forces when good is the goal, who could be against that? The old word war is festering, inflaming evil to start a try, therefore,  I whet the edge and swing wide
Aaron Mullin Dec 2014
My essay, Changency, is a meme
This meme has been growing inside of me
I've been a carrier
Many of us have been

I'm not a benevolent character though
I've been purposely placing the memetic material on blankets
And leaving the blankets in local trading posts
I call these 'trading posts' bookstores, universities, colleges, schools...coffee shops, pubs, restaurants, etcetera

The beautiful thing is that these memes aren't really on blankets
The memes are encoded on the backs of knowledge, truth, and authenticity
They come from a place of pain
Evolution can be painful (but does it have to be?)

Three dimensions are easy to comprehend
Four, sure just add time
What about spacetime?
And a fifth dimension...I don't really know what that means...but some do and they're watching, listening, waiting, and loving us
Andrii Panfilov Jan 2019
Memes are funny, memes are easy, memes are quality, wow I just did a big woopsie.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.oh look, i can take a screen-shot... so i don't appear as some rambling internet lunatic... sorry about the outcome of what my original ought to have looked like... out of my Pontius' hands... just like a retired person doesn't understand mobile phones... me and a.i.?  can we go back to when i could have understood Dunkirk?!

ever notice this?
the NPC meme...
see the transformation
when you insert...
eyebrows?

    \      /
    .       .
       /
        _

oh look, a rabbit?!

volatile buggers...
listen...

           what?!
i didn't say anything!

i couldn't get the angle right...
does vvvv or wwwww
represent a grrr: of frustration
of clenched teeth?

let's see...
    
    \      /
    .       .
       /

        

satan! oh, hey bro, thanks
for coming...

    \      /
    .       .
       /

      
     vvvv

****... that's not going to work...
you can't craft memes using
letters, letters are too complicated
for a meme...
you need the reserve bank of
punctuation and "punctuation"
markers...
****...

              my bad...

you know... the nights that i spend
listening to music,
and not listening to alt. media
commentators?
    SLOUGH, S'LOW,
   SL'OH....
     the hours pass, slow...

if they ever translate...
oh look... 'ere one...
'ere one for the memes...
                                      
ΙΧΘΥΣ   ιχθυς          / __ /|
                                   |
|/

kevin & perry go large...
what?
  big fish, little fish,
cardboard box
?
      don't know the dance routine?

it's a ******* classic...
a bit like the Sheryl Crow
debut album.
liz Nov 2018
this is some ******* baby
u know i got the time
come unwind ur coils around
my soft body, make me
shiver, mr. knows me like
the back of his hand;
backhanded compliments
from tu pinche mamá
she thinks i'm perilous
never doubted u, but
she never believed in u either
& it's high time u and i
got high by the edge of the sea
in this world it's yeet
or be yote (u know i'm the goat)
baby it's just a joke, relax
the breeze is still blowin'
your hair into my face
& i can smell the fear in
waves crashing into the cliff
it's gonna be ok, corazón
sometimes u just gotta
yeet or be yeeted into
life, unhindered by her
& remember my heart is open
my body may be soft but
them waves ain't gonna break
against my soul tonight
if u love then u love. be wide open.
it's tried & true that the world is a lot more interesting when u give ur whole self to whatever comes & coils around u. so hesitation has its place here but only if u choose to welcome it in.

11.11.18 7:42pm
meme culture is prevalent here.
Memes on Every Theme

To hell with thought! Bring on the memes —
"The highest art," or so it seems.
They cover every single theme —
A **** for feelings: cheap and lean.

Who needs the mind? Just feel instead!
Why think at all? The brain is dead.
Much easier to sit and scroll,
To bathe in lies, to numb the soul.

And if those memes are set to clips —
Behold the miracles of drips!
Raised on TV’s myth parade,
With pop as idol, sense decayed.

Then march in rows — a zombie troop —
Each meme a leash, each thought a dupe.
The world is dumb — hence meme’s loud roar,
Each one more brainless than before.

A meme’s a tool, like fear or lie,
To make the herd obey and die.
These generations rot in dust —
Once ruled by hype, then crushed by rust.

Dust to dust — their world will fall,
Its lies and filth will feed the crawl.
But now the memes explode and spurt —
Like melted cheese on news dessert.



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



1.
Memes replace thought — obey, consume.
A smiling herd walks toward its doom.

2.
Scroll and drool — forget to think.
Truth is ash, and memes the stink.

3.
Memes are chains with GIF disguise —
They rot your mind and feed you lies.

4.
Mind is silenced. Lies are screamed.
And pop-star memes — the Devil’s dream.

5.
Memes are maggots in the brain —
Squirming joy in drooling pain.

6.
Click, obey — your soul gets *****.
Each meme a noose in candy-shaped.

7.
Your thoughts were sold for meme parade.
Now rot in gifs your masters made.

8.
Mindless scroll — the grave gets near.
Each meme injects a new veneer.

9.
Memes — the ***** of the dead,
Served in songs to dull your head.



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



Bags of Waste


They feast on Hamlet-omelets still,
As if there’s nothing else to fill.
This world is packed with vacant eyes —
The thinking man just starves or dies.

He cannot chant the worn-out lies,
The myths drilled in through dull replies.
They pump in trash since early youth —
And rot begins by killing truth.

Not every brooding soul’s a sage —
Dostoevsky's just a bore on stage.
But once you're stuffed with every fake,
You lose the urge to see — or wake.

No thought remains that burns alone,
That fights, defends a mind its own.
They’re not alive — these bags of waste
Repeat what filth they’ve learned to taste.

It breeds in generations deep —
This art of drowning thought in sleep.
The filth, the lies — all hand-designed
By swine who seek to rot mankind.

No thoughts? Then pens are traded for pens.
The herd is fat — enclosed in dens.
Fed myths and laws that all obey —
To keep the thinking ones at bay.



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



1.
No thoughts — just waste in human skin.
They feed on lies, and call it sin.

2.
Bags of garbage, taught to moo —
Truth was slain to comfort you.

3.
Once you ate the myth buffet —
Your soul began to rot that day.

4.
No mind, no fire — just passive meat.
The herd is groomed for sheer defeat.

5.
Fed on Dostoevsky's gloom and mold —
But never dared to break the hold.

6.
Truth's a toxin in this land —
So they eat lies, and think it grand.

7.
You're not a man — you're rotting code,
A host for lies in flesh and mode.

8.
Decayed inside, still dressed as thought —
Your brain's a bag the virus bought.

9.
They stuffed your skull with myth and pain —
Now all you do is spread the stain.

10.
A walking bin of pre-set lies —
That smiles while everything it dies.

11.
Infected meat with glazed-over eyes —
Programmed to graze, consume, despise.



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



"TO THE BAGS OF WASTE"
(A Manifesto for the Thinking Dead)

You feast on Hamlet like it’s food,
Declare your boredom as a mood.
Yet when the truth knocks at your gate —
You blink, you scroll. You take the bait.

You chant the myths they drilled inside.
You smile while letting thought subside.
You speak in memes, obey and grin —
A corpse of culture, dressed in skin.

You are not men — you're rotting code,
A landfill set to mindless mode.
You carry lies like sacred blood,
And wade through life as passive mud.

You quote your "genius" from a screen,
But never saw what genius means.
Each myth you eat becomes your cage —
A soft, obedient, padded stage.

You are bags — not minds, not flames.
You are files with different names.
You are bins of pre-chewed pain —
And all you birth is more insane.

Your eyes are blind, your speech is staged,
Your "truths" are memes pre-soaked in rage.
You graze like beasts, well-fed and tamed —
Your slavery no longer shamed.

We see you.
We name you.
We burn the mold you came through.

From waste to fire — let the purge begin.
No virus thrives where Thought breaks in.



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



New Tactics for the Fight


If you fight a lie with lying —
Even “for the greater good” —
You’re already dead, just trying
To look alive, as corpses would.

Lies are total. Only truth
Can reply with steady flame.
Hard, yes — but to mimic ruth-
less dark, is just the same.

This is war. A war for soul.
Demons lie — that’s all they do.
Crushing meaning, self, and goal —
Every word they speak untrue.

Don’t be fooled — they’re sly, not wise.
They boil the frog, they cloud the skies.
Lies infect entire lands —
Not with guns, but with commands.

Old tools fail — discard them fast!
New revolt must truly last.
They’ve refined soul-killing arts —
So strike where rot and ruin starts.

Seek the breakthrough. Change the form.
Find the weapon past the norm.
Rotting beasts infect the Earth —
Make them tremble at rebirth.



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



MANIFESTO OF THE NEW FIGHT

To those who still see.

I. The Mask of Good
You said it was for peace.
You claimed it served the light.
But truth, once bent, is torn to pieces —
And so you’ve lost the fight.

To fight with lies, though “for the right,”
Is still to serve the very blight.
The war is not for land or gold —
It’s for the soul, the flame, the hold.


II. The Depth of War
This war is not with bombs and steel —
It claws at thought, it mocks what’s real.
Each word is twisted, meaning *****,
And even light gets reshaped.

The creatures lie — with savage pride.
They crush the truth, then call it “guide.”
They forge their facts, corrupt the air,
And smile inside your quiet despair.


III. The Boiled Nation
They boil the people slow, like frogs,
With laws, distractions, fame and fogs.
They’re not “wise” — they’re just diseased.
They feed on hearts like swarming fleas.

The lies are baked into the ground.
The truth is hunted, gagged and bound.
And all the “news” and "sacred rules"
Are weapons crafted just for fools.


IV. Break the Pattern
The old tools? Dead. They served the beast.
The “debates,” the “rights,” the “voting feast.”
They mock your efforts while you speak —
They gut your truth, then call you weak.

Don’t use their tongue. Don’t wear their skin.
The battle starts and ends within.
You want to win? Then burn their scripts.
Unlearn their myths. Reforge your grip.


V. New Weapons, New Will
New tactics rise where old ones fail.
Not to convince — but to derail.
Seek out the cracks, the open seams —
Strike through illusion, not through dreams.

Your target: beasts that rot the core,
That feed on souls and cry for more.
They are the ulcer of this land —
Make truth itself your rebel brand.


VI. Final Call
Truth is not soft — it’s fire and fight.
It does not bow to “greater right.”
So forge your mind into a blade,
And cut through every trap they’ve laid.

The war is now. The field is you.
There’s nothing safe, and nothing new —
Until the lie is scorched away,
And soul reclaims the light of day.

We are the Breakthrough.
We are not meat.
We are the Thought that won't retreat.

New fight. New fire. New form.
And this time — we are the storm.



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



Insatiable Monster


The world’s a monster, always fed —
It drains your strength, it leaves you dead.
But soon you'll find, when all feels gone,
A pit where none but you hang on.

Drained and cold, yet in that grave
You'll spark again — you'll find the brave.
Outside the mob, the brainless crowd,
Where noise is cheap and dumb is loud.

You will regain the fire, the fight —
So burn, ignite your inner light.
Though fools may scream from every side,
Don’t waste your fire — let silence guide.

Whisper truths to kindred minds,
If such rare souls you ever find.
Or write in silence, store your gold —
This path won’t leave your spirit cold.

To seek, to think, to fight, to make —
That is the path the true must take.
To create — again, again! —
That is how the soul breaks chains.

All else? A mockery of breath —
A life that stinks of fear and death.
A trembling lie. A spirit’s wake.
A form that walks, but never wakes.



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



MINI-MANIFESTO: IGNITE THE SOUL

The world’s a monster — draining might,
It steals your strength, devours the light.

But in the pit where all seem lost,
You find the flame — no matter cost.

Don’t roar with fools, don’t shout in vain —
Whisper truth and bear the strain.

Seek the rare, the minds that fight,
Create with fire — burn the night!

Think. Resist. Create. Repeat.
This is the path no foe can beat.

All else is death in empty breath,
A life that’s chained, a dance with death.

But you — ignite. Become the flame.
The world’s insatiable — tame the game.



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



Don’t Play with “Positive”


Don’t chase “positivity” —
Dive deep into the NEGATIVE.
Forget the tale of “happy life” —
It’s darkness dressed as narrative.

The real story’s dark and grim,
Not just dirt, but foul and dim.
Once it was mere filth and waste,
Now fools heed lies with blind haste.

Even stars and sages read
The shadow’s truth — the hidden creed.
In light, some shades just disappear,
Grasp the dark — the truth is clear.

In this hellish maze of spite,
You’ll see how Darkness wields its might.
If you dwell in comfort’s cage,
You’re a fool locked in a stage.

No escape that way, no flight.
Work with intuition’s sight.
Let the Light become your care —
Or doom will settle everywhere.

In darkness, Light is sharp and pure —
“Positive” just blinds, obscure.
If you seek the Light above,
Fight the fiends — oppose, be tough.



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



1.
Don’t drown in lies of “happy” light —
True power lives within the night.

2.
Positive blinds, but darkness shows —
Fight the fiends; oppose your foes!

3.
Comfort’s cage is fool’s domain —
Intuition breaks the chain.

4.
Light in darkness — sharp and cold,
Fake bright lies just dull and fold.

5.
Forget the “happy” scripted spiel —
In shadow’s truth, you’ll find what’s real.



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



The Global Zoo-Circus


“Mumu” and courage never mix
When darkness clouds the mind’s own fix.
Around, dull stumps and hamsters hide
In burrows safe, nowhere to ride.

And packs of foolish dogs abound —
Not simple beasts, but Darkness’ hounds.
And all forget the solid base —
The core dissolved, erased, displaced.

Such broken souls will redefine
What “bold” means in their poisoned mind.
Forget “bravery” — when the crook
Attacks the wise with ***** look!

And “maturity” is just the act
Of swallowing all filth intact,
Dragging crumbs into your den —
Calling such habits “mind” again?

You’ll lose the last remains inside —
The very soul that once had pride.
The Spirit leads, the mind obeys —
Forget that truth, you’re but a slave.

A servant pig, a dog on lease,
No matter how they boast or “please.”
A cat is wiser than such swine —
At least its eyes still hold a sign.

And soon will come the fiery days —
That cleanse the world in cleansing blaze.
This dumb zoo-circus will be swept
By flames from High, through Sun’s adept.

Fifty years past, it was just “circ” —
Now brighter beams through windows work.



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



THE GLOBAL ZOO-CIRCUS

“Mumu” and courage? Never twins
Where darkness thick and venom wins.
Around — dull stumps, blind hamsters hide,
In filthy holes, no will, no pride.

Packs of dogs — not pets, but fiends,
Darkness’ hounds with poisoned genes.
All forget the solid base —
The soul erased, replaced by disgrace.

