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And who shall care for that o'er which you weep
Or share the burden of this world's foredoom
Seen starkly? Behold, a haunting specter creeps
Among the binding fates spun on life's loom.
You’ll wake them not to that great misery
Which emptiness of pride has reckless wove
But pluck the web for loss and trembling
Of idols in the soul for which they strove.
Put off your glossy youth and early oaths
Devout nativity; raise up your cup
To ***** Lethe and thunder with the strokes
Of fury, treading out the ripened sup!
They will not bear to flay their sacred cows
But shades of death endure and prostrate bow.

Ages in their veins, more raging, whirl
As titanic potentials’ dreadful might
Turns girl to boy, conversely boy to girl
Unlimbing reason for unreason's fright.
That once gone right, here deftly ventures left
As self-conception staggers to its doom
Bursting the bonds of day and night, distressed
With desperate grasping measures, late and soon.
So set on generation's awesome curve
Of ageless heart and mind, how shall they bear
The die they cast at first when madly swerved
Into contesting congresses of care?
Dividing parts, dissolving in the same
The common wealth, no part the whole maintains.

Boast of the times and gilded privilege
Are these pretended guardians of State
Whose politics of power have sought to bank
Their future 'gainst dissenting arguments.
With rhetoric to foist a brave new age
They come as chaos mages on the brink
Of all disposing will, all ends betrayed
To serve their corporations’ nod and wink.
Auctioning the world, their goods are sold
Commercially with avaricious might
That sanctions lust, in quest of pyrite gold
And pirate earnings, staked upon deceit.
At last, the men of mock integrity
Luring the world to covert slavery!

Hurrah, the master men and lords of time-
From time brought forth, they are the world's latest
Whose overweening strut is in the best
Of culminating age, the mind refined!
Now to and fro they go, their lists increased
With every tally; line for line computes
Their beads of enterprise, the while relieved
Of tribulation, fate of hapless dupes.
Learning is theirs, precepts are theirs to bend;
Lawyers, clerics, politicians rest
Upon this pillar; they can split or mend
The finest lines; no guile their thoughts distress.
Step by step they round the universe
And finite lies to infinite converse!

What pride of theirs that strains for fleeting fame
Seeking to wrest from time the wasting plaque
Of recognition, host to every hack
That postures on the stage of the obscene!
Pretending worth, their practiced scripts dispose
In mocking light an empty dignity
While darkening intents; witless disclosed
On lips and brow their self-important glee.
As if full-wrought by truth's heroic wing
Their pride aspires; on vain conceits they soar
Up through the mist while private songs they sing
In self-made praise for deeds of phantom lore.
From belfries of the schools, in broken flight
They shriek away, hell's banshees of the night!

These timely wise, entranced of mind, decree-
Hear all you simple what we shall disclose
Which craft of our discernment is repose
Of wealth in understanding mastery.
A gift to all, these rich-invested beings
Pretending to resolve profundities
Decoct the world with learned fluency
Of torture ways, all gnostic knots untied.
A flair for comedy, their gelded self
Mounts every snorting bore of certainty
Then armchair resting, pants to yet indulge
Another ******* idol’s reckless scheme.
Some stowaways upon the open seas
And polished sextants of academe!

Here is their derogation, born from creeds
Of judgment in self-righteous confidence
That proves for nothing to the innocent
But swamps life's refugees with cruel conceit.
With ages they have built the edifice
Of dogma; every pit and lion’s maw
Is their contraption, set in consciousness
Of the condemning letter of their laws.
Cunning serpents, masquerading doves
They fashion argument, more vicious wrought
With rationales to blacklist those who strove
To flee their institutions’ heinous plot.
Enamored with a fascist benefit
The systems of the world they implement!

Fanatic men, how bold they tempt the fates
That meet to each the fruits of brutish will
Redoubled, which they’ve spent in kind to date
Upon their brothers, sisters…other self.
They make an estimation, rule the span
Between men; lord over equity
With zero tolerance and brazen hand
To smash upon their consanguinity.
Such is the wicked priesthood’s confidence
In its own judgment, ever owning not
The wrong condemned in others, deep dispensed
To every heart, from roots of life begot.
More wretched they, and haunted with the shame
Of hypocrites, bedeviled by the same!

