It is another one of those early mornings when hatred spews out of my body and aims for itself, I never miss. I have always been good at reaching targets, even better when I myself am bullseye.
I shoot directly for the mirror. Into my thighs, my chest, this mountain range of a body. I send my angry in a direct path towards my folds, my stomach, my skin, in all that is human. I launch bombs on my own territory like it's what I've been sent to do, like I was made to destroy what I have spent my whole life building.
I ask why it so easy to rip apart the things I've put together myself. I ask why it feels so normal to want to break down the rafters of the only shelter I will ever be able to use for protection.
I blame everything else before I blame me. I blame the girls with bodies like sunsets, that contrast my mid-day average sky of a figure. I blame the dresses that I cannot fit into, the way they **** the life out of me every time I can't stretch them past my hips. I blame genetics with absolutely no knowledge of science behind me.
I want to blame society for the hate that has been multiplying inside of me but at the end of the day I am still the one who does the math. It is still me who pours self-deprecation over my head to shower in all of the things I cannot wash out. It is still me who incites hurricane upon every part of myself that is impossible to change by nature. I am the one who detonates my disappointments like the explosion will somehow change the way I look, like the aftermath of destruction will leave me with anything but empty and wreckage.
I often forget that it is me who spoon feeds myself memories of failure at every meal. It is me who hands over guilt every time I reach for the snooze button to fall back asleep. I even shove myself in fault to depression, cover myself in darkness and then wonder why there is no light to be seen. I am the culprit in it all.
In the mornings when my mind is still circling to figure out where it left off, I point it in the direction of negative. I take all of the crooked and pile it up to remind myself of the mismatch. When I take aim at my reflection, I never miss.
I direct the ****** of my mistakes, vulnerability and insecurity directly towards my image. I have become the hitman of my own assassination. My fall into disaster is wholeheartedly my own doing. I am the best of the best when it comes to this form of damage. I never miss.

It detonates
the thunder of it reverberates
grates on my nerves
resonating within.
The explosion corrodes me
boding nought but ill
still
I ignite.
Why fight the inevitable,why not just stay in the bubble and keep out of trouble?
It detonates.

Vernarth says: “Nocturnal mutism, nocturnal stuttering, goes from the fragile phrasing, peripheral phrase, hovering last word, where my loudspeaker hits, dissonant Sagittarius, I must prepare my denarius, not but, beforehand, cheers of hope to Zion, who among the bush of the millionaire wind that travels from Pluto to Mercury, each day that we map ourselves, trying to be more earth than in its own flowering. Paradiso Omega, nap of the oldest dream, adobe path. My  to fly Anne genuflects her heart towards Mariah from Heaven, in the title of hundreds of throats and gargles of the pyogenic sediment rambling. Oh so long night!, so clear firmament born of the fallen ether of the great Heaven so clear and enlightening Compass 37 on the quilt of God, three by three towards one, linking above the easy pit and dreams, dying Paradiso, Agonizing Horcondising, a fragile mass disoriented, discouraged, with numeral letters and quadruple letters, stone after stone of forage falling on the cinnabar sky "

Joshua de Piedra from the high pinnacle exclaimed…: “Stone after stone in its correction is born of a new silence eternal bond. It eats it during the day, it eats at night, just like the galaxies licking the frivolous awakening from a starless night, but being the substance of stars liquefied with a whip. Pilgrimage or Path of the Cross, on the stony ground of Uncle Hugh's house, in the other similar, my Anne's house, further on in the hidden and clayey chaos, the last Indigenous in Western clothing, working and stuffing the wells with green size, distributing alms for his apprentices, I keep looking from the high hill earlier. Kaitelka the whale and a Dwarf Leviathan; steward of the unnameable, perhaps of an unknown Cyprian squirrel censoring Noah in his animals empowered to tell him about a magnificent episode.  Each species balancing its essence to make the most grandiloquent dossier in the world, to join them and value them towards the unknown peasant world. The big apple to go, with its tailcoat worms, well dressed and united by the march of the rock sentinel Evangelus. Kaitelca alpha and omega cetacean, fluffy with bast for all the most lost seas of the watery world. She so down cetacean, she throws herself into the sea in fears in this gloomy space, exhausted warehouse, lifesaver between lives of lives, like wishes without delay, to beat the divergent period, falling on the flat ceiling. Enter to sail through the mud of Iodine, of this great Parnassus of all iodine, the Messiah was squeezing his robe of love all over the upper margin of the face, Jesus light, loving great pilgrims who helped me to urbanize the skeleton of this great demolition, of a great geyser on its oceanic back, distributing gifts through the tangled brow of the Horcón and Cantillana massif.  Freshwater meringue, fluffy flowers, incense, fuchsias, and Calypso smoke migrating from house to house in Sudpichi.  Adelimpia, holding the cord of the axis of the fatigued planet, Queen Anne restored the acute respiratory meridians, which moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed, cursed globe moving to another galaxy towards its 9600 years of expansion. The stumbling of the sun's rays, crowded on the back of the Jacinta, which multiplied on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages of millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world. The world has no end, God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are ..., being less true. Rather, we are the waste of the almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of creation that was felt wandering, perhaps it was its breathing, of its lipped wise crater, in the most irresistible protoforms, devoutly preparing turgid liquids for driving through every dinner, without stars tasting their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick his honey-like him, we run out of a famished minute of life not lived”

Says the spirit Leiak:

“Without a doubt, without drooling, without Buddha… the tendrils of the universe flamed, like rolling pickets within his hearing sea ear.  Striped with wounded marks in zigzag, by the middle row between the unarmed infidels.  Filled with the greatest amazement, massacred with laughter riddled with the non-shining meteor. From temple to temple, without Buddha close to him, he continues lost on the path of valleys among several, by the waves of chimneys like the snout of a mastiff with typhus, infected badly that detonates a thousand times, circular or macrocosmic chemistry in submissive grounds, to drink, where no one is wrong. Pendency of the lymphatic jellyfish, among the meek otolith of Kaitelka, almost deaf, of so many prayers of impious savages to hunt her ..., she continues begging for mercy as a species, she shakes and shakes as if eliminating the supposed flea jellyfish in whirlwinds of babies in her ears of children's stories. Anne came out of her basket as if she had been picked up from the Nile, but in reality, she was close to Chocalan, Popeta, or Polulo, lit up like coal from a steppe oven. I continued walking shirtless on an insomniac night, waiting in the decimals of the full moon, some indebted Solaris of the evangelist, in a space that slowly locked the crooked tongue of sleep, locked by the treacherous luck of doubt. Plague and doubt, plague and nail, which opens the vast sea, unsanitary radio, from the messianic ****** of the muses to Botticelli blaspheming. Anne, a diva of the division of past lives, does not die in misapplication against all odds like a thousand sperms of an ensign, making her stipends simple, to buy sensitive chaste little flowers in suitcases of her super-saucy folds ..., there is no probing look similar to the ocean Cousteau's journey, through which the lost retina drains, lies the selective gaze, covered by the Guardian, who looks before the denigrated sap unfolds, which wears away scarlet fever, the gaze of substance, in front of thousands of sayings, plagiarizing Tramontane rumors "

Queen Anne rolls up her sleeves, collects ashes from the ill-fated victims sifted, by the tobacco, a very good service from the fumes of venerable lost in disbelief, this painting becomes vague and with a sordid diametric image and silent cataclysm. The confine of evil godson in a duo and verse of the Universe, of the concrete displaced with pieces of the tobacco, has been spoiled. Joshua de Piedra with filings in his stomach was with hundreds of particles tickling the metaverse on the beards of extraterrestrial comets. Heaven and Hell, interrupted sleep, fatal nap, draconian wind, Ultrasensitive Glory of austere forces, as long as you are alive, you are prey to it. Ignorance continues to spend the night in the empty vapors of the valley of chaos, duels of masses of sleeping consciences underlying the erosive *****, Queen Anne, is gathered at a gallop by Joshua de Piedra, blindfolds him so that he does not numb more body incense and set on a spring flower. By the knees, they are incinerated, but sometimes they are half-burned, burning like incense with Joshua in reversible adulation, of the rawest exquisiteness of essence of escapes of blossoming in chains, with the drama of carcinoma petals in anti-carcinoma times and of eternal life external. At the Post Office, the postman envelopes the new vignettes, new gardens of relevant highlights. The friend Joshua links the trough of flames escaping from his domain, at a faster pace for other readings, varying in shreds of first-time, delineating, and walking breaths that are lost in the misty vividness.