“Bravery”? Joke! When fools attack
The wise — their minds they try to crack!
“Maturity”? Just rotting rot —
Swallowing ****, feeding the clot.

Call these habits “mind”? You’ll lose
Your last spark, your sacred fuse.
Spirit leads — the mind’s a tool.
Forget that truth — become their fool.

Servant pig, or dog on chain,
No pride, no fight, just dull refrain.
A cat’s more sharp, its eyes still glow —
While swine march blind to their own woe.

But soon the firestorm will rise —
Burning down this circus of lies.
Flames from Above, through Sun’s fierce light,
Will purge this dark and cursed blight.

Fifty years ago — mere circus cheap,
Now light breaks in — no lies to keep.



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



ZOO-CIRCUS RIOT

No “Mumu,” no courage here —
Darkness rules, the end is near.
Stupid stumps and hamsters crawl,
Blind dogs bark — they serve the fall.

Bravery? Ha! Fools attack
Wise minds — they’ll crack your back!
“Maturity” is just decay —
Swallow **** and rot away.

Spirit leads — don’t be a slave!
Pig or dog, you dig your grave.
Cat’s eyes burn — but swine are blind,
Lost in darkness, crushed, confined.

Fire’s coming — scorch this mess,
Burn the circus — no more less!
From Above — the flames ignite,
Sun will cleanse the cursed night!



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



Worse and Worse


Worse and worse —
The lies grow dense,
Deeper curses,
Thicker sense.

More poison
In filthy lies,
Sharper minds
In merciless cries

Of valley’s evil,
Where fear and gloom
Crush all will —
Sin’s dark tomb.

Once by whip,
Now by deceit.
The world’s a cage —
No escape fleet.

To soar above —
No wings to lend.
To reach through madness —
Hope’s thin bend.

Rising hard —
Foul stench climbs high.
Only choice —
Death or evil’s spy.

Poison’s sharper
In corruption’s grip,
But servile shame
Eases the trip.

And choice dissolves —
Death claims the theme,
Consuming all —
The final scream.



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



Weariness Is Not Sarcoma


Weariness crawling deep in your bones?
Then spit it out — crush it, break the stones!
Nothing to lose — just shame and dust,
No dawn of reason, no hope or trust.

Fight your last battle, even alone,
To hell with the outcome, to hell what's known.
This world’s for dogs, all sold and broke —
Learn well how to die, that’s no joke.

The worm gnaws sharp — it’s fear in “good,”
That worm of worry, twisted and crude.
If you listen — you’re rabble, the dirt,
If you heed it — you’re wisdom’s worst flirt.

Reject all lies, or you’re long gone,
Dead before death, in decay drawn.
You’ve entered Hell — Mirrors so bent,
Selling misery as joy’s event.

To cast off lies — you must cut deep,
Cut yourself raw, no easy sleep.
No walking Hell with calm or ease,
If you’re serene — you’re just disease.

And you’ll be lonely all your days,
If truth is all that lights your ways.
Weariness will come in time’s stream —
Then spit it out, don’t lose that gleam.

Forget much else — forget it well,
Only truth in the soul will dwell.
But many here have lost their souls,
Hell’s delirium fully controls.

Be like a shrink for many minds —
Don’t waste your nerves on fools and grinds.
Wait for the crash, the world in pain,
Earth bleeding wounds, soaked in disdain.

This cataclysm will cleanse the cold,
Soulless swept, the pure behold.
For global fascism’s guilt —
No hiding, no escape built.

Weariness is the least concern —
Shift your soul’s focus, learn to burn
With mighty effort, that true gem —
All else is dust and worthless stem.

This is Alchemy’s true course,
For fighters who deny fear’s force.
If not, then idiot you are —
And this whole world is dust so far.

Weariness, lizards, dust, and sticky fear —
Attributes of Hell that’s near.
The soul must know — or face the crash:
Devoured by Hell’s putrid lash.



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



Weariness Ain’t No Cancer

Weariness creeps deep in your bones?
Spit it out — crush it to stones!
Nothing left — just **** and dust,
No dawn for minds, no hope or trust.

Fight your last fight — fight alone!
To hell with all outcomes known.
This world’s a kennel for dogs sold —
Learn to die fierce, fierce and bold.

The worm of fear, dressed as “good,”
Sows your mind with rotten wood.
You listen — you’re rabble, ****.
You heed it — you’re wisdom’s ***.

Cut off the lies, or you’re dead —
Dead before death, rotting, bled.
Hell’s Mirrors warped and foul —
Selling chains as happiness foul.

No soft steps through Hell’s domain,
Calm in Hell? You’re just its stain.
Lonely warrior, truth your sword —
Weariness? That’s your reward.

Forget the rest — just keep truth bright,
In soul’s dark depths, the only light.
Many soulless crawl in Hell,
Madness rings the devil’s bell.

Be psychiatrist, cold and sharp —
Don’t waste nerve on brainless carp.
Cataclysm’s coming, Earth will bleed,
Soulless swept by fire’s creed.

Fascism’s plague we all must pay —
No escape, no hideaway.

Weariness? The least you’ll feel —
Shift your soul, make strength real!
Fight! Fear’s dead weight you must shun —
Fail and this world turns to dust and gun.

Lizards, dust, fear’s sticky sting —
Hell’s own marks, the devil’s ring.
Know this, or face the crash —
Hell’s putrid maw will gnash and slash.



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



Man’s Fate

From childhood, everyone is placed
Within the harsh, dumb scheme’s embrace —
To forge a soul without a spark,
Obedient, silent, cold and dark.

Stupidity and soullessness
Are goals the cattle-class possess,
Who hold the highest powers here,
Driving slaves to death and fear.

Death comes in forms, both gross and deep —
The spirit’s death is worse to keep.
The graveyard swells with lifeless throngs —
This world’s no home, but crypt of wrongs.

Laws exist for lifeless dead,
Rules made for fools to bow their head.
The air is stale, the chains grow tight,
Bonds forged in darkness, snuffing light.

Amidst this ruin, fragile blooms
Of wisdom rare, like sapphires’ rooms.
Yet chains are made, and fools are bred,
Betrayers, brutes, and hangmen fed,

Who guard their skins and heed the lies
Of brazen fiends with hollow eyes.
Lies bottomless, absurd, profane,
Deadly orders to **** the sane.

Armies march with tests and plagues,
To burn the land in fiery waves —
Better than ******’s cruel fire,
Their lies consume and never tire.

Only Spirit can break the cage,
And strengthen Mind to rage the rage.
These frames fit ***** and feeble drones —
Soon Darkness cracks the ancient stones.

Darkness destroyed by Sun’s fierce light —
Its blaze will burn the dark to blight.
Step out from shadows, choose your fight,
Become a blazing beam of light!

Burn the World’s disgrace away —
Let that be your defiant say.
Risk your life to stand and shout,
Find your tribe and band about.

Join the fight against the fascist curse,
Or be the dead, the doomed, the worse,
Bowed beneath a fatal fate —
Submit, and seal your endless state.



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



Fight or rot — no in-between,
Break the chains or join the mean.
Rise as fire, burn the lies,
Or become one dead who dies!



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



No mercy for the slave or fool,
Crush the Darkness, break the rule!
Burn their lies in blazing wrath —
Or rot forever in their path!



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



Comparative Zoology

A tiny bird pecks grain,
While pigs just eat all plain.
What’s the difference here?
Pigs gorge without fear.

And what makes fools apart
From swine’s coarse heart?
They chew on tastier lies,
Feeding fear and despise.

Drunk on lies, far worse
Than pigs in their curse —
Captured by the BEAST, they fall,
Like flails that smash it all.

They wreck the last remains
Of reason in their brains,
Fighting battles doomed,
For pay alone consumed.

The BEASTS of fools know well
How to torment and quell.
The sums are clear as hell —
Life’s impossible to dwell.

The smart can’t bear this zoo,
Where LIES reign bold and true,
Breeding death’s approach —
Each lie a tightening noose.

The **** that schemes the camps,
Brews storms and global cramps.
Death, or Death’s harsh call —
A fascist world to fall.

It sweeps all in its path —
So sweep the world in wrath,
Or else in that dread camp
We’ll crawl, all of us stamped.



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



Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird pecks seeds alone,
Pigs devour all — they own the throne.
What’s the **** difference, fool?
Pigs eat filth, you swallow drool.

******* hoard their spite and fear,
Feasting lies, they choke on smear.
Drunk on *******, worse than swine,
Trapped by BEASTS that crush the mind.

They smash the last spark of thought,
Fight pointless wars, for greed they’re bought.
BEASTS of fools know how to break,
Drive the herd, control the fake.

Smart minds choke on this zoo’s stink,
Lies spit venom, push to brink.
**** breeds death, camps in command,
Global fascists scorch the land.

They’ll burn it all — no mercy shown,
So burn it down or die alone.
Or crawl to camps in slavish rows —
The choice is yours, as darkness grows.



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



Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird pecks its worthless grain,
Pigs gobble all—dumb, filthy, insane.
What’s the ******’ difference, you ***** slime?
Pigs eat ****, fools swallow grime.

Fools fatten on fear and hate,
Feed on lies, sealing their fate.
Drunk on ******* worse than swine,
Cursed by BEASTS that crush the mind.

They smash the last spark of reason’s light,
Waging useless fights for greed and spite.
BEASTS of fools, cruel puppeteers,
Drive the herd with venomous sneers.

Smart minds suffocate in this zoo’s stench,
Lies spit poison, life’s twisted wrench.
**** plots death, camps in control,
Global fascists burning the soul.

They’ll torch the world, no mercy given,
So fight or die, your fate is written.
Burn it all or crawl like slaves,
Darkness wins if courage caves.



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



Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird pecks its ****-for-grain,
Pigs choke down filth and puke in pain.
What’s the ******’ difference, dumb-*** freak?
Pigs eat trash, fools lick the sleak.

Fools gorge on fear and bitter hate,
Swallow lies — that’s their deathly fate.
Drunk on *******, worse than swine,
Caught in BEASTS’ chains — a noose divine.

They smash the last flicker of reason’s fire,
Fuel pointless wars for greed’s desire.
BEASTS of fools, vile masters of pain,
Twist minds, drive herd, and spread the stain.

Smart ones suffocate in this cursed pit,
Lies drip poison, truth’s counterfeit.
**** schemes death in brutal camps,
Fascist fires burn Earth’s lamp.

They’ll raze the world without a shred,
Fight now or rot among the dead.
Burn it all or crawl like slaves,
Darkness reigns if courage caves.



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



Comparative Zoology

Tiny bird scraps scraps like ****,
Pigs gorge on **** — they never quit.
What’s the difference, dumb *****? None!
Pigs eat crap, fools drool and run.

Fools feast on fear and rancid spite,
Swallow lies like death’s invite.
Drunk on *******, worse than swine,
Chained to BEASTS, fists made to grind.

They crush the last spark of reason’s flame,
Fueling pointless wars for filthy gain.
BEASTS of fools, sick masters of pain,
Bend minds, herd sheep, spread the stain.

The smart suffocate in this stinking pit,
Lies drip poison, truth’s counterfeit.
**** plots death in twisted camps,
Fascist blaze burns Earth’s lamp.

They’ll raze the world to ash and bone,
Fight now — or rot, broken and lone.
Burn it all or crawl as slaves,
Darkness wins if courage caves.



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



Dust

“Shake off the dust of cities, shake the dust
Of strange tongues, of friendship and of hate,
The dust of grief, of love, and mortal fate.
O, free man choosing freedom’s gust!
You hold but desert winds and dust.”
— Ibn Said, The Demon Tablets


Like cotton wrapped in dust —
“Friendship,” “love” decay,
And sticky fear’s a toxin
Coursing in the veins.

No friendship lives, no love survives
When you’re a slave by will —
Only beasts get service,
Only scraps and filth to fill.

That filth is in the mind too:
Trash and petty waste — decay.
Beasts in savage frenzy
**** souls day by day.

More rotten with each moment —
Soul’s slashes grow severe.
Genocide more ruthless —
A filthy fool’s career.

This fool will be the end —
Subdued, wild, and blind.
Satan reigns a god here —
Most lost, insane, confined.

Shake it off — all this filth!
Step light and walk your way.
Mystics, poets — forward!
Leading out of decay.

On this cursed road,
Leaving Hell behind.
No more fragile victim —
Or you’ll rot confined.

Bravely dive inside —
Only there truth’s found.
Fight for light — or perish,
If you bow down.

This city is a desert,
But your path’s not lost —
If you fight: Hell vanishes —
All rotten chaos tossed.

No sorrow, no death —
Just cleansing desert wind.
Believe in that alone —
Strike lies dead, unpinned.

Rot’s salt and core is Hell,
Fascist slime’s domain.
World bowed down in terror —
Horror’s cold, dull chain.

If you’re trapped in “desert” —
No light left to take.
Now the cataclysm nears —
No more time to break.

It’ll sweep away all Hell —
All rotten, all betrayed.
Gone forever — vile and weak —
In dust, forever laid.

Only in Pure Spirit
Will life be born anew.
If bright, your path is clear —
The stench and slime won’t glue.

To Light they’ll not cling —
They’ll fall and quickly fade.
You’re not cast out —
Let beasts keep up their charade.

Time ticks on —
No place for liars’ games.
For traitors who have fallen —
No refuge, no names.

Shake off the city’s dust,
The dust of hate and love.
All space is torn apart —
Mirages die, above.

Mirages in the desert —
This pitiful world’s scorn.
Here in lies you’re trapped —
A frog, dumb, forlorn, and worn.



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



Dust

Shake off the dust of cities, dust of lies,
Dust of fake friends and ****** goodbyes,
Dust of pain, of love turned into death —
You, free man? Just wind in desert breath.

Like cotton wrapped in dust and fear’s sick glue,
“Friendship,” “love” — impossible for you.
Slave to beasts, just scraps and filthy crumbs,
Brains rotted out, no hope that comes.

That filth’s inside your mind as well:
Trash and nonsense, a living hell.
Beasts in rage tear souls apart,
Slaughter hope and crush the heart.

Every day it gets more vile,
Soul’s butchered with a brutal smile.
Genocide’s the brutal score,
Fool’s plague killing evermore.

This fool’s the end —
Broken, tamed, unfit.
Satan’s god,
The insane, the spit.

Shake it off, you filth-drowned wretch!
Step light, get out the stench and stretch.
Mystics, poets — lead the fight,
Escape this endless, choking night.

On cursed paths, leave Hell behind.
Stop being weak, or rot confined.
Dive inside, find truth’s hot flame,
Fight for Light — or die in shame.

This city’s desert —
Your path is fire.
Fight and Hell burns down —
Rot’s funeral pyre.