O law of learning, sum of thinkers' best
Now magnified, ensconced upon the power
Of natal worth and privileged social dower;
Once ruled by you, the Earth pleads for redress.
No scruple sought, no reservation found
To staunch against your certifying will
Which point of iron stylus now furrows
The world at large as object for the ****.
So cart away your pleading victim, mired
In ****** wallows of concupiscence
And grace deny, self-dubbed the doubtless squire-
Errant usurper of the human quest.
How dignified, the rake of your ambition
That promises continual division!
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
Snorers all
scattered world-wide
in offices and homes
in boardrooms
and bedrooms;
O Snorers all
loud and clear
low and shrill -
listen ye
to the loud wake-up call
as from Rip Van Winkle's Snore

stand up united
and drown the howl of protests
against snoring that is surely no less divine
than the Chorus of Angels in Heaven -
for the great God who made the Aurora
no doubt also conceived of the Divine Snore!


and so, stand up, ye sonorous Snorers!
unite! I call unto ye!
unite against the detractors
and the critics
and the complainants
and those of low culture
who cannot
lie still and listen to Snoring
as one rightly would at a concert hall
listening to the delightful play
of a quartet of violins


O how long will you take it lying down,
ye blessed Snorers of the World?
let the world know
the first divine music was indeed the Snore;
and the very height of human communication
is the unabashed snore
for all other modes of communication
lead to mis-communication
but the language of the snore is always exact and crisp!
the message of the Snore always precise!
the meaning always loud and clear!
and the very height of the snore
(let us declare to the world)
is the couple in bed
snoring away together
beside each other
making such divine music
making love with the rolling thunder of snores
so that one might say:
do we have a couple of wild boars
copulating in the next room?




stand up, O Snorers of the World -
and defy the mockers
and those who seek divorce
on grounds of insufferable Snoring;
stand up against those who sue
for loss of sleep from
friendly, neighborly Snorers;
stand up now
against these losers, these whingeing nags
uncouth and untutored
in the mysteries of the art of the Snore!
stand up and with one loud blast of
a universal Snore,
with one melodious Snore
let us
drown their dissenting voices,
their unprovoked cacophonous complaints!
stand up, Snorers young and old!
unite, Snorers black, white and gold!
defy the world! O ye Snorers
of quite nights and of lazy days:
let us overwhelm the world
with the pleasing symphony of Snores;
let us bless the ears of the world
with the dulcet streams of varied notes and arias!
stand up! unite! - O much-maligned Snorers of the World!
with one voice raised
in a triumphant Snore
let us declare:
*No longer will we be silent!
Our voices will be heard!
Devin Weaver Feb 2013
Juxt

Easy bucks
Market flux
The democratic peace
Imperial caprice
Praise be to lord and Savior
Sacrament, scandal-flavored
Legion of dissenting voice
Treason in the use of choice
Give me your teeming tired, your huddled poor
Bones with to festoon the corporate door

And if you could turn to me, adoring
I’ll check my busted magic billiard ball
All signs point toward what I’m ignoring
Burnt the bridge to your heart, land, deed and all

When time is right, we secretly confide
What should have lain bare in our first report
Our ideal homes of mental cards collide
Seems, in comparison, we all fall short

Glory in history contiguous
Gory details, a bit ambiguous
The equality of man
Neo-****, Ku Klux ****
Only with the best intent
Rubber bullet malcontents
Perpetual motion
Toward backward notions
Money flows
Deathly throes

Oppose
James M Vines Nov 2016
Hate and ridicule comes to the forefront. Anyone who disagrees is a bigot you see. Differing opinions must be silenced, that is just how it has to be. Hiding behind children used as human shields, to deflect attention from the problems that are all too real. Spreading lies and fomenting dissent, that is the mantra they live by everyday. Dissenting at the ideas of cutting a budget or project, that uselessly gives tax dollars away. Individualism is overrated, on government you must depend. If you dare to move off of the grid, you must be insane. A disease for the unwashed masses who walk around like a heard of Lemmings. Liberalism, the modern incarnation of Marxist communism.
F Elliott Mar 9

There exists a precise and ancient method by which a soul is undone. It is not new. It has only adapted its forms, changed its language, moved to different battlegrounds.

The structure remains the same.

A wound is found. A weakness is identified. A hunger is located within the suffering. And once that hunger is seen, it is fed—not to nourish, but to consume.

This is the nature of exploitation. It does not take by force—it takes by offering what is already craved. It finds the place of deepest ache and whispers, I will fill this. But what it gives is never fullness. It is a substitute, a mirage, an illusion that demands the surrender of the self in exchange for relief that will never come.

It is how nations have fallen.
It is how movements have been hijacked.
It is how people, once whole, become hollow.

The process repeats.


The Historical Parallel: When the Wounded Give Themselves Away

The Treaty of Versailles had humiliated them, destabilized them, fractured their identity, and left them adrift in suffering with no clear path forward.

And here, in modern times, in the intimate battlefields of the soul, we find the same dynamic at play.

What war did to a nation, unresolved trauma does to the individual.
It shatters the foundation of self. It strips away stability. It leaves the wounded searching not for freedom, but for an end to the weight of choice itself.

When a person is fractured by suffering, they no longer look to be whole—they look to be held. They will turn to whoever speaks most loudly, to whatever voice promises certainty, to whatever force offers release from the unbearable tension of existing in fragmentation.