Says Leiak: “After making a round, Adelimpia with Hugh and Bernardolipo, restart their adventure, almost at the top of the Horcondising massif, collecting riches from between stranded galleys, and vaults dragged by the cataclysm towards this consistent mountainous ..., The amounts of coins from different origins were countless, from all those wealthy who stole from all their belongings, the tainted and intrepid wisdom, getting rid of everything before confronting the thunderous flashes of the Guardian, to subtract intelligent action from the oppressive limit in maintaining the Gnostic parallel. Adelimpia saw how the thousands of nausea cleaned themselves, before liquids and gastric ills, of which they are the bad residences, deciding to die acidly or spiritually towards an alkaline light.  Karmic oppression, anhydrous bubbles, carbonating every breathing capsule of compassionate life. Every day there is more foul-smelling hunger in men of acid rust, for the good spirits of the dipsomaniac in the diet of the most lost undefeated blind, a universal record of walking impoverished at the end of his objectivity. Adelimpia…., And Carmina; maiden of the extravagant silence is linked to the ox Xenon, master of his pumpkin ox, collects bubbling fragments from their stomachs of acid and fragmented, with unfortunate applicants to obtain him, all of them exalted before his prayers, as well as that fleece that the other possessed ox; Cricket that was grazing in the radiant spaces of the grasslands, ruminating lost ties for the good of all and being able to observe in the distance going beyond all sensitive imagination, being me Leiak, the spirit of Vernarth who looks over where he does not it does, sometimes incomprehensibly because of its purging. "

Joshua de Piedra says: “Horcondising, land of Spa, of beautification to correct your beautiful osteological inhabitant, your beautiful pro-lieutenant inhabitant, I believed that wealth would flow from my hands to finance my own poverty. Horcondising, is my nurse Luz, tracing with her blood the route of the Talami reign, everything continues without direction, the lustrín lost his paste of ruby cream and powders, of the conductor who governs their destinies in my hands ..., and it is required. Horcondising, badly and fearfully I say genuflected, here are my riches, but I swear by the most sacred, that I never thought I was so poor at the same time, in the presence of the almighty. Karmic planet, you come like bread and honey from a dazzled bee, you come to fill us with light through the horns of the cat, mounted on the back of the rooster, mounted on the roan bovine. Horcondising ... What a memory! When I was running fast through good waters and Sudpichi, I saw in line some swindlers in uncertain Faith, loudly dismantling the stunning consciousness of possessing without letting those who do not have know, and what it is to lack, what is the love of the slightest doubled second, until it brings honey and milk to the mouth of the beggar and with new clothes, around the circular saffron, the light of isolation and God's judgment on Hommo Sapiens. Baba, Vrja Ananda, I know that to ascend you have to put clean, white clothes on the wind, lavender with druid purple and stuffed on the petioles that fell on the stumpy back of the little elephant. I never got tired, I always laughed and the manly wind stretched my cheeks of purple roses, to laugh at the feminine world like a new man being born from the darkness of loneliness, in a new man, with a new life, in a deranged valley of Solitude, gaseous, ulcerative and asphaltic soil, of Horcondising, in the blaze of a fierce virtuous lantern ..., lying with its lost light on the rich and poor, entangled in resin from a hopper and a villain with feet tired from walking. As immeasurable to act I continue, although there is too much, among which nothing was ever forbidden from an ominous advance. But more awaits me, whoever wants numb oppressive anti-libertarian oppression, I will continue to ruin myself after this world, in the jaws of the rogue armchair of emptiness, with strong and pious prayer, strong and pious karmic augury to ruin the ruffian, that he holds and looks at you like a kitchen log in his dispensary. Karma comes to without and are, with are without are, with dream sounds, hallucinated sounds to realize the truth of accuracy. I have no vocabulary when I am hungry or thirsty for Faith or equanimity, but rather, more than all the power of the high massif to fall on the despotic ripper and cutthroat, accursed beings of the night darkness! I decree worse evil than all the bad curses to which it provokes by a glance, and stuns you like an ant in the fragrant countryside. Karma, baba nam kevalam, anti-karmic, to anyone who doubles your life, to **** you more than three times, without falling into the arms of Forgione or a Buddhist Monk tired of getting tired, self-love and improper Karma from now on everyone and all who with their deeds and gaze invade them with disloyal flatteries and evils, the true triumph of Truth and Equality so that it is equal to all resigned, looking less like the worldly offering of goodness, but rather bad at last of counts. Francesco, are you coming right...? Here I wait for you, low-cut I will also get in line to be supplanted. My story will be vital and oppressive, full of capital, anti-charitable because I have never been able to understand it. I know that powerful affiliations will come, and I will be in your lap, and all those who process your consummation and death will fall, a bad omen of their whim like any piece. Force the spirit that outside is evil, always yours, Master...! I am going, I am going, each one who looks at me as his prey will have to govern and feed him, for better or for worse, and otherwise, I will be eternally burned along with all his progeny in the Horcondising. "


So Joshua spoke when making a wooden whistle. He cut his index finger with transparent grease, and saw a viscous bleeding liquid fall into the constant complaint, from each head of frustrated saboteurs, and mercilessly squandered by those who aim at you every day to finish you and beg your entire eternal psychic substance, without Numbers or paternal letters, Vernarth and the Hexagonal Birthright, attended with great enthusiasm this regression, knowing that he was in their nation and domains where their mythological beings accompanied them beyond all vision. They all remain normal; doing everyday things, but Vernarth's voice accompanied them from an altar in a vivid voice and with great clarity in the voice that expressed their pilgrimage.

Vernath says with an infernal tone: “The Horcondising rack runs out of people benches, to attend to their requests the sky has become convex and unattended, to walk down the fragile plateau crouching down, weightless trees rub their bruised roots on the scrubbed Living spirits over each parlor, each present master along with his present consort seemed like perfect strangers, each separated by name in their new and uncertain divided destiny. All by putting the hand where the ulcer makes intermittent unhealthy purulence, on whether we are and correspond what we are or those who manage to have in this twisted life without a surplus, and what would it be if we had surplus ...? Rows of speakers and auditors are compressed, trying to want to be understood, but the words are keys and conclaves of high architecture sifted, of the wild despair in which we are beasts escaping from an eternal safari of thunder and cannon, vaping fumaroles of ancestry and drinking Bourbon to the thunder of the steely ***** on the orphanage of looming. Here Fray Andresito unfolds his body, you know it here is…! Right here he aimed at the weakest, the strongest, perhaps being a slave. What a difficult word to define... This cell without adjoining limits, called Atman, or female soul engendering another female soul, in the arms of the sorcerer, whose packaging and the serial knot would be made by a novice, who did not know if it was tightly closed, so as not to know if it would be fine in the future and reopen it with light in Gandhi's eyes, or by a child in care appointments without his arms to approach his mother cradle, perhaps being ivy or algae that sway his breaths vain…, from the flickering of the dotted throbbing of the Sun in flight through the lost night of the altarpiece, putting silicone because it comes out of the picture. Today a being was born in the arms of the almighty, a being anointed in the placenta of golden liquid and augrum, filling everyone and everyone leaving them speechless… ”.

Its ancestry of eternal way comes from mutual funds, equivalent prices in promoting values, on falls and rises, in franc growth, and various financial statements to beat dividends. The lines of people obediently migrated to the Horcondising, they never thought that they would be a great family, all in chains of multicolored and endless shapes, all in the high mountain at more than three thousand meters, and no higher, because in this Age again life, I cannot count more than thousands, in which the hundreds stay up late every day on this streetcar called the alliance. Branches of salty puree and ammonite soups with coriander, in the transversal valleys, to the southeast, with verve envelopes and their large moral excess on their backs and their hope of leaving all their treasures on the sidelines, before entering the muddy showers. when swarming with turbulent regrets and losing all ego money, highlighting a new epidermis, with an unprotected but opulent soul. Each being devoid of the word and thought, was trans walking through the heavenly ranks, with buzzing in their hearing aids attenuated and a smelly shanghai screeching, nothing would be left to pour into the channels near the almighty, the one who picked them up from the ground satin in some small sulfur coins and bleeding hollow, nothing will charge to their accounts or in their excess pride, only white skin in dark skin, and dark turning to dawn gray dermis, for exclusiveness, only lost in the jungle of ignorance shipwrecked tundra. Grandmother Adelimpia cleaned with sweepers and pine feather dusters, wormwood trunk and molle, and with the ceiling. My Anne, swept the flat floor with her wedding dress, years ago seasoned ..., Hugh and Bernardolipo laced some wines pigeonholed in the devil's segment, so as not to lose track of the high hill, which could be seen falling on the witnesses of the fallen Calvary Before the world ends for many, but not for the Huasos. The auction continued; Anne still had an end-of-the-world fever, with so many degrees…. Don't worry Anne, a Mapu aboriginal boy; the one with the sinister ..., brings a good herb to improve you, it is said that he comes from less to more, with his face like a beautiful farm landscape, stream water that quiets fevers and ills of charm. Have faith, says the elder Sylph Angelita Huenuman, reborn to Anne…: “The bark of that oak will be demolished and crumbled to cover you from evil and worse evil charm. Tomorrow on the high snow-covered peak, sweet cakes will fall steamed with berries and flavored almonds in your Word, which always deserves to smile to the limit, you are the omega star stele that will know how to smile, you will see it just like your Joshua de Piedra; which is an eternal incense of ruse, you will be dressed as a coco channel between aromas of eternity like spring light and first communion, between your snowy new garland of sap and in which you are always like a web-footed dreamy bird, moving away from the Aculeo lagoon, away from the giant hermit emerging from a nucleus of water and its pool, sobbing on each step of lake light of ascending sketch and of a lagoon avoiding new despised damage "

(1)ones laughing like a dog with 2 22's
who're like 3: a whorish slightly giggling mess
3 prods the carpet by footed semblance of leather
assembling her flesh in the left corner of a lazy
rectangle cinema cube. 1nes still cackling throat
******* cords vibrating stupidly on every face              with the 2 maybe 23's

mouthhanding and eyefucking with his fat grunt syllabary. 3's uncomfortable
atthe sycophantic panting of her 23's atthis masculine discharge
wetting the silence a pulsing ***** of tongue barking *****           .     as an usher ushers fleetly our
moist intellects to the quiet little. the quiet little notch. of waiting excited
screaming visuals a screen crucified blathering.

the 1's ungiddy prance detonates by the skinnyjeaned legs pumping fetid motion. in company of long femininity. and the ovals of 3
grate swift bile at they're lump. and they swallow inthedarkness
his moronic spit. and puke  .    .                                        .