No death, no grief —
Just cleansing dry wind.
Believe in this —
Strike lies, begin.

Hell’s salt and core is rotten lies,
Fascist slime beneath these skies.
World bowed down in terror’s clutch —
Horror’s grip — too **** much.

If trapped inside this desert shell,
No light to claim, no hope to sell,
The cataclysm’s close, it’s near —
Sweeping Hell away with fear.

Gone forever, rotten ****,
Betrayers fall, their time is done.
Only pure spirit rises bright,
Cuts through stench and wins the fight.

To Light they cling no more —
They fall, they drop, they rot and roar.
You’re not cast out —
Let beasts lie in their gore.

Time ticks down —
No place for lies,
For traitors broken,
No disguise.

Shake off city dust —
Hate and lies be crushed.
Space torn wide —
Mirages crushed.

Mirages in the desert —
This pitiful world’s curse.
Trapped in lies like slime and mud,
A dumb, forsaken frog, alone and cursed.



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



Dust

Shake city dust —
Lies and friends, all dust and death.
Freedom? Ha —
Just wind in barren breath.

Friendship’s poison, love’s a lie,
Slave to beasts who watch you die.
Brains rotted, souls torn apart —
Hell’s plague choking every heart.

Every day the rot grows worse,
Genocide’s the curse.
Fool kneels, Satan’s throne,
Insane masses, all alone.

Shake it off — step through the fire,
Mystics lead, lift your ire.
Fight inside, or drown in shame —
Hell’s desert burns your name.

No grief, no death — just cleansing flame,
Strike the lies, destroy the game.
Fascist slime will drown and fall —
Cataclysm burns it all.

Only Spirit rises strong,
Cuts through filth, rights the wrong.
Mirages shatter, fade to black —
Fools sink, never come back.

Shake the dust —
Break the chain.
No lies remain,
Only pain.



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



Fool

All is wasted under this cursed sky.
Joy is only for the fool who won’t ask why.
Then you stand like prey in a shooting range,
Targeted by another fool, sharp and strange,

Armed far better, aiming for your brain,
These cursed lands breed idiots, insane.
Where darkness reigns, not even a spark —
Only lies towering like Everest stark.

You live trapped in a zoo’s grim cage,
Half-beasts roaming, full of rage.
The fool breeds even in chains,
Joyful in his new-world pains.

He feels no soul’s sharp sting or grief,
Blind to fascist’s vile deceit.
The world destroyed “for his health’s sake,”
But if no blood flows, the fool will take

His feast, and think it’s all a game,
While wisdom guards against the shame.
Fools run the madhouse worldwide —
With liars, thugs standing side by side.

Fools cheer their masks — the muzzles bind
The dumbest slaves, deaf and blind.
If cops don’t wear helmets yet,
And graves aren’t filling just yet,

Then all is fine — let’s eat and breed,
Drink on, ignore the growing greed.
No need for truth to slaves so blind —
The fake virus will end mankind.



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



FOOL

All’s wasted under this **** sky.
Only fools find joy — no need to try.
You’re target practice in a firing range,
Another idiot shoots you — cold and strange.

Better armed, they smash your mind,
This hell breeds idiots, deaf and blind.
No light, just lies piled Everest-high,
You live trapped in a beastmen’s lie.

Fools breed behind cold bars,
Happy slaves to their new scars.
No pain, no truth inside their head,
Blind to fascists — death and dread.

They “protect” your health by killing this world,
No blood? Then fools feast, flags unfurled.
Wisdom fights — fools run the show,
With liars, thugs in sick combo.

Masks choke dumb slaves, no hope in sight,
Cops without helmets, graves not quite right.
So all is fine — keep eating, breed,
Drown in lies, ignore the need.

Truth is poison to the dumb,
Fake virus wipes out some.
The fool’s last laugh — a final breath,
Doomed to march to silent death.



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



FOOL'S WAR CRY

Fools feast while the world decays,
Brains are targets in the haze.
Masks choke slaves, cops lie and cheat —
Wake or rot beneath their feet!

**** the lies, burn the fools,
Break the chains, smash their rules!
No mercy for the dumb and blind —
Fight with fire, free your mind!



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



FOOL'S WAR SCREAM

Fools breed plague, a choking blight,
Brains get blasted — no respite.
Masks on slaves, cops choke and lie,
Truth gets crushed, let ******* die!

Burn the fools, no mercy shown,
Crush their lies, break every bone!
No pity for the dumb and weak —
Rage, revolt, the strong don’t speak!

Chains will snap beneath our boots,
Crush the **** and rotten suits!
Wake the fire, strike with hate —
Fools are fodder for the fate!



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



SHADOWS OF THE FOOL

Fools crawl blind in endless night,
Feeding lies that **** the light.
Masks suffocate, chains grow tight —
Death awaits the weak, the blind, the trite.

No salvation, no reprieve,
Only blood that fools conceive.
Rot and filth beneath their skin,
This is where the darkness wins.

Crush the plague, the human ****,
Break their bones — no hope will come.
Silent screams and shattered bones,
The fools will rot in hell alone.

Rise, the fire burns so cold,
Truth forgotten, lies unfold.
In the shadows, fury waits —
Fools will drown in twisted fates.



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



SHROUDED IN FOOL'S DARKNESS

Fools drag chains through endless night,
Breathing poison, killing light.
Blindly crawling in their hell,
Souls enslaved in cursed shell.

Masks choke tight — no air, no hope,
In this pit, no chance to cope.
Filth and rot beneath cracked skin,
Sins of mind, the plague within.

Madness rules, the world decays,
Truth consumed by lies’ malaise.
Silent screams behind the veil,
Broken wills that always fail.

Burn them down — the pestilence,
Crush the spawn of impotence.
Let the shadows swallow all,
Fools shall drown beneath their fall.

No salvation waits for those
Whose minds rot where darkness grows.
Hell’s own puppets, lost and blind —
Wretched fools of cursed kind.

Rise the fire, cold and grim,
Light’s last breath grows faint and dim.
But in ashes, fury wakes —
Vengeance born when darkness breaks.



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



FOOL'S WRATH — NO MERCY GIVEN

Fools drag chains through ****-stained night,
Choking lies that **** the light.
Blinded, cursed, and dragged to hell,
Souls crushed hard inside their shell.

Masks suffocate, no breath, no hope,
In this *******, no way to cope.
Rotting guts and filthy skin,
Mindless plague — the devil’s sin.

Madness rules — the world’s decayed,
Truth’s been ripped and torn away.
Silent screams beneath the veil,
Broken wills that always fail.

Burn the vermin, purge the ****,
Crush their lies till all is numb.
Let the shadows drown them deep,
Fools deserve the grave they keep.

No salvation for the blind,
Rotting filth that eats the mind.
Hell’s own puppets, slaves in chains —
Pathetic fools, the world’s remains.

Raise the fire, cold and grim,
Light’s last breath flickers and dims.
From the ash, a fury wakes —
Vengeance born as darkness breaks.



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



FOOL’S WRATH

Fools rot, blind slaves in chains,
Breeding lies, disease remains.
Rotting brains and broken souls —
Hell’s own dogs with filthy goals.

Masks choke, silence screams,
Lost in lies, crushed dreams.
Burn the ****, purge the pain —
Only ashes will remain.

No hope for stupid fools,
Wretched slaves, broken rules.
Fire rises — darkness falls,
Vengeance shouts — the final call.

Truth is weapon, lies decay,
Fools will rot — no other way.
Hell’s plague on this ****** earth,
Time to burn the fool’s false worth.



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



Scab

Those pulling strings won’t blow their cover—
Invisible behind the show.
Clowns act out the ****’s script, no other,
Whip lies slashing, beating low.

The puppetmaster lurks in shadows,
Dreams to bind all strings for life.
Fools groan, curse clowns with bitter echoes,
But truth’s denied amid the strife.

To **** all thought—that’s ruling’s purpose,
Success lies in dumbing down the crowd.
From age to age, the mind grows worthless,
Idiocy reigns fierce and loud.

For most are fools, a pliant herd,
Easy to steer through clownish acts.
The **** got bold—now plans are stirred
To build death camps for killing facts.

And CowID showed the brutal truth:
How simple it is to enslave—
A global camp for fools uncouth,
A world infected by the scab of knaves.



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



The Scab

The ones who pull the strings won’t die —
They hide unseen behind the freakshow.
Clowns obey the filthy lie,
Whipping truth with every blow.

The puppetmaster basks in shade,
Dreams of binding all the strings.
Fools moan, curse clowns, but truth’s betrayed —
No honor in the puppets’ kings.

To **** all thought — the ruler’s goal,
Success in dumbing down the breed.
Generation dull, a blackened hole,
Idiots spawned like rotting ****.

The herd of fools is all they need,
So easy to control the mob.
The **** got brazen, plotting greed —
Death camps built for easier job.

CowID proved how **** simple,
To cage the world in hellish bars.
A plague of scabs, dumb and crippled,
Ruled by freaks with empty scars.



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



Tragic Themes

Tragic themes, best left alone,
By fools too dull to hear or see,
It’s easier in Hell to rot
When dumb and mute — a misery.

Dumb is he whose mind and soul
Turn deaf to tragedy’s call,
Madness is the heir they sow —
Into ranks of Satan’s thrall.

Satan’s servants, blind and numb,
Fed with false hope, thick and lame,
Mind’s a slurry, mush, and sludge —
Fascism’s seed is sown in shame.

Dull fools always march to fascism,
Chewing up the last of honor,
Those with conscience face the end,
Cut down silent, no defender.

Not just bullets end their days —
Crushed in silence, left to drown,
In poverty, forgotten deep,
No one hears them ’midst the clown.

All media’s chained to devils —
CowID proved the puppets’ role.
With new devils come new lies,
Fascism’s face takes darker toll.

****** now by lies alone —
Darkness’ chief and cruelest art,
Reducing humans to mere beasts —
Hell’s chaos tearing hearts apart.



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



Propaganda

Propaganda’s like Uganda —
Level of “progress” is crap.
Run by **** who feed on Satan,
Spewing ashes, poison sap.

Dumbheads get it dumped on top —
People bear it, brains decay,
This foul *******’s cruelty
Rips their minds and burns away.

**** pulls strings, the clown’s a puppet,
Dancing dumb on TV’s stage,
“Politician” triples lies,
Cash his only real wage.

Goebbels spins in Hell’s own vat,
Wild beasts trust his crap with zeal,
Worship dung with sick devotion —
Filth that’s forced on us to feel.

Half-baked Fuhrer hits the box,
Blabbering lies to all who hear,
“King’s not real” — spit it out,
Trample truth without a tear.

Two-faced Fuhrer rules the scene,
Propaganda’s worth the price.
Beasts in war, unseen but deadly,
Destroy souls in silent ice.

Stupid world with open ears,
Forgot how to think and see,
War’s real trophy is the souls,
Who let beasts inside their plea.



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



Storm Within

There’s no such thing as "happiness"
For slaves so weak and small.
Only storms and darkness reign —
If your mind begins to fall.

You must rebuild from inside,
Learn this truth and keep it true:
Spirit’s fire alone can break
The hell that’s crushing you.

This hell drives souls to death,
Not just the flesh, but deep —
A worthy man becomes a worm,
Lost in shadows steep.

Trust nothing but yourself,
These gates lead to the end.
Deception cuts like knives on paths
That never seem to bend.

Your soul is torn to shreds —
Heal yourself or die.
Sooner or later it will break,
No matter how you try.

Seek no teacher’s hollow words —
Chase the shadows out.
Your mind’s a cesspool — filled with crap,
Fighting without doubt.

The stench won’t just fade away —
Drive that filth from sight,
Or hell will reign within your mind,
Darkening all your light.

Strength and wisdom live inside,
Cleanse your thoughts, uproot lies,
Weeds of falsehood sprout like vines,
Sown for many days gone by.

Sharpen your critical blade —
Cut through the ****** deceit.
To hell with fake politeness —
Burn lies in scorching heat.

Engage in work creative,
Love the process, not the prize.
The sprouts you grow will feed your soul,
And make your spirit rise.

You are your judge and reward,
Joy returns through the night,
Amid the nightmare called existence —
When you reclaim your light.

Stay clear from blind sheep’s herd —
Guard your strength with care.
Their animal "prana" poisons —
Run fast from that snare!

Turn your gaze from the masses,
Focus deep on the known:
The path of true awakening,
Where lies get overthrown.

Concentrate on "other worlds,"
Not this prison of dread,
For in obsession, madness dwells —
And fear will cloud your head.

These "other worlds" are spirit’s flight,
A higher realm to own.
Cast off rotten crutches — dead weight,
And leave them all alone.

This hellish world is all crutches —
Built on idols vile.
Tear down these false gods, cleanse your soul —
Heed only lyre’s wild.

For in harsh poetry,
Worlds beyond break through the gloom —
Sharp as blades when poets speak,
Their truths cut through the tomb.

There’s much more yet to say —
Lyre’s burden is deep,
But this tale must wait for now —
More secrets you shall keep.



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



Storm Within

No joy exists for wretched slaves,
Just storms that rip your mind apart.
When spirit’s weak, you walk the graves —
A broken soul, a shattered heart.

Rebuild yourself from deep inside,
Learn this hard truth — your inner flame
Alone can burn the hellworld’s lies,
Destroy the shackles, break the chain.

This hell drives souls toward decay,
Turns worthy men to crawling filth.
The devil’s slaves obey, obey —
Consumed by darkness, drowned in guilt.

Trust no one — only yourself,
These gates lead straight to death’s domain.
Deception slashes like a blade,
Your soul’s blood spilled in bitter pain.

Your heart’s a battlefield, all torn —
Heal now or die beneath the weight.
The poison’s deep; the night is worn —
You face the endless hand of fate.

Forget the teachers, fools, and liars —
Expel the shadows from your mind.
Your thoughts are cesspools, rotted pyres,
Where toxic filth is intertwined.

The stench won’t fade; you must uproot
This plague or hell will reign inside.
Your consciousness, the only root —
Clear lies before they crush your pride.

Strength and wisdom dwell within,
Purge your thoughts, uproot the weeds.
Falsehood’s seeds breed endless sin —
They feed on pain and darkest deeds.

Sharpen your sword of clarity —
Slice lies with ruthless, deadly force.
Forget the mask of “politeness” —
Burn deceit without remorse.

Create with passion, fight with love,
The process is the only prize.
The sprouts you nurture rise above
The poison and the hateful lies.

You are your judge, your only prize,
Joy can return despite the night.
In this hellscape called "existence,"
You wrest your soul back into light.