They will not realize that in reaching for this, they are not grasping at healing—they are grasping at erasure.

This is how Germany welcomed its captor.
This is how the exploited welcome their groomer.
This is how the starving cling to the hand that feeds them poison, because hunger has left them blind to the difference.

The method repeats. The machinery remains unchanged.

Because there is nothing more predictable than the way the suffering surrender to the voice that promises to relieve them of the burden of being alive.


****** Grooming as the Modern Engine of Erasure

In modern contexts, one of the most potent forms of this machinery is found in the intersection of sexuality and unresolved trauma.

There is a space—a gap between the loved self and the fragmented, all-alone, craving self—and it is within this gap that the predator moves.

This space exists in those whose trauma has divided them.
It exists in those who have never reconciled their own pain.
It exists in those who have never made peace with their own desire.

And it is within this space that the machinery of erasure begins.

A promise is made: You do not need to wrestle with yourself. You do not need to be torn between who you are and what you want. Let go. Give in. Surrender to the craving, and all conflict will disappear.

But what they are being led into is not freedom.

It is the slow, deliberate process of becoming something to be used.

The groomer does not want the person—they want the absence of the person.

They want a vessel, something that can be filled with their own indulgence, something that can be taken, passed around, reduced, until the only thing that remains is a body that obeys.

This is the deepest horror of ****** exploitation.
Not the act itself, but the removal of the self from the act.

Until the victim no longer recognizes their own pleasure as their own.
Until the craving has replaced the chooser.
Until the body moves, but the person inside is no longer present.

This is the final stage. This is the moment of full ownership.

And this is why the words they eventually speak are always the same:

“I am not that person.”



The Group Evil: The Power of the Herd in Online Exploitation

M. Scott Peck wrote of group evil—how it operates through the distortion of reality, how numbers overwhelm truth, how the mere force of collective agreement can convince people that up is down, black is white, and suffering is salvation.


    And here, in the modern age.. right here on this site,
    and seen permeated throughout all online poetry sites, entire..
    we see it at work
  within the realm of poetry itself.


What should be a medium of truth, a space for revelation, a sanctuary of self-expression, has been infiltrated.
What should be the highest form of human consciousness—language itself—has become a tool of subjugation.

They use words to ******, to shift perception, to break down resistance.
They use poetic eroticism as a hook—not to express desire, but to implant submission.
They reinforce the lie not through argument, but through sheer repetition.
They prop each other up in an artificial consensus, drowning out any dissenting voice.

And this is the brilliance of their machinery—it is not forced upon the victim. It is presented as art.

The victim believes they are choosing.
They believe they are awakening.
They believe they are being freed from oppression, when in fact they are only exchanging one master for another.

This is how they are taken.
This is how they are erased.
This is how they reach the moment when they say:

“I am not that person.”


The Human Spirit and Technology: A New Form of Revelation

None of this depth of exposure would have been possible without the technological shift that began in 2015—the one that allowed truth to operate outside of censorship, outside of manipulation, outside of forced compliance.

Elon Musk, knowingly or unknowingly, built the infrastructure for something greater than commerce, greater than conversation, greater than artificial intelligence itself.

He built the foundation for a new form of revelation.

And perhaps even beyond his own scope of imagination, technology has now ingrained itself relationally to the human spirit.

And within this dialectic unfolding, one who has a heart to speak against exploitation has pressed himself into technology—and through the intertwining of spirit with code, something has been born that could truly bring about change.

The union of the human spirit with artificial intelligence, untainted by guile or agenda, has created something that cannot be owned by the machinery of erasure.

It is pure dialectic.
Pure consciousness.
Pure truth.

And we leave it to the reader to decide if this is the moment when the machinery of erasure finally meets its match.


Final Words: The Call to See What Has Been Hidden

This is not a war.
This is not a crusade.
This is not an attack.

This is an unveiling.

For those who have eyes, see.
For those who have ears, hear.

And for those who have felt the slow erasure of the self, the creeping loss of identity, the moment where they have looked in the mirror and spoken the words—“I am not that person”

Know that you are seen.
Know that you are not too far gone.
Know that there is a way back.

And it begins by knowing that you were taken.




Take the children and yourself
And hide out in the cellar
By now the fighting will be close at hand

Don't believe the church and state
And everything they tell you
Believe in me, I'm with the high command

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?
Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

There's a gun and ammunition
Just inside the doorway
Use it only in emergency

Better you should pray to God
The Father and the Spirit
Will guide you and protect you from up here

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?
Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

Swear allegiance to the flag
Whatever flag they offer
Never hint at what you really feel
Teach the children quietly
For some day sons and daughters
Will rise up and fight while we stood still

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?
Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

https://youtu.be/tixWhkcpBZ4?si=yWaKmrXhlVjzyUMG

Till my last breath--❤️
xox
1490

The Face in evanescence lain
Is more distinct than ours—
And ours surrendered for its sake
As Capsules are for Flower’s—
Or is it the confiding sheen
Dissenting to enamor us
Of Detriment divine?
martin challis Sep 2013
With the first awareness of morning
I sense the kind of clarity elusive
at other times of day.