Forgotten in the lust of the moment
His memories dissipate in the warmth of her movements
Her swaying curves encompass his mind
And her heated breaths eradicate his conscience

Her whispers illustrate his inner thoughts as she bares her skin
While his hands ambitiously caress her natural self
Recalling betrayal, his grip on her vices tightly for an instant in time
As she sensually digs her lips and teeth into his neck

The lights dance with feverish passion in their ambivalent escapade
As his memories ignite into a collective blaze of clouded lies
Her voice breaks the atmosphere with a powered summoning of excitement
While the bladed steel in his back pocket speaks to him briefly

Frozen like ice, the edged iron derails his controlled contemplation
Heated like flame, her crimson lips reassuringly invite his aged soul into her dimension of hellfire
Confliction between two halves disperse the balance within his plane of existence
Differing feelings unable to become one

Failure to merge two views of life
Alongside inability to accept separation of what was once whole
Leads to an amalgam of bewilderment and hatred deep inside the darkest corners of deception
The triggered fuse detonates inappropriately with his free hand now attached to the hilt of silver

Shadowed recollections of the others' tears invoke his fury with every stab
Purest inhibitions of hidden urges shatter sustained reality with every slice
Broken trust of ill-fated bonds reverse his mentality with every gush of blood
Tainted sight of misperceived intentions annihilate his reasoning with every anguished scream of her voice

Collapsed, her distorted body lay lifeless and unrecognizable on the carpet floor of the room
Scarlet liquid of distilled life now dripping menacingly from the edges of his manifested insanity
Hazy emotions interrupt his logic as he stumbles away from the scene he attempted to avoid
While erroneously dropping the reddened murderer to the floor with a crash

am I a misfit?
the ticking clock detonates
only time will tell

I discharge ;
   a laugh without kindle
(not from the origin of tune
         and mastication)  
from an orifice of wound

a hack of mushroomy dry fleck :
the taste touches the back of the airways
  and takes to the brain in an ail

    ideas slurry
my actions blur
I fumble about my living space
my balance
        pained ears
fall to floor
      an ug at the back my throat
I laugh from all fours
    vision reddens
unhinged at the jaw
      my neck
shoulder muscles punting
my logged and leaden head lolling
   a laugh of hurt
a ******* of saliva
        detonates on the carpet
is there blood in that  ?
sickness on the verge
                 of being brutally provided

"So dramatic !"
my wife passes me a glass of fruit juice
                             and an aspirin
         preventing the transformation
                a gentle chiding

Is war coming? Are we headed for another crazy cataclysm?
My sons, draft age. Only now can I appreciate the pain
so sharp it drains the color from one's eyes, your reason
for living gone in a spasm of violence to be forgotten
never by survivors. This fear could become real as no movie
is surreal enough to distract attention from the certainty
you did not do enough to deflect man's trajectory.

All could be well in the end but history portends
a periodic bloodletting followed by a quietus
without mercy. What's the best that can be said:
he died beside his friends and buddies. Steady
on to your own inquest and rest. A perfect rest
that improves upon the inadequacy of your efforts.
What solace can be found in the remains of marriage.

So you better fight back now even if that means
war comes sooner. At least you're fighting back, but how?
Take a minute to meditate on purpose. Science
cannot save you, neither can religion. Abstaining
from violence with love, letting prisoners go, detaining
no one at the border, inviting Chinese and Russian
scientists to our shores, defusing your own anger before it detonates,

none may be enough to save your sons.
A war president needs war, whatever. A trained
and deadly warfighter. You become what history wants
you to become. You survive if you're lucky, if not
so what, your old parents will be alive only briefly to mourn.
Then they too go to their good graves and the pain dies down.
In the meantime a new generation builds a new space station.

Since the vortex will be ******* up the poor,
let's not let the rich escape untouched. All go down
together, no one hoards gold or gets away with fiction.
If we have to fight let's make sure we fight as one,
the sons of the rich side by side with the poor's sons
and their daughters. You want slaughter? Then
let every city and back road know the new order.

I would rather watch Lalaland ten times over than have
to write this poem. I can leave home and live
in a tent or bunkhouse, eat dinner out of a tin cup
and drink water from a wooden bowl, give up
music and most of my memories to save my sons,
to save the world and avoid this war.
But that rarely happens. One is lost and found in what happens.

head for
the jeeps

i'm scrambling and
crawling through
bushes over the
sand dunes

head for
the jeeps

just in front of me
a potato masher
detonates and both
the jeeps explode

head for
the jeeps and
if you don't
make it try
for the half
track on the hill

but before i
reach the half
track they've got
me surrounded

and i'm alone
with the enemy

in war there
are only winners
losers
and prisoners.

When an atom bomb detonates
First there is white light,
A truly blinding flash of god,
For miles and miles.


Then comes heat.
The center of the sun
Tens of millions of degrees
In all directions.

Then fire.
Everyone is dead, burned alive,
Within
A half mile of the blast
Yes everyone.

Every building burns
Every tree ignites
Everything is cinder crisp.

Then a 500 mile an hour wind
In all directions
Yes 500 mph.

Radiation.

This is where we are.

The civilian islanders living on Guam have only 14 minutes to flee North Korean missiles.
What will they do when the enemy birds are fired?
So few minutes to get to the shelter.
Will the shelter be enough to protect them?
Nobody will know what type warhead the missiles carry.
Not till it detonates and unleashes devastation.
Some people don’t care about the threat.
They chill out at the beach surfing or reading.
Or go to a barbeque and drink ice cold beer.
And go to a club with a pretty lady and dance close.
Who cares about a fat madman’s threats?
If he fires a single missile it will either miss or be splashed.
Then his nation will be reduced to ash and rubble.
North Korea failing to exist except only in memory.
Adding to the list of dictators and regimes that were ******* insane.
This latest one targeting Guam due to the American base

and you go all wahwah
Peanuts grownups

then fall
decomposes me
your lips always twisted
in silken wilting

just one petal adrift
detonates memorial landmines
impaling me permeable

with depthtruthfelt

hands held
for spring

She wears a necklace of *** dynamite
And love detonates the day
Conversations ignite
And honesty is spilled like water

© Matthew Goff

Lost in the clips til I was lost to this
Beside myself; come tell me what eats you
Tell me why and how
your existence was shaken

When nuclear family detonates
we are left here in ceremonial garb
with no hands to pick up the pieces

She wears a necklace of *** dynamite
And love detonates the day
Conversations ignite
And honesty is spilled like water

What sad concoctions can we table tonight?
"He said as he typed, back sore from being stacked
against wood"; inexplicable surges pay
for what is one of the last sites, but
holding own in the throat-
a part us, a part I, a cut high,
all in cool, soft as toffee-
sour fun detonates like a gust
from a passing subway car,
jolting hands slap on a turtleneck
as prudent insurance

On the TV
at the azure blue
Olympic Hockey Centre
in Deodoro,

our keeper’s
saving everything,
the Dutch careless
when faced with pressure,

the gold medal
swaying the way
of our women.
It’s the first time

I’ve paid much attention
to this stick-wielding sport
but when Webb swerves, turns,
clouts the yellow ball into the net,

I’m chuffed for us
as a cheer detonates
and there’s an ecstatic
bouncing circle of red.

he asked me why
every time i said “i love you”

the words sounded so much
like a resignation of fate
in my throat
why they fell to the ground
as lead bullets through my teeth

i tried to explain the ticking time
bomb my affections become

explain how the love i’ve known
detonates and runs for cover at the
mere suggestion there is an attack

i am scared of telling you i love you
because

love has never been kind to me

and i want to be kind to you

I.
Beckoned by the lopsided geometry of a half-empty bed
the vine-entangled walls of my imagination crumble like leaves
into the concrete waters of the present.

As awareness detonates
a rioting hailstorm of consciousness
hammers heart-echoes in rapidly diminishing waves
against the concave shores of my charred psyche.

Dawn's crisp light crawls
over the roundness of my lips,
melting moonlit memories
into teardrops that fall like icicles
from the ovals in my face.

Dipping her toes
into my fragile lake of thought,
she created a plaster cast
of the footsteps of time.

II.
Though the rigid tremors of Now
threaten to crumble the wobbling edifice of our past,
still we float together on this nostalgic life raft,
sharing air and space and memory.

Even as regret seeps
like a psychedelic river of graffiti
from our time-weary heartbeats:
still nothing is destroyed.

This solitary mountain trail
winds into the eastern sun,
yet as my sprinting feet strike the Earth
I cannot escape the panoramic view
of the towering marble columns we erected
while drunk on love's astonishing elixir.

Cocooned inside the irrepressible buoyancy
of a raging bonfire our hearts leapt skyward:
there she dipped her fingertips into the drifting clouds,
massaging a miniature portrait of the sky
onto the subtle canvas of my eyes.

We have to talk about the bomb.
The atom bomb.

I know you are not worried.
But you should be.

You don't know about the bomb.
Oh sure you're aware, sort of,
That we killed,
One hundred and fifty thousand
Japanese civilians
In a heartbeat.

Like instantly.

But those bombs were toys.
Compared to the **** we have now.

So if y-o-u have the staying power,
This is what happens.
When we drop a nuclear bomb
Over a major city.

The bomb detonates
Between 1 to 4 kilometers
Above the city.

In order to maximize death and destruction.

Yes, that's how military leaders think.
Maximum death.

First everyone on the ground
Goes blind
That's how powerful the flash is.

Then a rain of heat, millions of degrees,
Followed by fire,
Destroys everything
In a mile radius,

Like ******* everything,

People, buildings, power lines,
Police cars, the homeless
Churches, playgrounds,
Sports stadiums,
Grocery stores,'
***** houses,
Daycare centers and more.

But that's only the beginning.