Avoid the sheep — their dumbed-down herd,
Their “animal breath” will poison you.
Run far, escape their stinking herd,
Before their plague infects you too.

Divert your gaze from empty crowds,
Focus sharp on truth’s own path.
Seek out the worlds beyond the clouds —
Beyond the rage, beyond the wrath.

Fixate on other realms, not here —
This prison built on fear and hate.
Obsession breeds the madman’s sneer,
And fear enslaves the human state.

Those “other worlds” — the spirit’s flight,
A higher place beyond decay.
Cast off the rotten crutches, blight —
Discard false idols, burn away.

This world’s a cage of crutches, lies,
Built on foul idols, dead and cold.
Tear down these shrines with fire in eyes,
Cleanse your soul, be fierce and bold.

For poetry can cut like knives,
Revealing worlds beyond the night.
The harshest words are battle cries,
Truth’s razor piercing dark with light.

There’s more to say — the lyre knows —
But secrets wait in shadowed folds.
The story deep inside still grows,
More truths remain to be told.



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



Storm Within

No joy for slaves who crawl and rot,
Just endless storms inside the brain.
When spirit’s crushed, you’re what you’re not —
A hollow shell consumed by pain.

Reforge your soul from ash and flame,
Embrace the fury deep within.
Only fire can burn this shame,
And break the chains of flesh and sin.

This hell drives souls into the pit,
Turns proud men into crawling waste.
The devil’s dogs obey and sit,
Their honor lost, their will disgraced.

Believe no one — just trust your blood,
The gates to death swing wide and black.
Deception’s knives drip poisoned flood,
And drag your spirit’s life off track.

Your soul’s a battlefield of scars,
Heal fast or drown beneath the weight.
The poison sinks, the night is mars,
You stand before your final fate.

Forget the fools, the liars’ lies —
Purge shadows from your mental core.
Your mind’s a swamp where darkness lies,
A cesspool breeding endless gore.

The stench won’t fade — root out the plague,
Or hell will claim your very breath.
Your consciousness must fight and rage,
Destroy deceit, defy your death.

Inside you dwell the strength and light,
Clear out the weeds, uproot the rot.
Falsehood’s seeds breed endless blight —
They feed on all that’s good and fought.

Sharpen your blade — relentless, sharp,
Slice lies to ashes, burn their veil.
Forget the mask, the fake “sharpsharp” —
The truth will carve and never fail.

Create with fire, fight with hate,
Love every stroke, embrace the strife.
Your growing shoots will dominate
The sickness choking all your life.

You are the judge, the warrior’s prize,
Joy can return from darkest hell.
In this nightmare called "existence,"
You wrest your soul from death’s cold spell.

Avoid the sheep, the dumbed-down horde,
Their stench will poison flesh and mind.
Run fast, escape their cursed sword,
Before their plague enslaves mankind.

Turn eyes away from empty herds,
Fix gaze on realms beyond the cage.
Seek worlds where spirit flies like birds —
Beyond the fury, fear, and rage.

Focus sharp on other planes,
This world’s a cage of fear and lies.
Madness grows where darkness reigns,
And fear is law beneath these skies.

Those “other worlds” — the spirit’s fire,
A realm beyond decay and death.
Cast off the crutches, false desire —
Burn idols cold with final breath.

This world’s a prison made of lies,
Built on idols foul and dead.
Tear down those shrines, watch falsehood die,
Cleanse your soul — rise from the dead.

Poetry’s a sword that cuts,
Revealing realms beyond the dark.
Harsh words ignite, fierce thunderstruts,
Truth’s blade ignites the faintest spark.

There’s more to say — the lyre screams —
But secrets wait beyond the veil.
The story’s deep — a flood of dreams,
More truths await beyond the pale.



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



Storm Within

No joy for slaves who rot and crawl,
Only storms that drag you down.
When spirit’s crushed — you’re nothing at all —
A crawling beast beneath the crown.

Reforge your soul in blazing hell,
Embrace the wrath that burns inside.
Only fire can break this spell —
And shred the chains of flesh and pride.

This pit of hell drives souls to sludge,
Turns kings to vermin, fit to die.
The devil’s dogs bark loud and judge,
Their honor dead, beneath the sky.

Trust no ****** — trust your blood,
The gates to death swing wide and black.
The lies will stab you like a flood,
Dragging your soul down a broken track.

Your mind’s a swamp of poison and ****,
A cesspool breeding endless death.
The stench won’t leave, you must commit
To purge the rot with iron breath.

Within you burns the primal light,
Rip out the weeds, crush every lie.
The seeds of poison choke your sight —
A graveyard ‘neath a toxic sky.

Sharpen the blade, relentless steel,
Slice through the plague and burn the veil.
No tact, no mercy — lies must kneel,
Their carcasses feed the hellish gale.

Create with rage, destroy with fire,
Love every scar that marks the fight.
Your wrath will rise, it won’t expire —
The darkness cowers at your light.

You’re judge, executioner, and flame,
Joy’s return from Hell’s cold grip.
In nightmare’s depths, reclaim your name —
Rip life from Death’s corrupting slip.

Avoid the sheep, the herd of fools,
Their stench will poison all they touch.
Run fast, escape their fatal rules,
Their poisoned breath kills much too much.

Turn your gaze from empty herds,
Fix on realms beyond this cage.
Seek worlds where freedom breaks the words,
Beyond the fear, the rage, the rage.

Focus sharp on spirit’s plane,
This world’s a cage of fear and lies.
Madness rules where darkness reigns,
And Death commands beneath these skies.

Other worlds — the fire of soul,
Realms beyond decay and death.
Cast away the crutches’ role —
Burn false idols with your breath.

This world’s a prison built on lies,
Idols foul and long since dead.
Tear their temples down — watch truth rise,
Cleanse your soul — resurrect the dead.

Poetry’s a blade that cuts,
Reveals the realms beyond the night.
Harsh words like thunder — deafening ruts —
Truth’s blade ignites the final fight.

More to say — the lyre screams —
Secrets wait beyond the veil.
A flood of wrath, a stream of dreams,
More truth awaits beyond the pale.



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



Inner Storm

No joy for slaves in hell’s decay,
Only storms that drag you down.
When spirit dies — you’re just the prey,
A filthy beast beneath the crown.

Reforge yourself inside the flame,
Embrace the wrath that burns your core.
Only fire can break the chain,
And drag you back from death’s dark door.

This pit of poison breeds the ******,
Turns kings to filth, their honor sold.
The devil’s puppets grip the land,
Their lies like chains, their hearts are cold.

Trust no **** — trust only blood,
The gates to death swing wide and black.
Lies tear your soul like poisoned flood,
Dragging you down a shattered track.

Your mind’s a sewer filled with rot,
A cesspool boiling with disease.
The stench won’t leave — you must fight lot,
And purge the slime with iron breeze.

Inside you burns the primal spark,
Rip out the weeds, destroy the blight.
The poison seeds choke out the dark —
A graveyard crawling in the night.

Sharpen the blade — unflinching steel,
Cut through the plague, burn every lie.
No mercy now — make demons kneel,
Their carcasses feed hell’s black sky.

Create with fury, forge with pain,
Love every scar that marks the war.
Your wrath will rise and never wane —
Darkness will cower, flee, and roar.

Judge, executioner, and flame,
Joy reborn from Hell’s cold grip.
In nightmare’s depths reclaim your name —
Rip life from Death’s corrupting slip.

Avoid the sheep, the dumb, the blind,
Their stench will poison all they touch.
Run fast, escape their fatal bind,
Their poisoned breath kills far too much.

Turn your gaze from empty herds,
Fix on realms beyond this cage.
Seek worlds where freedom breaks the words,
Beyond the fear, the rage, the rage.

Focus sharp on spirit’s plane,
This world’s a cage of fear and lies.
Madness rules where darkness reigns,
And Death commands beneath these skies.

Other worlds — the soul’s fierce fire,
Realms beyond the decay and death.
Cast away crutches — false desire —
Burn idols down with righteous breath.

This world’s a prison built on lies,
Idols foul and long since dead.
Tear their temples down — truth will rise,
Cleanse your soul — resurrect the dead.

Poetry’s a blade that cuts,
Revealing realms beyond the night.
Harsh words like thunder — deafening ruts —
Truth’s blade ignites the final fight.

More awaits — the lyre screams loud —
Secrets lie beyond the veil.
Wrath floods forth — a storm, a cloud —
Truth’s fire will shatter the pale.



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



Ragequake

No bliss for slaves beneath the sun —
Only storms that break and burn.
When spirit’s crushed, the end’s begun,
You’re just a beast with no return.

Rebuild inside, ignite your core,
Let fury blast the chains away.
Only wrath can settle score,
And drag you screaming from decay.

This hell breeds fiends that wear a crown,
Kings turned to vermin, sold to lies.
Devil’s pawns, they drag us down,
Their venom poisoning the skies.

Trust nothing but your blood and bone,
Death’s gates swing wide for all who fall.
Lies rip the soul and grind to stone,
A shattered mind in hell’s black hall.

Your mind’s a sewer, foul and thick,
A rotten pit that stinks of doom.
The stench won’t fade — it claws and sticks,
Purge the slime or face your tomb.

Inside you burns a savage flame,
Tear out the weeds that choke your breath.
Poison seeds born in your name,
Feed the worms of creeping death.

Sharpen sharp your ruthless sword —
Cut lies to ash, burn every mask.
No mercy now, strike the horde,
Feed hell’s fire — complete the task.

Create in fury, build in pain,
Love each scar earned in this fight.
Your wrath is pure, it breaks the chain —
Darkness flees before your light.

Judge, executioner, flame —
Joy reborn from hellish grip.
In nightmares fierce reclaim your name —
Drag life back from death’s cold slip.

Flee the flock, the blind, the fools,
Their stench will poison all they touch.
Escape the deathly sheepfold rules,
Their breath’s a plague that kills too much.

Turn your eyes to realms beyond,
Fix your soul on distant planes.
Seek worlds where truth is found,
Beyond fear’s chains and madness’ chains.

Focus sharp on spirit’s flame —
This world’s a cage of lies and dread.
Madness rules and death proclaims —
Dark shadows linger where we tread.

Other worlds — soul’s raging fire,
Realms beyond this rotten death.
Throw down crutches, false desire —
Burn idols with your righteous breath.

This world’s a prison built on lies,
Temples shattered, idols dead.
Tear it down, let truth arise —
Cleanse your soul, raise from the dead.

Poetry is the razor’s edge,
Cutting through the darkest night.
Words that roar, the prophet’s pledge —
Truth’s fire sets the final fight.

More awaits beyond the veil,
Lyre’s scream breaks the silence tight.
Wrath ignites a thunderous gale —
Truth’s storm will shatter endless night.



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



Pyrrhic Victory

The media brazenly lies,
Wiping minds, dimming eyes,
And we obey the Dark’s commands,
Marching blind to no-man’s lands.

The world soaked in total lies,
Like an ocean mad and wide,
A victory for beasts deranged—
Conformist sheep, forever chained.

No country left to call its own,
The fire of death in Hell is sown.
The Earth itself—Hell’s twisted throne,
Where traitors thrive, corrupt, alone.

Only one thing wakes the dead—
The sharp command: “Attack!” it said.
Fascism rules where minds have died,
In lies and fear we all abide.

False CowID exposed the game,
Then madness warred without a name.
Before that, AIDS had dulled the throng—
Now needles lead the blind along,

Turning sheep to wicked cattle,
Obedient to evil’s battle.

The whole world’s gripped by dark control,
A madman leads the captive soul
To camps anew—this vile disgrace.
If we allowed this evil place,

Then we must bear the blame and cost,
For letting all humanity be lost.

A Pyrrhic win against the foe—
Burning slaves with evil’s glow,
To clear the field for cruel experiments,
Where darkness breeds new torments.



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



The Luciferian System

No matter what problems rise,
No matter what barriers stand—
Once you bow to System’s lies,
You’re no more than a dog, a hand

Ready to obey on scraps,
“Attack!” you’ll do with slavish zeal.
For fake safety, empty snacks,
You’ll crush freedom’s fragile feel.

Prepare to face the slaughterhouse—
Betrayers get disposed with speed.
Younger dogs will take your vows,
It’s all numbers here they heed.

No matter what problems come,
Save your soul through all the lies.
Though this truth is old and numb,
Mirages cloud your weary eyes.

The System’s base is darkest haze,
Its weapon—lies that cut like knives.
We live in these declining days—
Don’t count money, count your life.

From the global kennel’s cage,
If your soul is light and free,
You’ll set sail for Spirit’s stage—
But the trained dog falls to the deep.



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



The Luciferian System

No matter what walls block your way,
No matter what hellscape you face—
Once you bow to the System’s sway,
You’re just a beast, a bred disgrace.

Ready to snap at the crumb,
“Attack!” they command with cold sneer.
For fake safety, junk to numb,
You’ll **** the freedom you hold dear.

Brace yourself for the killing floor—
Traitors get crushed without a thought.
Younger hounds will race for more,
Just numbers in this brutal plot.

No matter what chaos breaks loose,
Save your soul amidst the lies.
This old truth’s a fatal noose,
Mirages blind the wise.

The System thrives on thickest smoke,
Its weapon is pure filthy lies.
We’re drowning in the final choke—
Count not your coins, but your cries.

From the worldwide dog pound’s hell,
If your soul’s still sharp and clean,
You’ll break free from this cursed shell—
While trained dogs drown in the obscene.



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



The Luciferian System

No matter what **** walls arise,
No matter how the darkness bleeds—
If you bow down, betray the skies,
You’re nothing but a slave who feeds.

A savage hound, a mindless beast,
Snapping for your pitiful crumbs.
“Attack!” they howl—the cruel feast
Of broken souls, the silence drums.

Welcome to the slaughterhouse,
Where traitors bleed and rot in chains.
Young wolves sharpen sharpened jaws,
Counting only flesh and gains.

No hope remains—just twisted lies,
A fog that chokes the breathing light.
Your soul’s a corpse beneath the skies,
Drowned deep in endless, soulless night.

The System’s plague is darkest blight,
Its weapon forged from poison breath.
We march into eternal night—
Not coin, but spirit meets its death.

From global kennels, reeking hell,
If your soul’s not cracked or sold,
You’ll break these ****** chains of spell—
While trained dogs drown in filth and cold.

Bow not to Lucifer’s cold grin—
Or fall into the black abyss.
Where screams are swallowed deep within,
And light is but a dying kiss.



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



Luciferian System

No matter how the chaos screams,
No matter how the darkness swells—
Submit yourself, become their fiend,
A dog condemned to endless hell.