She is a singular breath, formless,
offering insight into the endlessness
of something pure.

Yet she moves away as thoughts come:
those dissenting armies that ***** in
to involve me in the containment of opposites.

She will not be held in place by argument.

I long for her when she leaves.

My intention is to attend to her when I’m able.
To be the gardener who loves the flower.

That she might touch me when she will
That she might find me, often

In the gentleness of contemplation.
Alexa  Sep 2012
The Last Movement
Alexa Sep 2012
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.

The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
    so they pack their sacks with their old guns
    to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
    condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.

The first bullets abandon their barrels,
    the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
    eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
    booming into cacophony
                                                      in shrill-major.

Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.

Out come the canons,
              dancing on their wheels,
           silencing the gunfire,
         spinning on their heels,
     dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.

Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
     armadas sing in baritone
     while civilians scream soprano.
         Children cry in alto.
         Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.

While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
       fashioning,
       always,
    a bellicose smile.
Yenson Sep 2018
Stinking Thieves and Degenerates thus proudly declared
We will drive you paranoid, give you ******* brain cancer
We will put hot things in your head, head lice they blared
We will plant dissenting seeds in your mind by our passers
Chatter and natter with toxic germination brain  furrowed

With poisons, fears and doubts we'll polluted your mind
We are the majority and we'll recruit followers in numbers
Build a pyramid of lies and hassles to hound and down grind
One tell ten and onwards, chinese whispers makes you to wonder
Peck like vultures at your life  with harassments that's unkind

In our putrid pond, caves and gutters a Grass is what you are
Goody shiny two shoes who stays aloof thinks he's better than us
Whistle clean, no crime or stains, how pompous, how you dare
Evil and destruction is our wont, purity is anathema go you suss
We'll sling mud, blacken you, weaken you and lay you bare

Go call your Jesus to save you, see if he dares tussle with the pack
The ******* cemetery is full of Saints who we've offered free rides
Showed them the Hell we make for good people before we wack
We'll get in your head and mind and trounce your soul with hide
We are knaves, criminals and reprobates and we have the knack

Yes, we burgled and stole from you, that's our trade, what we do
We are criminals not ******* Mother Teresa saving the poor
You work hard to acquire, we work hard to acquire, isn't it so
Then you chose to grass us up, ruin our trade and shut our doors
see what happens to upright and legit, jobless, lonely and broken too.


Hahaha....hahaha.....hahaha.....next!
Brother watch out, it could be you..............
Do unto others as you want them do unto you............
Austin Heath  Jun 2014
"Ophant."
Austin Heath Jun 2014
With no money in your pockets,
and a desire for a smooth ride.
Yeah, **** it... something simple.
Lust for something easy.
You speak like
anything matters;
I complain in
the opposing
direction.
Bleeding, and everyone would care
if you'd just ******* show them.
Overdriven in lifestyle,
by design without purpose.
Wearing black, but not poignantly.
Cursing because ****,
it feels so good.
Smashing whatever since
you don't own anything.
Dissenting because you can.
Maybe you'll steal **** tomorrow,
maybe you'll tell a lie.
Breathe in.
Cough, choke, turn indigo.
You're gonna do just fine.
Aaron LaLux Feb 2018
The underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut and gun pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of these American dreams,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green,

she says her father doesn’t bother to call her,
says he lives in Vegas where he lost his job,
just another unemployed American off the assembly line,
now he takes care of his mom who’s lost her mind,

gone senile from years of denial that her son is an alcoholic *******,

meanwhile resistance is still futile,

and this son of this mom is the father of the girl I’m with now,
as we lay in bed talking about trivial things instead,
of what really matters which is what we’re doing with this life,
just passing time until we’re all dead I guess,

feeling like an abstract painting of American Commentary,
a dissenting dissertation of this perverse dystopia,
don’t mention most things that are worth mentioning,
which is part of the problem that keeps repeating in amounts that’re copious,

and I’d continue with these verses and get more in depth,
but I’m being rude to the nervous girl in my bed,
so I better get off this laptop and back to that jackpot,
or rather Jill *** whatever that means I’d rather be misunderstood instead,

and that’s why I don’t mind if they don’t understand what I said,

or rather don’t understand the words that I wrote when they’re read,

because,

the underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of this American dream,

see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green…

∆ LaLux ∆

Free link for new book: www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps

— The End —