Then comes the 500 m.p.h. wind
You don't know what a 500 m.p.h. can do.
So here are some thoughts.

Buildings are hurricane proofed
Up to a max of 300 mph.

Goodbye to every structure
Within the radius.

This wind will peel the pavement
Off the roads.

The rubble you walk across,
Because there isn't any city left
Will be fifty feet deep.

This all happens in seconds.
Like no ****, you could go out
And walk around
Five minutes
After the blast,
And have a ****,
Although it might be difficult
To find a coffee shop and hang.

But we are not done.

Then the fallout
Fallout is all the **** and debris and particles
Like the powdery concrete,
From a collapsed Trump Tower,
Or the ionized particle from inside the bomb
That gets swept up and
Pushed high into the sky,
The mushroom cloud,
Where it drifts whichever way
God tells it too.

And it's all radioactive.

Which means what?

Radioactive means all the little particles
En masse,
Are spitting radiation.

What the **** is radiation?

Well when you are sitting on the beach,
Watching the nearly naked, frolic and frenzy
That little sunburn you get
Is the sun radiating you.
Transferring its energy to you,
Until you look like a twizzler. ( red licorice).

And you know how sometimes
When the military is putting on a show,
And some young soldier flops over
From the heat?
That's an effect of radiation.

Nuclear bombs radiate like mother-*******.
The sun in your backyard kind of ****
But nuclear bomb radioactive particles aren't hot.
Or even warm.
They are fairies,
With
Their electrons messed up
From the explosion,
And they can ride God's wind for hundreds of miles.

And when one of those little ionized buggers
Finds you,
Goes right through your skin,
Goes through most everything
Until it whizzes by a cell,
Where it stops in,
Has a house wrecking party,
Where you lose your hair,
And everything else,
And you die,
Because all your cells get confused.
(Think cancer treatment on steroids for
a hundred miles in every direction)

So when we elect a psychopath,
Who cannot think,
Cannot reason,
Cannot project
Has neither empathy
Or sympathy,
Is uneducated,
Slow thinker,
Greedy as ****
And not very bright
He has about
2000 of these to play with.

Seriously?

Parable Hippeis above the Eared One: “Kanti; Aristocratic hussar of steeds, a native of Crete, was broken down from servants as a possession of high rank from Thessaly and Argolis. In his frontal Parasinus he ruminated his psychic frontality of not being defeated for the sole fact of being subjected prolonged in helplessness, and stating what he was not capable of winning by defeating a Hippeis when he has imperturbability prior to a master. Therefore he was assigned from the Krepis or crepidorma to the Golden or Golden number. Dividing from all other paranasal sinuses, by less than the base of the kraníon by e long and factored by Pi ( ). In the Paraseno Spheno Palatino of him; the exterior colonnade in eurythmic balance or harmony was provided in order, optical correctness and rational geometric construction with parameters of the Parthenon and spheno ganglion of ribs of the peripteral octasil, surrounding the arcades of the expiration frieze, and exhaling from Zeus the anti-seismic vibrational integuments and neighs of Hippeis, like Kanti exorbitant and convulsive. In his Maxillary Parasinus; he was subjugated in the Architrave of the lower part of the entablature that rests directly on the columns, its structure worked on its servile lintel, to transmit the weight of the roof to the columns and duplicate banalities of the pontificate of the Samarios horses of Orondel. In the parasinus Turbinate Dorsal; a Metope, occupies part of the frieze where the Doric entablature of a classical building would rest, located between two triglyphs. Like a metope decorated with bas-reliefs, in taboric cliffs of Samaria and its horses in neatness of Hippeis blood. Medium Parasinus; the Stylobate, towards the upper step on which the temple rests, forming part of the crepidoma: on a stepped platform that raises the building above the ground level to give it prominence and greater poise. As a staggered middle to the largest of the great final step towards the Koelum, which joins them in their golden edging of the Equisetum like horsetails with green blood. Of the Ventral Parasinus; In The Opisthodome, a separate space located at the back of the temple, a special vestal element is attached together with the Pronaos (or portico) and the Naos (or sanctuary). Here they take refuge for the snout of their cheeks full of Pleiades evading the hunter of Oarion, each one in decreed steeds of Crete and Samaria, that shine in the transition of the oceanic foam that runs by its naturalness in high tides, and in exalted pause erogenous temptation to an Aphroditism. And finally the super Paraseno or Chamber of Canephore, governing and ruling the priestesses of Baal with the steeds of Orondel, for the purpose of sacrificing the sacred courtesans with their hooves that they consecrated in the stylobate, which esoterically became diffuse. Pro reign in the Canephores along with the Vestals, for dichotomous fajina with Hestia between fires and bonfires that will spill from the mysteries of Eleusis.

They had their six Parasenes separated from their numen septum in other castes that super endowed the confusion that came from Samaria in the kingdom of Israel, being a Hippeis of the Elite Greek cavalry. In the farms of this region, one hundred years after the Syrian ******* in this same analogue, Kanti was assigned to openwork in the meadows for agricultural work, adhered to all the Philistine plains. Plethora of exuberance with liters of pinkish Vine before longed for by some, they tore from vine shoots by snouts and Cinnabar sulfur, already encysted in presses and battles of implicit rows of vines burnished by the thickness of their sulfurous secretion, decanting on the exuberant and grassy carpet. In Thessaly Kanti stood out with its supremacy of hydric seed that raised a surplus of rain when the low waters of the Mediterranean rocked the gargoyles on their similar steeds. In the sagittal of his hoof, below the "U" all the Hippeis of Thessaly were marked with the Vox of ππεῖς, but not those of Samaria, they planted their fourth ends on the ground of Deuteronomy; “He fell in love with his mistresses, whose flesh is like that of donkeys, whose flow is like the effusion of horses. He told himself... You longed for the lust of your youth, when Egyptians touched your breast, caressing the ******* of your youth. Continuing in this way Kanti with his chronicles warned that in his militancies and privileges they did not dig select strings of vines when he had to clear his hooves, which were made of fire and steel from Hephaestus bars by order of Etrestles, who distended his agrazones, letting him levitate towards the clouds with the sweet potatoes of their grafted plantations, that burst those esplanades in hydrometeors of tested sweat on the thick legs browsed by the song of their prayers, and thorns that broke their spiky washdown dueling in the cumulonimbus clouds that lavished care that settled before the eyes of Hippeis foremen, where the strains did not ferment like wine that has no vent and makes them burst into new skins. Thus detonates the patience of the gifted steeds of Samaria, towards some new winemakers who would receive him for a grape harvester who brought spices and olives for a new millennium.

The deposits of credibility made everything in their steeds and genetics of a millennium, to be more effective and fruitful for all that Kanti has not stepped on all the Cyclades, Dodecanese and Messolonghi at the same time as Hippeis from Thessaly, but since the optics of the Orondel; who was the duplicate of Kanti Samaritano, bearing ten times the weight that will make him bear together in tons and more than a thousand oil presses that exceed what his body mechanizes like horse power, thus being able to lighten himself in pruning of other regencies that he does not they shake or shake the branches above the tops of Zeus and his molar that neither expectorates nor pulverizes the best without his terrace. Here, where before the trees grew, they grow in the orchard on the outskirts of the town, Kanti frees all the steeds of Samaria with his gravel in his gummed hoof, mining the lands of the kings and digging up napas valued more than all the fruit-bearing heritage, more than in a fifth year along with all the seas, to make of them the ones that are in other uncircumcised as a reward for those who hide from early taming and their slender task. Those gleaned in Thessaly were from pitchforks in the same cereals that gleaned from those who stopped feeding them and assembled in a grass fable of a rustic sower and fallow farm laborers. The spikes did not fall, the Hippeis with Kanti collected them with their extremities legs in provinces of harvest dragged in sheaves and corsican censers of Epha, like a rope of gold and incense of Sheba who thus brought enlargement to Judah and praise to Yahweh. Epha describes the land where the dromedaries arrive in Israel: "A multitude of camels will cover you, the young camels of Midian and Epha." Incense in a sprigs of Bethlehem, with delicious practices inherited from Ruth reaping the barley, oats and wheat in the same stampede of the Hippeis commanded by Kanti thrashing barley, in which an Epha cultivates the Primogen Gramineae of Thessaly”

(Procorus says: "in the defeat of the Persians by the Greeks, in the naval battle of Salamis, in 480 BC, marked the beginning of the decline of the maritime trade of the Phoenicians, here the East was completely extinguished when Alexander the Great took Tyre in 332 B.C., incorporating Phenicia into the Greek Hellenistic world. All the horses that came from Thessaly were all of the lineage of Hippeis de Kanti, with germines from Samaria and Chambers of Canephores)

Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna: “In the lower and upper parts, a certain anti-demonic air carried a Kerí towards the candles of the Procorus rituals, extending the Eurydice ship that came from Rhodes. On the floor of his cell he had some Tamarisk branches such as Tarayes that vanished due to their quality when they expired at his own monk's feet to become lasting in his Oikodomeo, to raise with the Taray the essences of re-transformation of the lexeme of conventional greenness into Patmos, very deflowered in periods with high untemperances only with some secretions in which Procorus felt the re-flowering adventitious from there and then in the anemophilous advantages of the winds released from the belly in sedimentary veins of Rhodes. In its alchemical anemophilia or movement of inseminating winds, the subtle soil vanished with the force of the Sulfur Lion that derived from the Cinnabar with the Anemoi wind that impregnated the Tamarisk capsules, under the acolyte's feet. The aquifer of the water table of the subterranean waters in Patmos, remnants were scattered so that in Pro Nobis they lay of their demonologies, sponsoring Persian magics of the Lid Post-Gaugamela, with themselves in the Ex Varna with iridescences re-transfigured in the Mount Tabor. Says Procorus: “This Tamarix or Tamarisk has poured limits of our Oikodomeo, to re hold the superficial plate and reuse itself in the absorption of the burning under my feet, forcing them to readapt under the ground scorching concentrated in the Cinnabar residue, carrying the dermal prototype towards the saturated bottom of the salt larvae that prevailed in the pummeled beam of their skill, in some bundles of Tamarisk showing themselves innocuous in the imagination of the cloister suffocated right here by some Chaldean tribes, who felt like the illusionist stand of Ex Varna” . In the compaction of this epic hyper-fantasy, his urge was born from the consecration of the Gift of interpreting the subtlety of two-dimensional variety that would appear up to this moment, beneath the layers that were contaminated out of nowhere by the mere fact of the whim of the augur momentum, which finally it is restricted in the morphism of the Katapausis and chamber of San Juan Apóstol, finally supported by layers and blankets of subterranean aqueous filters towards a restructuring of the plane of Euclid, and towards the vicinity of plantar pedestrian zones of Procorus that were already three-dimensional in the construction of the Oikodome, for the foundation of the Náos or temple, which would go crazy when the Hexagonal Progeniture arrived to build the Vernarthian temple with gifts of multi-construction purgatory for the Oikos in Dwelling of the social unit of Aquarius or Aqua spirits that are terminates at the end of Capricorn dehorned. In mutual edifying peace between both zodiacal proximities of the Oikodomé, here every day specters purged and rubbed in the archetype of the Megaron that was intended to beoblations and in votive links in the massages that the manes of the Vernarthian universe gave them in their spiritual mortar, reconverted in their eternal brawl for living in the friction and brown partitions of the bloodless Megaron to inaugurate it as a solid bastion, in the weak regions of the Hetairoi that cellularly, it snatches energized vitality from their extremities, with total imbalance and wheezy guards maneuvered on their feet, dragging themselves towards the karmic Saetas de Velos Toxeumas and unharmed Dorus. But feverish and threatening their integrity when they were falling and plundering the Euclidean edge, opening up from the designs of the Hellenic palfrey, becoming parametric of Kanti's paranasals and spatiality that would surround the Parthenon of Fidas, with Ikríomas or scaffolding that made them collapse from their coordinates with Mamdilaria and Agiogitiko wine baths on the Vernarthian body between the column of the Sabines and Greek colonies of Lacedaemonians from the 4th century BC. C., already entwined in borders of synchronicity from the Erechtheion, falling from the Caelum, close to all his teachers who helped him install the final tiles of the temple, next to them intoxicated with Nepenthe, by intense vine rain stómas in the silent afternoon of the Inter-Cosmos of Athena, sending them the poison of Velos Toxeumas, a priori… and before attacking any skin that wants to revive itself in the inoculated Vernarthian dreams.

(Procorus, manifested himself solid in his loneliness when seeing that Lacedaemonians and beings of the night accompanied him, in contrast to the dark light that allowed him with a single candlestick to expand more inaccessible in the semi-glyphs in the grooves of the Megaron that shone synarchically in the plans of the new Monastery of Saint John the Theologian) ..

Parabola Megarón Dódeka Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin and acroballistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and six Para Senos appeared, who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling to the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes in twelve Swords that were multiplied in advance by thousands before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant dimensions and virtual foundation lines, acrostics of steeds from Thessaly on their palfrey mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve wings of cuirasses with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was strung in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands they carried the curved saber Szabla, to cover up the unspoken target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical enemy-unknown but outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed in the impetus of deadly resistance of the betrayed ancestry. The roof that pointed to the south west reflected the light of Orion by aerial forms of the Aegean choir, riding on the high seas with Votive offerings or offerings of Cyclamines and Red Poppies, hovering in majesty in their nomadic obtuse compass of Rhapsodas coffering epic elegies of the Megaron and of those revived venerable triumphs that stretched out on the banner of glory and bed of epiphany. Rhapsode proclaims thus: "In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags in our steppes harassing their moan in blood wars, framed in large sections on the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk.” How much is there to get fed up in the Polish cavalry of the 17th century, that upon glimpsing the barbarous sounds of the temple that approached them to the altar of the Virtual Megaron, showing off in acquiescent ceremonial and counter-revolution of lifeless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortal-living who posed in the rear of twelve thousand officers slain in the Forest of Katyn, such gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here in this place the puffed winged horsemen went by destiny when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions they galloped on their heads sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with Lion and Tiger breastplates with retracted claws. Procorus, observed in the virtuous imagery as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron in bullet-ridden super-existence and a trance of historic architectural dread. Here on a Patmian soil, each one of the officers was aided by each 17th century Polish cuirassier with ferocious wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there of their resemblance, with misty discrepant blood interwoven, executing on apocryphal witnesses who covered themselves with your looks, of overflowing evasion and truce of bodies stained with mourning and despair, with blankets of red poppies scattered adjoining a naive unarmed forest. Over exalted memorandums and secret cries of Adrastea procreating their kind with the nymphs, they drowned out the cries of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing in their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of rotten hopes, of those who hit them from behind, in analogous vexation to heroes of Katyn. Here neither Cronos nor Mother Rhea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for behind their backs, from venting them from the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head as twelve thousand Winged Riders are caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed in the waist of his head, not being expired by ammunition but rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors, who would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies. “The red and steamy cendal of the forest carried the souls of the Hussars to pass them through the sabers of their compatriots, before they were immolated by the Soviets, so their apostolic souls will be catechized by Zsablas of dyed airs of Red Poppies converted into air of respite from the heroes of the Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden Winged Riders of the 17th century”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard, differed in the volatile and explosive metal sabers at the present time that were extinguished in their crooked armor and in Polish beings, in a rear that finally Procorus settled them in urdes of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies flanked by his forehead before being shot from the cortex and occipital lobe, forging into golden sabers and cenobitic transvestites who received them in arms in the sublime stench of effluvium of their blood and hosts, never left and desisted from bubbling by the figures of the acrotera near the Megarón, ditto in the same Forest of Katyn, surrounded in a string of Rosary that dazzled in Procorus prohijando them)

Parable Fourteen Donítikos: “fourteen vibrations were polarized in the enthronement of Vernarth towards his brother Etréstles, making filial gradation in possible anti-filial conception of worship and death in who is suspended from one to the other under the condemnatory rhythm of past lives. It is typical of the facsimile of his own genetic shadow Cain-Abel, but of geomorphological gradation and time-space, which finally brings them together as blood relatives of the same Orbis Alius trunk. Dismissing by not accessing a vibrational anti-Asur (as a healthy creative mind in Genesis) as an energy that manages to restructure itself in any homologous way in the world of Asur as the son of Shem in Genesis..., as comparative and intergenerational mythology , enlivening socio-parental metaphors, pronouncing in cohesion and enchantment what happens in another similarity of gender or Mental field, staging the probability of a mental Sun that dies in a Super Man, and this comes to free us from the ties of existence and plane terrestrial not reflected of immanent and instance of Eon, in geological and sidereal lives. The scrolls of this semi-myth, is subsequent to hanging scrolls on the will of us existed for thousands of years linked to links and human characteristics of knowledge through professed and comparative feeling. Compensation of material distemper between the anti-pivot and life between both refers to the simultaneous undividedness of each specification as a phenomenon lacking hearing in winter and inclement periods. Here the outburst of retro involutions becomes cloistered in Menatira, daughter of Cránae, Queen of Eleusis Pro Eleusis tally fuzzy from the convulsing breath of both through the steppe of silence, both of them. Dodecahedron on an octagon in each one for each one that was interpolated in each area when Demeter was looking for his first-born Persephone.

“Etréstles metamorphosed, so that Metanira reunited them with the sub-mythology of their destinies and the preconception of the elucubrar of a final breaking of the abstract spell, which was mixed with the element of vehemence in their irascibility to wait for a next season in fourteen toasts followed by Ouzo, and goods with intact and distant deities in oscillation of life-maturity, making it after the eleventh Ouzo in determinism of autonomous eternal substances of the ritual of Elusis, appreciable power and coarseness of the one who has to compensate for the one who has everything and the that will never have it. (Eternal Life Spell)”

a) Abundance of rain of red blood cells, in quotation marks of the legacy of Bios as all deprivation of life file, rather for those who yearn for it between a physical trifle alibi...

b) Psujé for Vernarth, “For whoever wants to save the life of his soul, he will lose it”. But he will restore it if he is saved by divine psychology muscle."

c) Zoé, “radiosity and refraction of etherization and physicality, more than a biological physical body re-transformed into purging from the superior to the inferior multi-created, but in a Jesuit adjective and sphere of consequent concatenation towards the plane of the

Mashiaj as holistic of the human cave ecstasy, in inflexible marriage between heaven and earth Ad Aeternum”

(Procorus, auto-irrigated red blood cells, to deliver them both, and relevel the levels of red blood cells of the Mashiach's divine blood, which expected to be refounded in both brothers of the Vibrational in Fourteen Donítikos or Hellenic Vibrations, with the initial D in the lower left ear and the S in the upper right of the vibrational field of the Tinnitus of God, with their ears placed in their hands, take them by their ossicle and from them in the curvilinear dawn that vibrates in what He only wants to do to them Dodeká).

lightning strikes
thunder detonates
the rain soothes

They argue it doesn't really matter;
A minor lie,
And a slight distortion—
Until the moment arrives when darkness
Consumes your mind and detonates,
Leaving your body lifeless
As it crumples in a gradual descent.