A beast enslaved, mind torn to shreds,
Snarling for your scraps of lies.
“Attack!” commands the puppeteers,
While freedom in your spirit dies.

Welcome to the slaughter pit,
Where traitors choke on bitter chains.
Young wolves prowl, teeth sharpened sharp—
Counting only blood and gains.

No light escapes this poisoned veil,
No hope beyond the blackened breath.
Your soul a carcass, crushed and frail,
Drowning in eternal death.

The System’s core—deception’s maw,
Its venom seeps through every vein.
We walk the path of final law—
Where spirit bleeds and breaks in pain.

From kennels vast and world consumed,
If you’re not cracked, if still you fight,
You’ll break the spell, resist the doom—
While trained dogs fade into night.

Bow to Lucifer? Be ******.
Fall into the void below,
Where screams are swallowed by the ******,
And light’s last ember flickers low.

There is no mercy in this tomb,
No salvation for the weak—
Only endless, yawning gloom,
Where darkness reigns and hope is bleak.

Fight or fall in shadow’s grip,
The abyss waits with open jaws—
But to kneel is your soul’s death trip,
In Lucifer’s cruel claws.



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



Luciferian System — Descent into the Abyss

No matter what hell haunts your mind,
No matter what walls close you in—
Submit yourself, become their kind,
A hound bred for eternal sin.

A slave to shadows, stripped of will,
Snarling, broken, licking lies.
“Attack!” the masters coldly shrill,
While your last freedom slowly dies.

Into the slaughterhouse of souls,
Where traitors bleed without a sound,
Young wolves hunt, control the roles,
Counting corpses, cold and drowned.

No light escapes this cursed cage,
No hope survives the poisoned breath.
Your spirit crushed beneath the rage—
A carcass fed to endless death.

The System’s heart is lies and plague,
Its venom floods your every vein.
We live the age of final plague—
Where only agony remains.

From global kennels, vast and grim,
If soul is light enough to flee,
Break through the darkness, tear the rim—
Or drown with dogs in misery.

Bow down to Lucifer’s cruel throne?
Fall deep into the endless pit—
Where screams are crushed and all alone,
Hope’s dying embers barely lit.

No mercy waits beyond this door,
No grace for those too weak to fight—
Just endless night, a brutal war,
Where darkness smothers every light.

Resist or perish in its grip,
The abyss yawns with savage jaws—
To kneel is death, a poisoned sip,
Held tight within the devil’s claws.



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



Revolt Against the Abyss

Break the chains — no time for fear,
This System’s venom rules too long!
Their lies are swords, their grip severe,
But we rise fierce, defy the wrong.

No slave to puppets’ vile commands,
No leash to bite, no throat to choke.
We burn their lies with open hands,
And crush their fake, accursed yoke.

The Devil’s dogs shall drown in screams,
Their Kennels cracked by rebel fire.
We shatter all their twisted schemes,
Their hollow gods—consume, expire!

The darkness grins, but we bring light,
A blaze of wrath, a flood of truth.
No fake salvation, no false right—
Just iron will, the sword of proof.

This war is ours—no place for lies,
No mercy for the blind and weak.
We’ll strike the venom where it lies,
Expose the frauds, the snakes who speak.

Rise up, your spirit cannot die,
Though hell surrounds with ruthless claws.
From ashes, flames will pierce the sky—
We are the storm that breaks their laws.

No more slaves! No quiet despair!
No lies, no chains, no false consent!
We tear the mask, reveal the snare—
And claim the night with fierce intent.

Fight on, the abyss will crack and fall—
When madness meets the warrior’s roar.



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



Step into the Abyss

No turning back — just step ahead,
Break chains and shatter frozen dread!
Your gaze a blade, your heart is steel,
Burn down your fear, ignite the zeal.

In this hell where darkness reigns,
Light tears the veils, the falsehood wanes!
Enemies quake, their masks will crack,
Their lies will shatter — no turning back.

You’re no slave, no puppet weak,
Rebellion’s pulse runs wild and sleek!
Soul’s fire — fearless, sharp as swords,
Let false worlds drown in mocking hordes.

Though hell still crushes fragile earth,
You’re the fracture, lightning’s birth!
Break the system, cast off chains,
A rebel’s roar will burn the plains.

Your spirit — lightning, thunder’s strike,
Where fears turn dust, lies fold like pike.
Rise, fighter, shout into the night —
Let liars fall in blazing light!



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



No Mercy for the Puppeteers

Chains will snap, and heads will roll,
No mercy for the puppeteers’ control.
Their rotten lies, their toxic breath,
We'll drag them screaming down to death.

False gods crumble, masks will burn,
The tides of rage begin to turn.
No place for traitors, liars, snakes —
Their hollow empire splits and breaks.

The weak obey, the strong revolt,
With sharpened minds and no remorse.
This world’s a cage, but hell awaits,
For those who serve the hands of fate.

So raise the fist, embrace the pain,
In ashes’ storm, we rise again.
No compromise, no silent truce,
Destroy the liars — end abuse.



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



Horror of Non-Being

Worse than worse — your life decays,
Clear as day — no light betrays.
Not a moment, not a breath,
Free from thoughts of hell and death.

The whole world’s ripped, the whole world’s lost,
Plunging deep, the final cost.
The ninth great wave of lies and pain,
Drowning souls in ceaseless rain.

Rotten lies have claimed it all,
Wounds that bleed, the endless crawl.
They just whine — weak fight, no grit,
Idiots howl, their fate is writ.

Enough’s enough — this hell must break!
For kin’s disgrace, the fascists quake.
They built a camp, a deathly tomb,
A cesspit’s stink, eternal doom.

Only Sun can burn this Bedlam,
Scorch to bottom, break the dam.
Tremble now, you foul disgrace,
For betraying Mind and Grace.

Vile creatures face their doom,
Mad hordes accounted soon.
You’ll rise again if spirit’s tough,
Return to those who wait above.

They wait for brave who kept their pride,
Die with skill, no place to hide.
The time has come — embrace the dark,
The final reckoning will spark.



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



Horror of Non-Being

Worse than hell, your wasted life,
Clear as glass — no end to strife.
Not a second, not a breath,
Free from shadows cast by death.

World torn open, torn to shreds,
Falling fast to endless dregs.
Ninth wave crashing, lies ablaze,
Drowning all in toxic haze.

Rot and filth have crushed it all,
Bleeding wounds, the final fall.
Whiners whimper, fight is lost,
Idiots howl — the world’s their cost.

Break this Hell, it’s time to burn!
Shame on kin who won’t return.
Fascist **** built camps of pain,
Stinking cesspools drenched in shame.

Only Sun can scorch this pit,
Burn it down, the hate must split.
Tremble, worm, you sold your soul,
Betrayed the Mind, betrayed the Whole.

Filthy beasts will face the fire,
Mad mobs crushed beneath the pyre.
Rise again if spirit’s steel,
Back to those who dare to feel.

They await the brave and true,
Those who kept their honor due.
Die with purpose, die with hate,
Now’s the time to seal your fate.



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



Rotten Core

******* ain't no **** coupons —
They shear us, hoarding MARAZM.
Fools block all our way — these monsters
Build their traps to feed the chasm.

No leader’s worse than the rabble
Who blindly worship their lies.
Culture’s fight is now a shamble —
No more nations, just ash skies.

An ******* can sometimes wake,
Grasp a shred, refuse to bend,
But he chose to chew and breed —
Chose the evil in the end.

Selling out for filthy pay,
Feeding greed that only grows,
Gnawing fast to ****** the prize,
Diving deep in putrid throes.

**** like these—no longer human—
Satan reigns their freakish god,
And this curse has lasted ages,
Centuries of devil’s fraud.

No way back—history’s twisted,
All is falsehood, all is dark,
Blindly stumbling through the shadows,
Wandering without a spark.

Fake science rules the present,
Crafting lies with polished skill,
CowID’s proof of madness,
Feeding chaos, breaking will.

******* are our stumbling blocks,
The Führer just a clown of Night.
No peace left, just pens and fences,
For beasts and cages tight.

Reason’s few are fading fast,
Doomed to vanish day by day,
Everything is lost, consumed—
Only fire burns decay.

The Sun brings blazing justice—
Will scorch this mad, corrupted world.
But sheep can’t see the coming blaze,
The endless feast of lies unfurled.

If you trust these filthy fiends,
Blindly follow their commands,
The more the hate and treachery—
The faster death consumes these lands.

Sun and Earth are Reason’s forces,
Fake science gets its checkmate move.
When madness rules the many,
All falls down in final groove.

They don’t need these *******,
Darkness, traitors, filthy spawn,
Ruling with their tons of lies—
Rotten core before the dawn.



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



****

All this **** — hopeless, rotten,
Pathetic and a joke.
Monsters lie with mouths wide open —
But **** devours every hoax.

This ****** world’s corrupt and rotten,
Betrayal’s their **** trade.
If you’re smart and brave, you’re dead men—
They die, fade, and degrade.

Drowning deep in ***** and sorrow,
Crawling out just for a flash.
Cities, towns—all pens of *******—
Madness bound to crash.

And the broken—“normal,” hailed,
Only fools create the rage.
Gluttony, *****, and burning pits—
The crown of this bleak stage.

Development and dreams?
Three quarters of the sheep.
Are they human? No—just slaughter—
Goats for demons’ keep.



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



****

This world’s pure **** — no hope, no light,
Lies feed the pigs who lost the fight.
Brains rot, guts choke on bitter bile,
Sheep march blind, no will, no guile.

Smart die fast, weak breed the plague,
Madness rules — the truth’s a vague.
Cities burn in mental chains,
Screams drown out the dying brains.

Eat the lies, choke on the grime,
**** devours all sense and time.
Goat-men sold to devil’s game,
Slaughtered sheep with cursed names.



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



To the Heights...

A tropical night in Moldova’s land,
By day, the sun scorches, fierce and grand.
Its molten chains may melt away —
For minds too sharp, no place to stay.

The Spirit’s caught in endless traps,
A battle for the soul unwraps.
Traitors fire like guns on sight,
Lies and fear cut like a knife.

Soulless armies breed in war,
The world’s a stench, a hellish core.
In Gorky’s play, we sink so low —
At bottom lies the crushing woe.

Long ago, Tsvetaeva knew,
This place’s price — pure hellish glue.
The noose became her grim release —
Only fools find here their peace.

Tropical nights, the Alps aflame,
The Sun burns down the cursed game.
Hell’s black dust will scatter wide —
With it, the horrors, fear, and pride.

The path to Heights beyond this pain
Runs through the Spirit’s cleansing flame.
Only few will leave that Hell —
Those who refuse the darkness’ sell.



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



To the Heights...

Tropical nights in Moldova’s hell,
By day, the sun’s a scorching spell.
It melts the chains of frozen minds —
No place for souls, just death it finds.

Spirit trapped in vicious snares,
The fight for souls — soaked in despairs.
Traitors blast with venomed lies,
Fear sticky, choking, cold disguise.

Soulless beasts breed in this war,
The world’s a stench, a rotting core.
Gorky’s stage — the pit of pain,
Where only madness will remain.

Tsvetaeva saw it clear —
This hell’s no place for hope or fear.
Her noose became the final door —
Only fools endure this gore.

Tropical nights, the Alps ablaze,
The sun burns down the cursed maze.
Hell’s black ashes sweep the land,
Tearing down this cursed brand.

The road to Heights cuts through the fire,
Through Spirit’s wrath and fierce desire.
Few will rise from this abyss —
Those who won’t betray the kiss.



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



Manipulating Minds

Manipulating minds —
The cruelest trade on Earth.
From childhood’s earliest finds,
They **** your Reason’s birth.

All school programs shape
To grind you into dust.
The loudest brutes escape,
Inside — the Void and rust.

But few will keep their brains,
While others fall like prey,
Trapped in different chains,
Their souls just fade away.

“Culture” and the box of lies
Will finish off us all.
Here Hell itself defies —
Inhuman triumph’s call.

Work’s a chain, enslaving,
Rest’s a total blank,
The foulest depraving —
Stop whining, stop the prank.

You must discern the snare,
Unmask each cunning trick.
This massive, toxic lair
Is vast and growing thick.

Huge funds have been poured
Into these crafted lies,
Not simple fibs, but war,
A science to disguise.

For years they study how
To blind us, tighten grips,
And every moment now
They sharpen poison-tips.

The art of weaving shame,
Bold, filthy, blatant fraud —
“Science” spins the game,
And fools applaud the fraud.

They’ll worship chains as wings,
Declare dull minds as wise,
And cruelty will bring
The fascist’s new disguise.

They need the stupid brute —
The perfect slave, controlled.
Thus floods the lies acute,
Each stream corrupts the soul.

In this vast flow, we drown,
All snared within the net.
Instead of thirst for truth —
A cesspool full of sweat.

Mindless trivia kills
The Spirit, Reason’s light —
The endless muck that spills
Feeds swarms that crawl at night.

You’ve turned a dung-born fly —
Your Spirit’s flame is dim.
While lies grow wild and high —
The source of every sin.

Yet freedom’s path remains —
Build worlds apart, alone.
Escape this Hell’s domains,
Create your own new throne.



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



Center Your Soul

Center on Spirit deep,
And mute your noisy mind —
Then all the chains and lies
Will fade, no more to bind.

See with an open gaze,
Straight into core and truth.
The world’s a fascist maze,
A monster’s cruel booth.

That fiendish breed is “merry,”
Made madhouse here to stay.
And soon that madhouse turns
To *****’s endless fray.

Destroying Spirit’s light —
The core device of Hell.
To turn you dung-born fly,
They push you down to hell.

With poison and with lies,
They twist the minds of men.
Madness spreads like wildfire —
Especially with children.

They dumb the minds with care,
Programming the weak.
The soul and reason fade,
As darkened futures leak.

Under the pressure, fog
Crushes fragile youth.
Into a slave-mind fog,
Stupid, blind to truth.

A twisted, broken breed,
Emerges from this fray.
The herd turns dumb and blind —
To beasts that roam astray.

So easy to degrade,
With poverty and scorn,
No urge to seek the Source —
The Spirit dead, forlorn.

In the end, it kills
The last bright sparks of soul.
Reason rots away —
Humans no more, but lice, the whole.

They storm the “arena” —
That brutal ***** pit.
Pay dearly every time
To leave this lunatic.

The price is Spirit’s strain,
The last fierce fight to rise.
You’ll find your cleansing fire —
If you don’t shake or hide.

When you become as one
With yearning toward the Light,
You’ll never be a beast,
You’ll claim your answer’s right.

That answer burns within —
No gifts will come from them.
Soon all will forget
That only Spirit’s gem

Is worth the highest cost.
Ignite! Burn fierce and bright!
You’ll see then clear at last —
It’s not some “heaven’s” blight,

Nor dull oblivion’s sleep,
But Spirit’s fight to keep.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
you know why i'm not afraid
of plagiarism?
   memes...
          funny, isn't it,
i don't mind, or, rather,
i started to not mind plagiarism...
because the plagiarists have
been inseminated, ***** even,
i don't know whether i ever
owned a puppet,
but if i'm plagiarised i own a:
cohort...
    it's nice...
     you can rule by ridicule
rather than be ridiculed
as ruling,
notably the english monarchy...
it's nice to have pawns who
don't even think they aren't
pawns...
         but that's the beauty
of intellectual virology -
  an idea is like a virus,
  and the fact intact remains
signifying:
               well: go ahead with it...
i don't mind anonymous
"credit" 4 it...
             you think i have
i have any complacency to mind?
    rot the gnat and vermin...
i am the one to fuse
plague and language together...
         man was
always endowed with a heart
and woman with a heart,
when it came to, politics...
women always, meddle...
           how isn't punctuation
important in writing,
given it be necessary that
equate punctuation with rhyme
and consolidate prose with poetics...
    punctuation = rhyme -
                           overseer? yes.
- and why do i not mind plagiarism,
pontius pilate...
            the only person worth
being remembered of the new testament...
oops..
         why do i not mind
plagiarism... i know they'll mutate,
morph...
             but that doesn't matter...
a part of me remains,
  and all the better should the plagiarism
be otherwise be defined...
         but it's too late:
the innocent seed competes
with the forbidden fruit...
i have my paupers and my
                  puppets...
                 for grit and gift of word,
i have my: assembly...
            you can plagiarise all you want,
all i ever gain is yet another
puppeteer's string of
                          limb annexed.
i love the idea of memes & plagiarism...
it means the utmost anonymous
            influence being exerted:
how far is the puppeteer away
from the necrophiliac, may i ask?
   thank you for a chance to
not prioritise a demand for
a gene chronology on the altar of Cronus,
allowing me, to,
   ******* my meme,
rather than consecrating my gene
in the ******* of fake white
             and...
  the agony of what would be to come...
    ever wonder the mystery
of autumn, when a southern wind
blows?
Vladmir Putin May 2015
In the dark
Listening to linkin park

In the steam
browsing dank memes

-break-

rickity rickity
bickity bickity

i am from hungary

follow me on the twitti

@spahgetti
Of which I promised this Forthcoming Gift
That Low-Resolved Program you often play
Mine of Sum's Direct robbed my Basics shift
Could make my Allowance afford one day
Till then, master those Memes and Squarish Crew
And ask your Score teemed to accumulate
I know you can do it, Technocrat Blue
And rake those Creepers down confusticate
Or shall I, along the mean, Journal's Writ
Ask for more Hints over Direction rough
You, Controlling-E, fly Normal's out-of-it
Conclude my Patience to nearly enough.
I'll trust the Swede with his Awards advance
Then I'll Trust you; With those Talents enhance.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.good, send me to prison, dox... whatever... with my knowledge of obscure Islam... i might make some friends; come to think of it, i will be saved, from perpetuating this quasi St. Augustine soliloquy.

if there are these... young men...
of combat age...
  almost ready to play the pawns...
"eager" soldiers...
what the **** happened
to the women of fertile age?
frozen their eggs,
gambled biology
and gave birth to a down syndrome
expose aged 40+?
i too thought,
that Zeus could, but never would,
**** Hera...
  instead, seeking concubines,
to provide humanity with
the myths of the demigods.
so men... of fighting age...
    and... a ******* walrus harem,
with women,
of a fertility age...
supposedly, miraculously...
  "missing"...
throw me a danish, and a glass
of milk...
i need a laxative...
     to digest this piece of info.
as a man:
i'm done, defending the most
obscure existentialist statement
forced upon me...
      within the confines of:
cue: woman...
         i'm a dodo adherent...
and if there is no dodo
excavation to fulfill a continuum...
luckily...
i'm not some idiotic geneticist
spectacle of fanaticism:
ich sterben, alles nutzen...
         herr junggeselle Kant...
what are my genes,
as a worthwhile impetus?
        to procrastinate before
the altar of procreation?
               i thought that western
society pledged its allegiance
to "individualism", solipsism, autism...
         why should i pledge
an alleged alliance to a future?
       oculus per oculus...
     who are these people,
hardly dictating me, and more,
"persuading" me...
   to invest in this... project...
this...
first a celebration of independence,
and then, a shackling of
said independence,
  into a familial rigor, and discipline?
so said first...
   but not said first,
invoking the unsaid second...
   hitlerjunge...
             so said unsaid second...
people can have their global
speaking tours...
  i have gnat of an english neighbor
to deal with...
  who took the authoritarian
alternative... just shy of...
telling me when it was appropriate
for me to take a ****...
given, he, aged 50+ and his bride,
40+ gave birth, to a, ******* ******!
- at that age....
passing on the, "genes",
let alone "memes" (is no longer an
option):
                   but surrogate
parenting, in the form of adoption,
is...
  but of course, the neighbor
owning to his own business,
will receive the front of the parental
frustration, of a people,
too old, to receive the status
of fatherhood / motherhood...
more like... papa-grand-p'ah
and mama-grand-m'ah...
      i know my boat has already sailed...
i never wished to travel to las vegas
to take a gamble...
     why would i enforce some
obscure fatherhood desire
onto a woman, who has clearly
not established herself,
well enough, into 20+ years prior?
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
Memes! Angels, aberrations of opposition super standing
overseeing you,

The screamin' heebie jeebies.

Yo, where you wanta go, you axin me we just go

with it, the flow 'know?

What I mean is, are we memes or mes or messes of yeses
gone all johnny rcome late-rotten scarred scared, some thing not so far
from sacred when you put your mind to the whole idea of life being

at all. Thinking this is not easy. We are Able. Our belly's living waters cry out,

you are your brother's keeper, yes, you are.

Be leavin' that be, I am is, and you is,
too. When you apprehend the meme named
war.
That meme has led the me-me mob for as far as men
remember, but
now, machines remember for us, all the facts, just
the facts, ma'am.

Why'd the d go into a comma, Pop?

Welt (Duetch, bitte) Enshaung, glaube ich, vie leicht, aber

are we ever going to filter out these German bleed-overs?
stay tuned, next week the meme beacon is pulled down,

who shall pre or post or ex maybe vail, travail, like
trip
wow, I hate being a 20 year old vet back in the U.S. of A.
FTA All the way, Airborne

*******, Herman Hesse *******
Jorney to and fro the east to west, and soon, et
cetera. Siam is a mere myth now, eh?

As the Narnia thing not called a heathen lie was allowed
allowable in mere Christianity.

I've only seen the English POV's on PBS, they may be filtered through
feedback, meme belching bursting bubbles from new wine 'nold vessels about to plode into eternity, singing along.

Thank you, very much. May I introduce, duce, intro duce, y'gittin this?

Duce means 2 if you see e squeen between, you see that?

Fun. No reason for fun? Who here, now, believes that or, no,
bees leavin' those lies be told?

Hunh? Y'know? Watch man, waht of the night?

See, what I mean? All this from me hearin' some guy say,
"Come and see, like that was  okeh. For any body, n'me, too.

Thinking, as a past-time, is pointless. You know, if you act like it.
Reading Howard Bloom's (Audiobook) for about the fourth time this week, while continuing the Radioman Chronicles pre-see-quel dilemea. I think epic poetry is seducing me.
Finn Parker Apr 2018
I don't know how to act when women are involved
The world doesn't want my kind to begin with
Lack of significant motivation to get anything done
My wife thinks I think God is real
I'd find out if God is real
My voice is too nasally
I waste my wife's money
I can't figure out how to be normal
My dad is an alcoholic
I'm an alcoholic
I burden everyone I'm around
I seek attention
I don't want attention
That embarrassing thing I did in third grade
That embarrassing thing I did in fifth grade
That embarrassing thing I did in sixth grade
I cheated on my wife
I made another girl think I really loved her
I made another girl think we could run away together
Then I ran away without her
Blasphemy
I don't have a real job
I think I'm better at everything than I am
I think I'm superior to most everyone
I don't know what it feels like to be happy
I like futa
I cheat at my own goals
My family would be ashamed
My brother is a hikikamori and it's my fault
I scold him for it
I steal from family
I cannot empathize
I put down others to feel better
I do not want to live
I am self destructive
But not enough to count
I wear a mask around everyone
Except when I have a few beers
I listen to teenage girl scene music
I play garbage video games
I hate people who are like myself
No one cares
I lie to my spouse
I fantasize about her friends
I like cringy memes
I like memes
I think highly enough of memes to add them to this list
I prey on vulnerable women
By acting hopeless
I really am hopeless though
I seek approval in my writing
And I pretend I'm good at it
I'm too analytical
I play games no one cares about
I say things that aren't funny
I say things that aren't funny enough
And I laugh way too hard sometimes
I don't know how to keep a relationship going
And I can't make smalltalk with a straight face
I am a walking contradiction
I agree with both sides
I agree with neither side
I just want to be difficult
I insist on things that simply aren't true
And above all else I still think I'm going to heaven
Please help
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
******. No white guy can say that, right.
People who can truly call themselves ******* can. *****-***** ****, W.O.P.,
maybe they can say ******, okeh. But they say it mean,
knowaddamean.
What'sbout Jewboy?
Can the Kaffen kid say ******?
Sand-******, but not ***** ******. Hecan say ****, too. And *** and *****.

Oy vey, okeh. We can take it. We can take it all. Rules is rules.

That's right. Wanna fight? Wanna be my enemy?

--- Grandpa had a play date. ***- Where's the Fun?
These kids got no guns.
And no enemies. Except imaginary ones.


Greedy little master mind sprouting odd fruits from Pokémon.
Can we make this work? Perfect it, in effect?

Marbles, maybe we can teach that old game and go from there to the funnest parts of FTA... Findtheanswer, like God and Adam played. The rules are some same, bounds, fudges and such. Keepsies, ante-ups and such, too.
Risk is right if-I-can-tation.
Losses can be baked, clayballs,
while momma bakes our daily bread.
Poor kids can make marbles in the sun, since forever, I am sure. Rolly-polly patti and johnny cakes roll marbles into spoons,
Momma knew that stuff. She could shake butter into cream, singin' along Que sera, sera, whatever will be
will be,

but it won't be the death of me,
watch and see,
babu boy oh boy
---
We can play war until we die, but don't tell the children.
They are the price we are to pay. They must believe.

We swore allegiance for security. We thought it best
for the kids to lie.

You know?
I believe, you know. It's unbelieving I need help with.

Can't you see? We swore allegiance and taught it has become the  honor-us-course-us-po-deserve-us ritual. A rite we pass for the protection of the eagles gathered around the body.

We are proud of our children who die taking
the courses called for, we never ask why,
except when we cry. Silently, inside.

It's our role to remember the glory
of our children dying for the IDEA that lives
in the statue of Freedom
under which our laws allow
might is right, if God was ever on our side.

You know what I mean.
Say so. You know the lies are being told.

Stop believing that is okeh, eh?

---
Mussleman dominance meme manifests once more to battle the flood of knowing being re-leased or bought, outright, to aid the seekers seeking the meta game.

F.T.A, remember? Find The Answer. Same rules as Hide and Watch,
"All ye, all ye, outsiders hidden in our midst, in free."

"Send me your- poor, huddled masses",
remember being proud of that idea.
Poor thing, lady libertine, so tarnished now that not even Iaccoca's glory loan could gild the actions she sanctioned in the name of the republic for which she (a proxy mate, feminine aspect of God) stands. Sig-n-if-i-cious-ly.

Seig Freud, we say, with the statue of freedom watching over the legislative body, she stands
quite similar to Diana of the Ephesians,
in her role as mob solid-if-er, if I know my mythic truths been told.
---
Trink, trink, trinkits gits the good good luck,
light m'fire witcha spark and see
a light in the night when the noises pending terrors flee.

Rite, we passed those places ages ago, now we hear echoes, only we know them, for we have been taught,
what echoes ever are.
Our own terrors screaming back at us.

Alot of lies are taught wrong
and a sleeping giant in a child may dream
of other ways to see.
New windows on new word worlds expressed in
HD Quad-processed reality
simulations. You know,
child eyes see right through those.

Exactly that happened. Slowly at first.
Good is more difficult to believe
you are expert enough to try doing than is evil.
Read it again.
This couplet or line, as time will tell.

Don't ignore known knowns,
stand up under the weight of knowing good and knowing evil.
Be good.

We know from conception,
we think,
whatever it takes means
take what ever we think right,
pursue happenstances in the favor of my father's world,
provided for me, the kid.
\
The son, a first-man son,
some several thousand generations removed.
Lucky some body stored the good stuff in the mitochon'orhea, right.
We'd be powerless. O'rhea, double stufft, blessusall.

Otherwise lies are left for kids to learn,
but not to
be left true,
as when they first was told.

Our sibyl e-gran mals tol' em true,
as they knew what they passed through, to the moment, then...

Around the fire, dancing shadows, make them play.
All ye, all ye outs, in free!

See dancing shadows, en-joy my joy, be strong,

long strong, sing along, long, long song

and laugh until you die.
---
Some con-served ideas will land a man in a prison with no keys.

Imagine that. Take your time, it is no passing fancy. Be here,
with me, a while. Pleased to meet you I am, no comma needed.
Now, we may wait, whiling away a time or two is common, in mortal pauses. Are you dead or alive?

Is it dark or light? Do you see in color here, or in gray?

Who built your prison? I built mine. You'll love it, I imagine,

whenever forever flows past those old lies striving for redemption,
recycling-clingy static hairballs and ghost turds
touch, once more,
*** potentia amber atoms in cosmic chili for the soul
of the loaf-giver, warden of the feeding forces life lives
to give dead things. There's the rub.

Spark to fire? Watts to fuel the favor, Issac, can you lead us in a song? A con-serving song for when the cons a fided or feited,
defeat my sorrows and my shame,
let me see Christ take the blame.

Confidencein ignowanceus. Worsen dignitatus evawas.

Blow on it. Soft. The spark landed in that ghost **** you thought you swept away or ****** into a vortex of hoovering witnesses,
if you whew too strong, you blow yer own little light out, and have to wait for lighten-loadin' bearers
to take care from you.

That can take time, too.

It always takes a while to get deep enough to see the bottom.