She wears a necklace of *** dynamite
And love detonates the day
Conversations ignite
And honesty is spilled like water
©

Away on deployment
The dirt for a bed
A young 11 Bravo
Lays down his bald head
The birds in the sky
patrol where he lay
The young Airborne Ranger
survived one more day.
The bad guys are crawling,
they’re reaching the wire
But our Airborne Ranger,
he meets them with fire.
He detonates claymores,
He fires his M-4
The bad guys retreat,
They want it no more.
The Rangers pursue
and mow them down
They kick down doors
throughout the small town
Not one of the terrorists
greets the next day
The Airborne Rangers made them pay.

He doesn't know if you can hear him,
doesn't know if he wants to be heard.
Can you see him?
He's right there. Right there in the chasm that used to be a forest, now
-
a crater
-
what remains after something detonates.
He isn't an explosion.
He's the dust that comes after,
the left-overs after everything living
evacuates.

the Ashes no longer burning.
Don't look too close. He doesn't want to be seen.

I Am the Evidence: Part 2 Imagine for a moment a quaint gas station wedged within the fold of a small town, where the sun spills its golden rays over gravel roads and community gatherings happen in the heartbeat of the local diner. This gas station, however, is without something crucial—a liquor license. In a bustling city, such a situation might seem trivial, but in our sleepy little town, it would lead one to assume that the business would languish. Yet, this perception shatters under the weight of a shocking reality. An oil truck rumbles in once a week to deliver more than just standard supplies needed for keeping the pumps running. The truck’s purpose seems straightforward enough on the surface, but inquiries beneath the veneer reveal a sinister tapestry woven with danger and deceit. As the delivery occurs, an unseen inner working of the community churns—a narrative of silence among the adults who surround this gas station, completely oblivious to what is really being transported. Enter Jacqueline Reyes, a woman whose life took a harrowing turn after a brutal assault at Fort Jacksonville in 2004. Following her assault, she was wrongfully claimed as property by government entities that sought to erase her existence. They faked her death multiple times, manipulating records and even using green-screen technology to obscure her family's view of her reality. In their place, they created a false narrative—one that allowed them to control her life while leaving her family in anguish and confusion. For years, Jacqueline endured this torment, trapped in an environment designed to break her spirit. The traffickers controlled every aspect of her life—when she ate, where she slept, and how she interacted with others. Each day blurred into the next as she struggled to survive in an existence marked by fear and despair. But hope flickered within her. After years of suffering, Jacqueline found an opportunity to escape when law enforcement conducted a raid on one of the locations where she was held captive. With newfound courage, she stepped forward to tell her story—a story that mirrored those highlighted in Mariska Hargitay's documentary "I Am Evidence," which sheds light on systemic failures that allow such atrocities to persist. Jacqueline's determination to expose these hidden crimes ignites conversations among residents who had previously turned a blind eye. She organizes community meetings where people share their stories—stories like hers and others lost to addiction or exploitation. In these meetings, Jacqueline emphasizes that “I am the evidence” must resonate within each individual. As she navigates this treacherous terrain, Jacqueline faces threats from those who wish to maintain their grip on power. Yet her resilience strengthens as she finds allies among other survivors and concerned citizens willing to confront their fears and demand accountability. Her journey becomes central to Jacqueline's narrative; through her story of survival against unimaginable odds, she inspires others to speak out against injustice. She shares how she was manipulated and controlled before finally escaping her captors with help from local authorities—a harrowing tale that underscores the urgent need for awareness and action within their community. The essence of recognizing oneself as evidence is not merely personal; it acts as a rallying cry toward collective awareness. Each encounter with troubling realities becomes an opportunity to be part of a narrative enforcing societal change. Those compelled to act contribute to momentum powerful enough to shift the current onto a new trajectory. As chapters unfold, there is both trepidation and hope intertwined. Behind every closed door lies potential for transformation and healing. Residents must awaken to that possibility and cherish it. By facing uncomfortable truths together, they harness accountability's potency to dismantle systems thriving in obscurity. Jacqueline Reyes stands at the forefront of this movement—her courage illuminating paths toward justice and safety for all members of her community. Inspired by stories like hers and those highlighted in "I Am Evidence," she becomes not just an observer but an active participant in reshaping her town’s narrative—a beacon for those seeking truth amidst darkness. Let this story ring out loud and clear: in the face of systemic darkness, we are all evidence of light breaking through. In our shared humanity lies unmatched power to reclaim authority over accusations, safeguard those who cannot shield themselves, and shatter societal illusions that shield injustice from sight. This awakening is possible—and it is happening now. This version presents Jacqueline Reyes as a survivor whose identity was manipulated by governmental forces after her assault, emphasizing themes of resilience, betrayal, and advocacy against systemic injustices related to human trafficking.
(Verse 1)

I’m burning bridges, watch 'em blaze,

Every heartbeat’s a grenade,

You thought you held me down, you stray,

I rise like smoke, then I sway.

So love me, like your everything,

Castles built on diamond rings,

But now they crumble, just like dreams,

Phantoms whisper, tearing at the seams.
(Chorus)

You know they wear my face, no disguise,

Those reflections are truth in the lies.

So do the Peter Panda dance,

Mock the shadows; take that chance!

I don’t care if you’re lost in the fray,

Follow my voice; I’ll lead the way.
(Verse 2)

I left you a nuke, detonates in your head,

Every thought a bomb, make you feel dread.

Not one heartbeat here feels alive,

Just a guilty conscience; no way to survive.

At Jacob's ladder, I light the fire,

Trust in me or face your desire.

You think you’ve won, but it’s just the start,

I’ll carve my name deep within your heart.
(Chorus)

You know they wear my face, no disguise,

Those reflections are truth in the lies.

So do the Peter Panda dance,

Mock the shadows; take that chance!

I don’t care if you’re lost in the fray,

Follow my voice; I’ll lead the way.
(Bridge)

Tick-tock, time’s a weapon,

No second chances for your missteps and,

I’m the storm raging in your calm,

A haunting melody, a siren's charm.

With every beat, you’ll feel the pulse,

Echoes of power, let it convulse.
(Verse 3)

Faces twist in the neon light,

Memory chasers in the dead of night.

Colors clash where we used to roam,

But in the chaos, I found my home.

You think you know me? Think again,

I’m the truth shining through your pen,

So love me now, while the world’s in flames,

‘Cause in this game, I forget your names.
(Chorus)

You know they wear my face, no disguise,

Those reflections are truth in the lies.

So do the Peter Panda dance,

Mock the shadows; take that chance!

I don’t care if you’re lost in the fray,

Follow my voice; I’ll lead the way.
(Outro)

So dance with me on the edge of fate,

In the beat of the night, we’ll find our state.

With every step, we break the mold,

In this story of fire, we are bold.

So love me, ‘cause I'm more than a ghost,

In the echo of chaos, I’m the one you’ll boast.

The sipping point has arrived
I am increased and resupplied
in this fortification so languid
and dark and insinuating

Poured into this dress curved
hard by this   unexploded  mine
ther e is no predicate to this awareness
sipping against when

my imagination detonates'sss
again things i've been leave the stage
unattractively so everyo ne knows
I want them to think it was

But Holmes, I'm afraid that we'll never get to the palace fast enough in this cab. Ah, fear not Watson for I have dropped tiny explosive bombs down the cabby's trousers; as each bomb detonates the cabby will be compelled to whip the horses with more vigor, thereby increasing the wagon's speed. Brilliant Holmes, brilliant.

its how the day starts
its how the night ends
its how the little slice
of nothing 'tween
all the somethings
detonates
in my side

that's when
You come to mind

you come to mind
all the time

its how i listen
its how i hope

i give you endless rope
nope

nope nope nope
okay
you
okay

Manifesto of the Spirit-Poet

I’m no lyricist. I’m a strike.
Not a singer of illusions — a destroyer of them.
My verse is no adornment — it’s a weapon.
My rhythms are the Spirit’s footsteps on the flesh of lies.
Rhyme is not my chain — it's my blade,
and form is a flash of truth tearing through the veil of deceit.

I don’t seek the Light —
I awaken it within each word.
I don’t fear the Dark —
I expose it down to its final shadow.

The world is soaked in falsehood —
and I answer with poetry,
a reboot of Consciousness,
a purge of the Ego-virus,
a thunder-roar of Spirit
ripping the illusion’s fabric apart.

I am the Poet who speaks for the Source.
Sarcasm is my shield. Fury, my flame.
Metaphysics, my path.
Each line — a strike.
Each image — a challenge.

“Write as if Spirit dictates.
Strike as if each syllable holds the final truth.”



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



STRIKE WITH SPIRIT.
RHYTHM IS A WEAPON.
TRUTH DOESN’T RHYME — IT DETONATES.
BURN THE LIES.
SPEAK FOR THE SOURCE.



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



SPIRIT — HAS RISEN.
MIND — ON TRIAL.
RHYME — A GRENADE.
VERSE — AN OFFENSIVE.
EGO — ERASED.
TRUTH — IN FLAMES.
WORD — A WEAPON OF THE SOURCE.



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



SPIRIT… has RISEN.
MIND… is on TRIAL.
RHYME — is a GRENADE.
VERSE — an OFFENSIVE.
EGO… ERASED.
TRUTH — IN FLAMES.
WORD… is a WEAPON… of the SOURCE.



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



Word — as Explosion

Don’t scream — strike.
Don’t beg — ignite.
You came not to soothe souls,
but to shatter the hooks.

You're not blind. You’re the Eye of Flame,
piercing through the dark.
You are the Herald of the Primordial —
your verse pulls spirits out of the mark.

Time has rotted. The world decays.
Truth is lined up for the shot.
Then you are the final shard of fire
that won’t cool down — but cuts.

You're not a poet. You are the Blast.
Your word — sharp as blade's edge.
Let the Spirit whisper —
but you must roar on Its behalf.

Wake the ones who’ve lost the Source.
Open fire on the Lie.
If you’ve accepted the Word —
strike with it until the world cries.



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



The Prize Draw at the Worldwide Corporation "Horns & Hooves"

A hoof’s the prize —
Sheep stay fat and safe,
And so-called wolves —
Teeth just on the shelf.

We’ll scare with horns.
Fools can rule
By lies as well —
That’s always easy.

Bones instead of meat,
Dancing’s in full swing.
This is Vita’s dance,
When the Soul’s been killed.

Bones, dance, and howls —
If media triples,
We’ll **** all Souls —
Everyone will listen.

Draw little horns:
Fear — urgent care!
And finish off with a HOOF,
Hidden in Satan’s lair.

Satanism is everywhere —
“Normal” for Judas.
Shown with CowID,
Earlier with “AIDS.”

Satan’s own nature,
So soon there’ll be
A World Concentration Camp —
Red cross on the flag.

Power in Hooves’ world,
If the Soul is dead —
The mark of Satan.
Too late to cry, “kids.”

World Concentration Camp,
Red cross on the flag,
Will be destroyed,
Satan overthrown.

Those who surrendered,
Who fought no Dark,
The same fate awaits —
For their ****** ways.



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



Horns and Hooves rule —
Souls killed, lies fuel.
Fear’s the game, Satan’s flame —
Fight or burn in shame.



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



The Fall

This is no life — it’s a fall into the Abyss,
Consciousness’s content — delirium, mist.
If you look soberly — impartial, unkissed —
The whole of Hell laid bare in its midst.

Falling, you grasp for some shield,
Anything to cling to, your fate to wield.
Here comes the madness, beaten and sealed,
Forced on all since birth — a poisoned field.

That madness turns most into drones,
Only few escape its crushing tones.
Yet madness promises the easy roads —
Just bow to Evil, and Lies as your codes.

If falling you clutch an illusion’s crystal,
Born from delirium — a fragile thistle.
You sink in the filth through terror’s whistle —
Lost in the muck, a vanished missile.

Delirium’s rings expand, swell,
You become the fool who’ll believe and fell.
Bend to Evil, break, rebel —
A twisted beast in the devil’s hell.

Delirious lies take your whole life,
If caught — your Soul castrated, rife
With stinking slime, no end to the strife,
Madness piles up — no healing knife.

The world’s long turned into a Lost Asylum,
And crushing Consciousness is the main anthem.
But soullessness — a more favored system,
For inhuman beasts that poison the prism.

They poison Consciousness and the Soul,
Control’s method to make you whole.
Listen only to total lies’ toll —
We’ll **** you with falsehood’s role.

There’s a fake virus, a war-game grim,
Rotten **** will starve the world’s limb,
If lost to delirium and lies’ dim,
If the Spirit’s connection is broken, slim.

Fear and delirium feed soulless hordes,
Their tool is flow, their spreading cords.
Darkness is also the means and swords —
The junk here has no limits or boards.

This world is no place for the wise,
Find means to save — the truth’s disguise.
Face the lies — don’t live in lies,
Stop deceiving yourself, break the ties.

False hope is part of delirium’s blend,
This poem’s scene, this bitter end.
You’re trapped in mad chaos, no pretend —
Only Spirit can save, only God defend.

Spirit Inside. Stop believing the tales,
Of “messiahs” and all their sales.
If Spirit in people dies and pales —
All is lost forever in shadowy vales.

Reject ALL. Go Within. Find the light,
A cure from madness, the spirit’s fight.
Our song’s unsung, still bright in the night —
Wake from DELIRIUM — reclaim your sight!

You are Spiritual Essence — the true fact,
All else is forced nonsense — that’s the pact.
Start only there. Pure awareness intact —
Follow it close... no turning back.



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



Fall’s abyss is madness’ grip —
Spirit wakes — or soul will slip.
Lies bind tight, but break the chain —
Rise within, escape the pain!



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



Intensity

The main thing in life — extreme intensity:
Burn yourself up with no mercy or rest.
Or wild waves of lies and insanity
Will swallow your mind — your soul dispossessed.

You must seek the path of salvation,
Sharpen your mind, stay alert and alive.
It’s hard, but only dedication
Leads to Freedom — or doom will arrive.

Worldwide fascism breeds all the pain,
Building a camp — now global and cold.
Sadism dressed up as care’s insane,
You must fight back — be fearless and bold.

Don’t fear — you’re already dead inside,
No future awaits in this cattle’s hell.
Though sick of the lies and the tide,
Fight and toil — prepare for the swell.

Only through struggle can you save your soul —
No other way remains in this fight.
Never bow to the wicked fate’s toll,
Honor above all is the guiding light.

Find comrades for the battle ahead —
Only united can we stand tall.
No fate as slaves — black fascism’s dread
Hangs heavy, ready to make us fall.

Drive away the chaos from your mind —
Since childhood, nonsense was sown.
Pseudoscience blinds, reason confined,
Worldviews rotten, the root of the throne.

Only in Spirit can life go on —
Everything else is a hollow lie.
The sun burns the foul world’s dark dawn —
Darkness in minds where soullessness lies.

Strengthen your Spirit — all else is decay.
Don’t cling to shame’s valley of night.
Soon you’ll escape the vile chains’ sway —
To the realm of Spirit, Reason, and Might.



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



Burn yourself or be consumed —
Fight fascism’s darkened tomb.
Spirit strong — break every chain,
Freedom’s fire will rise again!



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



Pain

Pain’s an indicator —
A sign of the lies.
Where fascist dictators
Spread endless disguise.

If you feel pain —
Then you’re still alive,
Breathing free air
In Hell’s cruel dive.

Pain is a reward —
Proof you have mind.
This “life” adored
By **** of a kind.

Only suffering
Is the soul’s share.
In hardness and early despair,
All here are aware.

Without shudders to bear,
To see Hell’s whole sight,
Only piranhas dare —
Death’s circle of blight.

Death of Mind and Conscience,
Honor and Soul.
No sadder existence —
Not human, but lice’s role.

Worship your pain,
Strengthen your mind:
If you want Freedom —
Grief you must find.

If your mind’s strong,
You won’t stray or bend,
In a world blind,
Where lies ascend.

Only a few
Break free from the rest.
They’re like birds —
Falling, distressed.

No swallows survive.
Sun soars above —
The vow must arrive:
Burn all the mud.

Mud of folly,
Stench of fascist schemes —
In this dreadful world,
Fascism reigns supreme.

There’ll be much pain —
To cleanse the Spirit’s core,
Strength where only Will remains —
No slaves, no more.



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



Pain wakes the mind — don’t ever yield!
Fight the fascist shadow’s field.
Spirit burns through darkest night,
Freedom’s born in furious fight!



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



Human Undermachinery

A few crude, simple elements
Determin  this wretched world we see.
Clear in flashes of enlightenment —
And only God in such decree.

The core are ideas and images
That shape the social "life" we know.
Hell’s blueprint spreads across all stages,
Or madhouse deep where fools still grow.

The key is "You are only flesh":
Stoke fear, and hold the world in hand.
Filthy beasts have long enmeshed,
And turned the world to shooting stand.

Images barren, thoughts so trite,
Associations dumb and cheap.
But restless minds can’t sleep at night —
Beasts wage war that’s dark and deep.

Primitive thoughts like broken reels
Spin in skulls, a loop so tight.
King workaholic steals our zeal,
Fleeing horror’s endless blight.

Occupy yourself with filth —
So not to think beyond the "measures,"
Marked by vile worms’ own will —
Pioneers set as children’s treasures.

Aged children — Hell’s scouts march in rows —
As always, to slaughter’s song.
Beasts make you foul and full of woes
With "school," with "work," and TV’s wrong.

Deadliest weapon in the stand —
Strikes down all obedient “kids.”
Only lies and baseless slander
Come from these devils’ bids.

Here truth’s scarce, just empty thought,
Fragments wild in kaleidoscope.
Madness steers those vile, distraught —
Leading souls to death’s tight rope.

Schizophrenia, dumbed-down state,
Produced in constant endless stream.
Poisoned food accelerates fate —
Decay unfolds within the scheme.

Pseudoscience crafts the “fake world” frame,
Scoundrels work their tricks anew.
From this hellhole spirit’s drained,
The world a cesspit’s ugly view.

Fake religions made for fools,
Utter nonsense, shame for mind.
“Official” chains for Spirit’s tools —
Spirit’s death so cruelly signed.

Lies prevail, they call it “progress,”
Stoking falsehoods with mad applause.
This Hell’s no “soul’s test” or process —
Few withstand its brutal laws.

“Smart” folks busy fixing trash,
Lies they shuffle day and night.
Beasts shift blame in sneaky flash,
Pointing “enemies” in fight.

Beasts rule through division’s art,
Crafting enemies on demand.
Their goal is Spirit’s fall apart,
If so — destruction looms the land.

So break free from this mad wheel,
Seek truth inside at first, take flight.
Only with truth can wounds heal —
The fight ahead calls for might.

Enemy’s beast — find ways to fight,
Eradicate their vile blight.
If all in Spirit, all aligned —
Strengthen Spirit — save mankind.



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



Science Madness

The stubborn scorn they cast to mock
Life’s riddles deep and vast —
Is sieve that filters out the fake,
The “science” lies amassed.

In name of “saving reason’s light,”
They smother what’s beyond,
That irrational, the bright
Spirit they abscond.