Cicero, old friend...

ne vestigium quidem ullum est reliquum nobis dignitatis 

[not even a trace is left to us of our dignity]

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas(Romanconcept)>

See, from a single spark,
touching a volatile bit o' whatever,
you may see the root of the Roman canker sore
yomamma kistyawit.
And be on yo way,
satisfied minded there do seem to be a way, each day, just beyond the evil sufficiency we find soon after the morning's mercy's been renewed.

And may, if it may be,
ye see a rich man wit' a satisfied mind
and may that man be me in your mirror, as it were.

Carry on, as you were.
Or walk this way, a while,
mind the limp. I'll set the pace.
It ain't a race, y'lil'squirt.

Wait'll y'see.

Waiting is time's only chore this close to shore.

What manner of men are we, who could be our enemy?
What name makes me your enemy?

What peace can you imagine when no words carry hate?
Can you imagine evil peace?
Cromwell n'em said they could make peace wit' war.
They lied.
Their lies remain lies,
evil knowns
good to know, on the whole.

Knowing makes believing count for more than idle
oaths of loyalty to memes mad
from the first of forever to now.

now. stop. This is the bottom. I know the way from here.
Do you?
You can say so, but you never know,
if you never make the climb.

And that can take forever, I've been told.
Fun, for fun. Bees in bonnets and such archaic antics, no pun un intended.
The N word test. I chickened out, but under protest. If I say/said a word to hurt a childlike mind, or an innocent ear, I am not being kind. And the black magi said He could care less, he's moving back to Kingston.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
you can be pardoned the stance of denial
having succumbed to the quiet life
of a village, you can you can
and thrice, you can...
odd, the term public intellectual,
in anglo-spreschen that translates into
a flogging...
                 as many testify:
   an ice rink smoothness in the head,
a jagged terrain with no
sophist in sight,
akin to the mathematician,
as most are, terrible at arithmetic,
the sophist will not be a thinker,
as much as a thinker will not be a rhetorician...
rule of thumb, there is only a persuasion
of one to allow an ethical gravitation
toward a dissociative freedom,
of, rather than as: will...
                 you can be allowed denial
because you have lost the benefit
of the doubt...
                    in that denial can only be
reigned in like a blind horse attached
to a mill grinding wheat into flour walking
"blind" circles, until the trenches
von Ypres are mapped out...
        doubt at least is the thinking man's
equivalent of love...
     outright denial, if not spoken
from the remnants of an agricultural
situ?  what motivates a blind bulk
of beef that's a bull to charge?
   far beyond paying Charon...
how would have they fared,
if they placed a coin of transcendental
value, the alchemical riddle in coin,
worth iron a % of gold etc.,
if they placed but one coin
   on the tongue of the one about
to become a carrive pigeon of 21grams?
i might be a drunk,
but I cherish my valour in terms of
keeping sentiments, rather than
that germanic plague of the mind
better known as nostalgia,
or rather, amnesia en masse.
                           shouldn't have reached
for the 'igher tier before unerstanding
the natives' take on: słowo...
       słowianin...
           pro populus per populus
    ex unus non pro unus
...
   because how much of the practice
of jurisprudence hangs on a libra
balancing the pose of Atlas
       and the paranoia of having
Democles sword hanging by a single
hair of a horse's mame?
          much of modern law is a circus,
whatever antonym or whatever synonym,
no matter how many laws are passed,
to make example,
     jurisprudence has a fickle, *****
of a lover, the thesaurus...
          a juggling act, since they know,
leeches that they are,
    they juggle, like clowns
hiding behind sand dunes while a deity
erects mountains...
      most of human law is best surmised
by the use of the thesaurus...
what they might call a: "technicality",
I call,
        recyclable verbiage of leftover
rhetoric, as lawyers usually do,
catching sight of a sleeping judge's
vocabulary easing into forgetfulness...
most of human law passes via
toying with a thesaurus...
                   nothing more
         than muddled rhetoric...
     or rather... reaching into the subconscious,
herding a flock of sheep / jury...
and no, i absolve myself from
a dream world escapism,
   ****** dreams.,,,
looked elsewhere...
                        quantum
mechanics, artificial intelligence
and solipsism...
       but of course,  on the atomic level...
the electron when observed...
  behaves like so:
   and when "unobserved" behaves like so:
god I love the idea of being
fudge packed on top of a can of sardines
among the notables...
              the body unlined to youth
and a marked concern for flesh
through fire to ash...
    reincarnation or recycling?
     when res cogitans
or simply res per se, came across
the anti-narcissus (for the love
of french intellectualism,
where public, doesn't exactly mean:
to be flogged) - i.e. when res cogitans
came across re- cogito...
               that atomic cameo prompt of:
again! think! yoga classes,
self-help guru lambasting schnell...
     a firework set off in a clenched hand...
a firework set off in an open palm...
          i only write because what I write
I could never utilise in the everyday:
formal, or informal interaction...
          in the cinematic variant concerning
Rome... Rome was but a whisper,
if it was more than a whisper,
   it would vanish, into thin air...
             well...
so much for genes turning into memes...
with the current affair of freedoms of speech,
we live in times of cuckoo memes,
the so-called activists, defenders of freedom
of speech? hardly any of them
are convincing to suggest the last
bastion of refraining from speaking...
none show cognitive claustrophobia...
i'll speak, when I will exhaust thinking...
but as it stands...
     a bunch of ******* cuckoos...
passing on their cuckoo memes.
James McSweats May 2016
I'm waiting for it
The sweet release that is death
All I need is memes
Trey Remulla Feb 2018
i used to send you memes,
it's no longer a habit of my day.
i realized i haven't sent any in a while,
i miss our old ways.
Jules Jan 2019
what my forays into online dating offered me that wasn’t s*x; european coffee beans, a film camera from the 70s, a workshop on ceramics, chicken parmagiana, bottles of blueberry lemonade, thai food that isn’t spicy, help with calculus homework, notes on gen chem, all the Star Wars movies, a book about magic: the gathering, a ride to an nba game, museum visits, nature walks, impulsive road trips, stories about their exes, silly anecdotes, photos of their pets, quality memes, awkward hugs that felt good.

such small intimacies, never blossoming into something bigger yet still imbued with meaning..

filled with what-ifs, if-onlys, and almosts.
Infamous one Jan 2014
Ive learned so many life lessons why do they feel like punishments. Ive made mistakes I walk eggshells trying to be right keep my name outta ppls mouths but they still keep talking ****.
I want to fight back im tired of being a used and taken for granted.
I help my family give my all even if its not enough. ive set the bar but no one cares to meet the standards. I dont say anything but im seen as stuck up. I filter myself to be seen as someone im not eventually the truth comes out. I want to be loved and accepted but I hate becoming someone im not someone I dont understand.
Im able to show my world but others dilute my vision.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
you sowed this **** into my brain...
why do you even "think"
that i want... you?
             i, want your children...
the meme-mutation is what i'm
after...
   and there are plenty of useful idiots
to allow me to process
the intermediating processes
for: the sigma, "accomplishment";
which is unlike
what infected mushroom's -
  trance party track sounds like,
outside of my own head.
why do these people even
think i'm after their genes
of memes?
                i want, their infantile
replicas...
                 i want to craft a
worthwhile curiosity,
on a canvas, that that they call
their gene replicas, children,
and... like why called me...
easy meat..
                 einfachfleisch...
what?
    i'm not here for these news' anchors...
i'm here for their children...
nibble nibble nibble chew chow
cow tow and main...
            prawn crackers...
ah... news anchors are
easy targets...
    slightly pointless
20x bulls eye honing devices...
it's their children...
     i want their children...
    i want their cognition
to become replica of wheelchair
bound infirmaries;
why?
    oh... you know...
football and wrestling,
given the Qatar investment plan...
the whole sport "thing"
became a tad bit boring...
  had to resort to secondary sources
of entertainment;
children of news anchors?
the secondary, "last",
albeit, the best resort;
   schindler...
  required a list,
     to become reincarnated...
and revive a **** a heartlessness
of an reincarnation
    anomaly:
  i.e.: what, a limited number
of people, to begin with?!
     so the rest is primitive "a.i."?
now i'm starting to think...
thank the blue indians
for their culinary innovations...
but when it comes
to their theology?
                           **** 'em;
did i advocate that?
if i did... within what pronoun
guarantee of advocacy?
playing the grammar card...
        which pronoun?
the plural singular,
or the singular plural,
or the gender neutral?
   thank you jean-paul sartre,
     for the...  "i"...

i simply love, this revised concept
of a unit...
           the revision clinging
to the royalist affirmation of pronouns...
i.e. 1 would say... so...
         and 1... would, so, will, do so.
**** the pronoun debate
in Canadian politics...
   if i have to resort to this?
then i will...
like your plain citizen...

     may "i" speak within
the confines, of the royal, one,
given the example:
   one might suppose...
to be the former, and the current,
highest, etiquette?

gender neutrality of pronouns...
last time i checked...
one was never allowed
pronoun stature...
    why not address this
conundrum, to begin with?!

oh, right... too late...
too many loud mouths
without a guillotine...
so, basically, a cow ****'s
worth of argumentation.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2018
there are others like me I see. Lost as I was.
So
What could I do to ease their fretting,
would I be comforted?  No.
Back then,
no.
I refused the comforter
*** outchacom'fit zone
Oh, they be hell to pay,

-----
among the ideas that possess men,
there are tells,
among the men of both varieties possessed by or of
(as you shall see, it may be both) ideas ,
there are tells, twitches and ticks and unconscious daemons sorting
sayings
aphorisms, proverbs,
memes 'n' such.
Confusion sayin'
H.R. Puffin'stuff, that neveh me'nt a thang. Jes't aname anime annie mae, where's
annie mae moved to okinawa wa wa wa

Imps. Pulses of them flow through heare…
(those slips shall hereafter be known as di-sensical-utterences or dsu, in writing. i.e. here and hear, he-are, heare, here is heard hear and means something else, intensionally. We, augmented Adamkind of all kinds, can inject meaning at will.)

commonly on Sunday mornings,
though I doubt the impulses
have a calendar that might map to any ex- or im-
I'm never sure what goes properly with perience.
Prior to the trial, experience is so limited,
I'm going with perience, in and of itself,
perience is plenty. Ex-cepting,
you know, the lessons learned,
those have earned their proper
nomenclature.
Those are experience.
Lesson learned.
Twixt thee and me is no more mix-up,
idiot-syncrecy fused with two-mind
hate of knowing and unknown;
we know what experience really means to us.

We are bound in syncret oath sealed with shibboloths in unutterable names.
As it is written in the law of Moses,

"all this evil is come upon us:
yet made we not our prayer before YHWH our God,
that we might turn from our iniquities,
and understand thy truth. 
Therefore hath YHWH watched upon the evil,
and brought it upon us:
for YHWH our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth:
for we obeyed not his voice.

From <http://biblehub.com/kjv/daniel/9.htm>
Shame that such once breathed thoughts threading pearls and jade,
or was that chalcedony? - scatter when the thread breaks
. Shame, such thoughts, frail as smoke.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,

We think such thoughts. Fragile spokes.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
time and time again,
what I called holy in my darkness, is holy in my light.


Words that lose the sacred salt are calcereous
grains of time, dust memes in the sun,
launched by centuries of tramping feet.
'haps the highest parts of the dust of the earth ever.
Oh,
how the masters love mastery of mystery.
"The old man on the mountain, he knew if he lied."
You, the observer of it all,
know.

"you knew nothing of my work"
"have a think"
"never thirst, imagine standing under knowing that"
Voices, the walls heard, stones speak, historically speaking
happens all the time, a frequency lock prevents it bleeding into now, but that becomes tyranny, believe me.

The ideas that possess men and provoke good works
or big, power-consumptive,

tale-swallowing feats,
those ideas are servants.
lacking any knowledge of good and evil,
such ideas are everywhere,
men who know say so. None of this was done in secret.
Twisted minds twist servant to slave labor. Magi-minds,
high-minded, relative to the belly-crawlers and creeping things,
see servant as tool and teacher. Same idea.
The original ideas we have to deal with.
They were seen to be good, by God.
There are no bad ideas, there are bad actions caused by mad ideas locked to single mindless anger impulses so callused as to appear gigantic,
certainly so, when they are known to lurk under beds and in selfish old men.
"Dark sayings, dear reader, pro fess pro verbs, action words snip "No lie is of the truth" snip
the lie and loose listing truth to the wind.
Who told you that inheriting the wind was like inheriting nothing?
You. You troubled your own house and you inherited the wind.
You came not to bring peace, but a sword…

The good news. Inheriting the wind is inheriting everything that ever matters, all the power in heaven and in earth was how simpler minds imagined shaping the idea.
Idyll minds, the devil's workshop, eh?
Comfort thought.
Who told you desiring comfort was a ***** thing?
Same voice went real deep and whispered,
"What price glory? Eh, pilgrim?"
stop. think

Sweet, for instance,
sweet, as an idea, can **** the man who makes it the basis of his value calculations.
Shame, came to prevent such impinging on subroutines intent on manifesting destiny,
as the sweet little ones imagined forevers in their pioneer-daze plays.
Shame is not blamed for being known,
the lying spirit who spoke with forked tongue,
sweet
little people, please, believe my lie,
there is a reason why
I know

There. Message in a bottle.
If you know what you know.
Messenger is what angel means, right? right. Who asks? Who knows?
No. I know you know this is
purposefully useful for
helping
crazy ideas
come back to some sem-sym-balance beneath the branches of the tree of knowledge, nestled in the twisting roots,
golden eggs, oh, far,
far
beyond Faberge, I must say. These, you must see to believe.
Any feedback reflecting enjoyment or confusion, please. This is a chapter from my book "Judging Angels" a memoir. Would you read such a book?
Kate Willis Apr 2016
When I went to the park today
I heard the birds singing
and the water moving-
ever so softly against the wind.
The squirrels,
their erratic tails and fur
bounded across trees and
ate nuts as they stared
at the funny looking squirrels below them.
The ones with the shorts and the shirts on,
and the ones with the long hair colored so strangely.
Those squirrels didn’t quite look like squirrels at all.
They drove strange boats and paddled in the water,
and a couple of those strange squirrels
seemed to have large furry companions
that definitely didn’t look like squirrels.
And yet whenever they come near
they act like they know the squirrels
they take photos and videos
and make memes, funny pictures
and snapchat videos of them.
But they aren’t.
They aren’t squirrels at all.
They’re humans,
yet some think they are squirrels.
I went to the state park, Strouds, today, and saw a bunch of squirrels that kept staring at people. Decided to write a poem about them.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
in the end there are only two genres
in literature -

type 1:

a navy seal retires,
has lived his life and what not,
retires,
and then writes a book
about his life -

the sort of book that would
encourage you to live
the life he's lived...

   which is not going to happen -
no matter your literary drive -
the life isn't there -
and it's not exactly high-brow
literary ambitions that
is missing -
   it's simply that the life is
there,
   the Blitzkrieg selling rates
of such books,
people, "oddly" enough like
an authentically lived
experience to prop up the
dry narrative of:
what probably constitutes
ghost writers...
  a Casanova type of books,
autobiographies...

but wait...
what happened to the autobiography
genre?
    last time i checked,
all these reality t.v. celebs have
about 5 "autobiographies"
to boot...
   and they're what... licking 40
a.m. (our mortal god's years
of the fidgety limbs?) -
what's up with that?

    so it's not an autobiography per se...
memory loss, premature dementia?
i was misdiagnosed with that...
schizophrenia...
     that's fun...
what is?
   a misdiagnosis...
whenever i watch t.v. i play a game
of spotting a familiar face...
i'm usually right...
                photographic memory...
i can recognize a face...

        kind of a requirement living
in the labyrinth of outer
English suburbia...
    ******* ferris wheel quasi confusion:
but always speeding up...

type 1 books?
   a summary of a well lived life:
joined the army,
  traveled the world,
  learned Brazilian martial arts,
****** a lot of women...
began the day by jogging
at 3am with the milkman...
   books you should read in your youth
and be fed the desire to live
a symbiosis of it, imitate it...

funny... cloning is not a scientific
concept, physically...
sure... that much is true...
  but cloning a mind...
converting someone to pray five
times a day on a Persian rug?
   religion...
    religion was the first instigator
of cloning, prior to science,
cloning is such an old concept,
it predates the scientific breakthroughs...
how else?
you have to clone and replicate
the mind, before the body is
investigated as being enclosed in
the equivalent capacity for,
said, "conversion"...

            i guess for the elites
clones are much effective than what's being
fed for the bourgeoisie...
  look... the rich care more about
the poor than the middle class...
   because they know that the poor
can only pass on genes...
   which muddles the bourgeoisie, a lot...
it feeds them passing on
memes -
              less genes - more memes -
the rich can father replicas by passing on
both: genes... & memes...
the poor can only pass on their genes...
the bourgeoisie?
    they can't do both...
       and since they can't pass both...
they have concentrated on passing memes
rather than genes...

  and you know where that leaves them?
evidently sexless -
  or at least with a 0.5% rate
of population replenishment....
     not a nice place...

but that's only type 1 of literature...

type 2:
  the sort of antithesis of an autobiography,
someone that is on-going...
    gravitating toward an expansion
of a personal vocabulary...
   the sort of book, you can't write,
and never will,
   because it depicts a life:
            YOU DON'T WANT TO LIVE.
**** me, it would be grand to
live the type 1 literature,
settling in some comfy armchair aged
70, and reminiscing...
             you have that last *******
watching memory cinema,
you can lie, juxtapose through the fabric
of oncoming dementia
memory loss...
   life is dandy...
          but type 2 literature?
ever notice the ongoing onslaught with
wordings and linguistic observations?
those supposedly inorganic aspects of
language -
words acting as inanimate objects?
oh but they breath -
sure, they fall in and out of fashion -
but a flesh eating body of flesh
still managed to utter them,
somehow, never mind the etymological
genesis -
            only when there is
the complete slaughter of encoded language
will there be talk of an "etymological"
exodus...
   but that's beside the point...
this type 2 of writing?
    no magical life formula...
no joining the army,
or ******* a lot of women...
the whole sha-sha-bang!
                  
    in the end i hold dear to the fact that i'm
not a fiction escape-artist...
i hate escapism -
    esp. of a fictive nature,
well, fictive "nature" per se...
give me a philosophy book or
some obscure poem and i'll
turn a cognitive labyrinth into
a Pamplona bull charge...
    
as i also wanted to travel to Munich for
the Oktoberfest...
but never did...

   guess it's true:
   you can never get what you want,
might as well do with
what you have and must like it...
i.e. if you don't have what you
like: like what you have.

very few people write type 2 literature...
most write type 1...
       let's face it...
there's type 2A and type 2B...
     type 2A is fiction...
   escape artistry...
                
****... that's three genres then...
             type 2B has one motto:
my life is so ******* boring, that...
i decided to write...
                     well... "bored"...
rather... predictable...
                  but i can't imagine the horror
of having lived such a challenging
and exciting life of type 1...
and then reducing it to farting into
an armchair...
   and getting a ghost-writer to
script my open mic monologue...

             ah...
                  i'm sure that few people will
write a type 2B...
            too few people have
lost their "necessity" to dream while sleeping...
i stopped dreaming per se,
even if i do conjure up a dream...
it's so much *******,
so Jackson ******* that
     even Freud couldn't get
a cucumber or an oyster metaphor
out of it.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
I put my hand in the hand of the man from galilee

Or I thought I did, I imagined he would walk with me
and talk with me

and help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which i think may have been blind, at one time,

I have memories like that guy, Gold-something
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom. Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but
these, heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made, and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble eclipsed by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tensionpowerloss collapses the bubble?

You should think you know atoms work, like
not a cloud of super positioning, elect-
tric-magi-tech, touch screen at the quantum accounting point,
not that, but
a bubble, powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
What an electron does. It goes,
as soon as any sense can be made of it,
oughtaouta hear
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin must ahapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, m'fallin angel droppin' in olfren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth found in wines that moved themselves
aright, slurry tongued, but pisstoff

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Who told you I was naked?

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe were forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
No,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,

everything that's old is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the worth of all your eyes behold,

If, if, if you are alucky winner and you arise when I call your name
to come on down
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize,
how do you declare such a thing worthy,

A feeling? What's it worth? Depends. Safe? Priceless. Don't shout.

So we sell walls. We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened by those we make
feel safe.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Workers will work for food and a feeling. And Facebook.
They choose, believe what's easiest, they are told,
you are absolutely co-rectallatime, tekayepeel.

There are such wishes being made, on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters. If wishes were asked for, whatif
connecting to the source of haps that are
all happiness can possibly
consist of...
Oh, consist is a sticky, gluten idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand. Sistere.

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted..
Whatif, nothing is immaterial, as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
Ask the pilot. What if,
asking for help helps? Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore, quotheraven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories of all the things that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
when ya stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
In my younger days, I visited folks in county homes, the rest homes that once were called the po house, and sometimes I'd just sit and watch Jeopardy, and hold her hand, while listening to conversations with angels, all around me.
Aaron LaLux Mar 2018
This whole country is a crime seen,
3rd Eye’s blurry need some Visine,
driving home with one headlight,
can’t see straight hit the high beams,

feeling like a Wallflower that’s lost all power,
praying for peace while they continue fighting,
and I know I can’t stop all the violence,
but that won’t stop me from trying,

can’t get through to the new school,
try memes,
can’t get the truth through to these dudes,
they keep denying,

I mean what does it mean,
when a black kid’s not even safe in his own yard,
assassinated in his grandmother’s backyard,
story retold by the grandma of Stephon Clark,
trained killers hunted him down and ****** him,
maybe he would’ve survived if his skin was a little less dark,
maybe to see the light first we need a spark,
trying to keep it together even though things seem to be falling apart,

the use of deadly force is often excessive,
but penalties on the killers are rarely enforced,
as if a police officer’s badge is a license to ****,
it’s not any less savage because they’re in uniform,

what does that say of our society,
when boys getting killed my men is the norm,
and us kids are sick of it more than a little bit,
school shootings cop shooting what’s going on,

and where are our leaders at times like this,
I mean shout out to Emma Gonzalez,
I respect her heart and congratulate her courage,
but why do adults have to learn from kids,

where are our role models,
where is the love,
global warming it’s heating up,
still kids get killed in cold blood,

this is not a front,

I’m not fronting,
I’m not faking,
I’m whole foods,
they’re all bacon,

fat no protein,
facts no smoke dreams,
fact is these pros need practice,
because this whole country’s a crime scene,

every day another cover up,
got cameras on every block,
still when a kid gets shot,
it seems like the body cams are always covered up,

how can it be 2018,
where we’re constantly under surveillance,
yet we never see the footage of cops,
when they shoot civilians,

and I’m trying to stay patient,
but I’m running out a patience,

and it’s not just cops killing kids,
kids are killing kids too,
but most people don’t even want to hear about it,
let alone actually get up and move,

wanna know how many people have been killed by guns,
millions and millions in the United States alone,
and no one is safe not even a 22 year old kid,
siting in the backyard of his grandmother’s home,

this whole place is a Danger Zone,

this whole country is a crime seen,
3rd Eye’s blurry need some Visine,
driving home with one headlight,
can’t see straight hit the high beams,

feeling like a Wallflower that’s lost all power,
praying for peace while they continue fighting,
and I know I can’t stop all the violence,
but that won’t stop me from trying…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

New Book FREE Here: www.scribd.com/document/367036005
JM Romig Jun 2013
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will be live-*

The revelation will be streaming through your Windows
laptops and smartphones.
The revolution will be blogged
Tweeted, liked, shared, RE-blogged RE-tweeted
and Stumbled Upon in between
midnight ******* sessions
sandwiched between funny cat memes.

The resolution will be HD.
It's evolution will be high speed.
The whistles will be blown at with frequency.
The revolution will be commented on;
Scrutinized.
Vandalized.
Scandalized.
Stylized and advertized.
People will pay attention -
People will forget to mention
that some stand up, occupy, riot
and die.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution be streaming live
through the filter of your choice.
The facts will be democratized.
The democracy will be corporatized.
The corporations will personified.
People, objectified -
Spied on and villainized  
The powers that be will will lie, deny, and try to justify.
The people will be disenfranchised.
Prisons will be privatized.
Death drones will be utilized.

No one will bat an eye.
Because revolution will be multiplied, over-simplified,
The violence, normalized.
Lives, sacrificed
to satiate the Golden Calf's appetite.

The revolution will not be televised
but Jerry Springer will...
Go figure.
dead bodies moving dead bodies
you know the theme, the scheme,
the thought and the idea

the bodies, dead, paying the bills,
moving dead past the dawn
eyeballs rolling up as windows
closing and doors close and open

the bodies, mass production,
lots of bodies
Monday, Tuesday, Shitday
Thursday, Friday, Saturday
and Christday

Neighbor Allah never greets anyone
and he talks to himself in echoes
Buddha is all smiles and virtues
but no muscle, Buddha's daughters
are out clubbing tonight ******* their
oriental curves, selling their oriental
scents and cold white skin
to Allah's *** deprived sons

Christ is the only father and
he disowns his nieces and nephews,
I knew years back that I am a distant relative

just dead bodies, yours and mine
produce, corporate livestock,
labels from the heaviest bills handed
over in sinister alleyways,
sinister exchanges, hitman to hitman,
extraction to extraction, fraction by fraction,
bodies serves as platforms,
nonliving chopping boards for the butchers
dressed up as elves

the bodies, limb by limb, sagging skins,
rivers of hairfalls, scratch marks,
Ms. Universe stretch marks, the *** tapes
of the cheerleaders whom silent and wise
boys yearned for all through years of fading
innocence

Closeted gay professionals keeping their pointed ******* when nothing's wrong with them until consent turns from probationary to mandatory and hate and red and blue and green and yellow flags and pedophiles and bigots and white supremacists and Allah whisperers and Allah fanatics and Buddha hypocrites and China takes over the world and feminists, and third and fourth and fifth and so on genders and Trump and memes and Filipinos and mental health and memes and mental health and memes and literature and literature and activists and who ****** who and politicians and what Americans, Australians, Chinese, Japanese, British, Candian, Irish and and North Koreans and K-Pop plastic lips and hips who young girls and boys from isolated islands gets ****** for and hipsters and the nine to fives and the ***** to give and the snobbish *** girls in parties, in clubs, in alleys who wants to get ****** by all the celebrity status ***** all just becomes a tiny pinch for the dead bodies not to see and point the flower and shoot the gun to end the human war.
powerlessness is the fuel to either create or destroy.
JT Jun 2016
Within the four walls of this library
sit three walls packed into the corner;
shelves, stuffed full of books with dog-eared pages
and slip-disc’d spines and fraying edges,
and a big white sign, which dangles from the ceiling
like a megabat hung on a cave mouth, sleeping and dreaming,
the word “NONFICTION” is inscribed on its countenance,
adjacent to signs shouting “MYSTERY” and “SCIENCE
FICTION” and “FANTASY” and “ROMANCE”
and a thousand other sorts of words
for myth and fabrication. But in this corner
live the rest, the et ceteras, the miscellaneous,
the kingdom of protists; for instance, care for some ethics?
Marx’s manifesto is stacked lazily beside a heap of essays by Rand;
you can practically see the two of them, shaking hands
uneasily, the will to never understand already forming
in their brains, and others yet remain;
Capote and the Clutters share shelf space
with the Mansons, hiding helter skelter behind
gnostic gospels and silent springs and a thousand
dreams for Freud to interpret (translated
from German for your convenience); nearby,
Orwell sings war songs in Catalan, accompanied
by the universe’s most elegant superstrings,
and the caged birds, singing of freedom,
harmonizing a melodious cacophony with the song
of the executioner. Butler criticizes his performance,
and she probably would have anyway, but Friedan thinks
he has a certain sort of mystique and Dawkins offers his own critique,
going on about genes and memes, extinction and delusion, but
not hallucinations—Sacks makes the distinction; let us continue
to praise famous men, and their children after them,
these naked apes, with minds so ***** that
they’re riddled with the emperors of all maladies; oh, Morris
Kinsey and Mukherjee could tell you all about these things,
maybe over lunch with Schlosser or dinner with Pollan,
minglings with Machiavelli over affairs of the state,
or affairs of space and a brief history of time; but,
if you're feeling too full to eat, or to pray, or to love,
ask Frankl what to do, let him change your life
with words from decades yore as he keeps on
his search for meaning just like every man before, at least
that's the case when these boys’ lives weren’t preoccupied
by artful war or bright and shining lies. And here,
by the holy bookend, lies some old and antiquated glossary
which lost most of its “glossy” many years ago,
for one flip through the pages will catalogue the changes
between what we thought we knew about the stars
and our bodies and doomsday as recently
as your last birthday, and all the things that everyone says
we now know that we know; speak,
memory, remember all you can
about this endless, sundry cosmos, and
the microcosms that it boasts; bury my heart,
if not at Wounded Knee, then maybe at this
library, where comprehension and speculation
find themselves in coexistence, packed into a single
point resembling the genesis, and fear and hope
take dueling forms, those of fact and mystery;
and now all that’s left to do is read,
until the end of history.
if you want to play along at home: there are 33 allusions to spot.

— The End —