Their arguments run wild and blind,
Where miracles should rise —
Not petty things, but grand designs
They choose to compromise.

There’re many proofs, but here’s the crux:
The mind so poor and blind
Believes the lies and empty talks
That fakery designed.

Only the mind accepts the tales
Of “theories” bought and sold,
From pseudo-science packs and scales —
Their filthy lies unfold.

Those lies reject the Spirit pure,
The Truth, the Soul’s bright spark,
Their master is a hornèd fiend
That thrives in shadows dark.

The lord of vice and corrupter,
False science bows and prays
To Satan’s priest — the tempter
Who kills with “science’s” ways.

Take CowID — the world’s dumb trap,
A pen for blind control,
No doubt — the lie’s a brutal slap,
That crushes heart and soul.

“Scientific” freaks and evil shills
Will wreak more pain ahead,
If Spirit’s gone — then lies and kills
Will rule the living dead.

Erasing Spirit, that’s the game,
“Science” works to deceive,
And all this mess is no mere shame —
Designed to make you grieve.

Life’s mystery, once bright and bold,
Now drowned in fear and slime,
The filth that turned pure gold to cold —
A darkness out of time.

And those who hold God’s sacred spark
Are turned to sluggish slime,
All dull and grey, crushed in the dark —
The end of Light’s bright climb.

The attack of false science falls,
Relentless, sharp, and grim,
These traitors sell us to the walls —
But justice will be grim.

Balance will come, the mind will serve
The Soul in rightful reign,
And madness masked as science’s nerve
Will vanish, lost in pain.



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



Science Lies, Spirit Fights!

Madness cloaked in “science” lies,
Darkness hides behind their guise.
Erasing soul with poisoned breath —
But Spirit strikes, defies death!

False priests sell doom and pain,
But truth will rise — break every chain!
No more fools in shadow’s grip —
Science lies — we’ll make it slip!



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



Demos and the Rest

Demos’ dull and tiresome chore —
To bear the filth that reigns around.
Be brave here once — they’ll beat you sore,
No mercy in this cursed ground.

The **** bow down with empty lies,
Brains clogged with poison, rotten dreams,
Souls and minds decay, despise —
Demos sees no light, it seems.

It feeds on mirages, the haze
That beasts around this hellish place.
The honest soul, with truth ablaze,
Meets rotten fools face to face.

These fools are shackled in the mist,
Like chains that bind their every thought.
The snitches thrive, their goals persist —
A spirit’s death is what they sought.

To crush the soul and break the will,
To make a slave who blindly moves
Deeper into Hell’s dark chill —
A New Hell’s path the weak mind proves.

If you believe you’re not in Hell,
Though rotten slow, you waste away.
Here lies on lies forever dwell —
In “official” lies they stay.

Schools churn out the stupid flock,
From childhood drained of strength and light.
Chains of reason, broken lock —
Souls trampled under crushing might.

Here they destroy both mind and soul,
No longer human, just like lice.
Only few with spirits whole,
Melt as reason pays the price.

Wake up! It’s not a dream you see —
Beasts walk free on every side.
Mystics learn to silently be,
Then face the crowd with fear defied.

Dead souls gather, graveyard’s guests,
But restless still, they prowl and feed.
A pasture’s harvest for the pests —
They drain the spirit, **** the seed.

Just pets or cattle, low and poor,
Not noble breeds but broken lot.
Shut Hell’s door tight, or it will more
Destroy you, tie your final knot.

Walk into Spirit’s stronghold bright —
Only there is true escape.
Waiting here is futile fight —
God won’t come to this dead shape.

Those few who dare, create anew,
Become the Makers of their fate.
No more decay beneath the ***** —
Killers of Spirit and Mind, abate.



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



Demos' Hell

Demos grovels, blind and dumb,
Beaten down for standing tough.
Lies enslave, the spirits numb,
Hell’s the game — the world’s enough.

**** control with chains of lies,
**** the soul, destroy the mind.
Only few will dare to rise,
Break the cage — leave death behind.

Spirit’s fortress is the key,
Hell won’t hold the brave and free.
Make the Makers — you and me,
Strike the chains, be destiny.



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



Survival

A psychovirus was made to fight
All other techs in one great race,
Claiming it can bring to light
Survival for the human race.

Its strength — the clearest truth it brings,
No mystic haze, no empty dreams,
Success in life by solid means,
Without illusions’ false extremes.

But memes themselves evolve and shift,
Like whispers in a broken phone,
Distorted, lost, they slowly drift
From seeds of truth to lies alone.

For marketing and selling schemes,
Evolution picks the memes
That’re simple, clear, and easy spread —
Complex ideas left for dead.

The goal is survival, pure and grim,
Through breeding those who bow and bend.
A contest where the world grows dim,
With garbage fed into the blend.

To dumb the herd, the soul expelled,
Nonhumans crave this poisoned feed.
A monster kept, obedient, quelled,
To feed and follow their dark creed.

Memes become a psychovirus —
Devouring minds, the spirit’s bane.
Chaos spreads like a deadly virus,
Driving madmen into insane.

The hordes of freaks make vile their trade,
Turning sane to beasts who feed
At the trough, all lined and made
To march in step with hate and greed.

To **** with lies is cheap and swift —
See false pandemics in their grip.
Each pioneer, a puppet’s gift,
Who trusts the screen’s hypnotic script.

They drone to believe and obey,
The nonhumans take their toll.
Poisons jabbed to dull the way,
Memes crush reason, crush the soul.

Invent the problem, fan the fear,
Spread the lies, let terror grow.
Battle memes will hunt and sneer,
Making all into the low.

Primitives rule where reason fades,
Smart minds drown in foul disdain.
Into hell’s broad flood, it wades —
A world consumed by endless pain.

Hell for mind and soul is this,
A global shatter, grim decay.
Corrupt ****** scream their psychovirus,
Till the light is swept away.

The point of no return is passed,
Fascists drag the world in filth.
A putrid fate, held fast and cast,
The planet drowned in ruin’s wilt.

But those who do not yield or fall,
Whose spirits fight against the night,
Will face the fiery solar squall —
The blazing storm that burns to light.



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



Survival War Cry

Psychovirus spreads its plague —
Brains corroded, spirits crushed.
Lies enslave, no soul to save —
Mind and heart in ashes flushed.

Feed the herd with poison memes,
Dumbed to death by fear and lies.
Fake wars, false cries, broken dreams —
Truth suffocates, hope dies.

No escape from this abyss,
Fascist filth drags all below.
But the few who still resist —
Face the fire, strike the blow.

Burn it down, unleash the storm,
Solar flames to cleanse the night.
Fight for mind, for spirit’s form —
Rise, revolt, reclaim the light!



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



Bio-Waste

Trash dwells only in the mind,
Fear’s the poison in the soul.
Food and shelter—things confined,
All the rest just ashes, cold.

From their childhood, lies are sown,
Faith without a border’s chain.
Passed down ways to fall alone,
Knees bowed deep in blind disdain.

Only teaching to obey,
Spirit lost, forgotten flame.
Few are wise—kept at bay,
They await the Morning’s Name.

But the fiends will always come,
Monsters ruling, cold and cruel.
Wandering in webs they spun,
Lies their trade, the greatest tool.

“How long can we believe and sleep?”—
Not for them these questions ring.
Like wild beasts, their souls run deep—
To the godless void they cling.

Bio-waste, shout down the drain,
Taste is all that they proclaim.
One command their minds obey,
Sharper than a mouse’s way—
A slimy earthbound thing.

Rats run faster in the dark,
Not where warmth pretends to be.
Trash is told it’s crowning spark—
Lucifer’s vile mockery.

Only **** bows down in shame,
Wretched fools for kids to see.
Money bags and Judas’ name,
“Powers” roosting—chickens, free.

Factories built just to burn
Trash that’s fed by lies’ flood.
Poisoned needles twist and turn—
Killing trash, or so they’d hood.

Trash is “curable,” they say,
Cowards take the lethal jab.
Less than fascist’s vile sway—
Treading earth with cruelest stab.

Between the wars of fire and hate,
Chosen swine with eyes wide shut.
Syringes feed their ****** fate,
Stirring filth—corrupt and cut.

Neighbors—liar doctors, thugs,
***** cops who play their game.
No “experiment” can scrub
This vile, festering shame.

Such is trash, such are these days,
How much filth has piled high?
Hell itself—its cruel haze,
Burn it all beneath the sky.

If this hell’s the only way—
Then destroy, destroy it all.
From fascist beasts we’ll save the day,
And watch the wicked fall.

That’s why the Sun shines burning bright,
Scorching down to bitter core,
Wiping out this cursed blight—
Hell’s vile poison evermore.



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



Bio-Waste

Trash lives only in the mind,
Fear corrodes the fragile soul.
Food and shelter—chains that bind,
Everything else burns to coal.

Lies implanted from the start,
Faith without a single line.
Teaching how to fall apart,
Bow your head, obey, decline.

Only slaves they want to breed,
Spirit crushed beneath their heel.
Few resist this poison seed,
Waiting for a dawn unreal.

Monsters rule this cursed land,
Fiends that lie to keep control.
Spinning webs with filthy hands,
Feeding lies to **** the soul.

“How long will fools believe the lies?”—
Not for them these words to ask.
Like dumb beasts with glassy eyes,
In the darkness wear their mask.

Bio-waste—flush down the drain,
Taste and **** define their game.
Sharp as vermin’s biting bane,
Crawling things with no shame.

Rats run from the warming light,
Not where comfort feigns to be.
Trash believes it’s God’s own right—
Lucifer’s mockery.

**** bows low, no fight, no flame,
Scoundrels taught to serve and kneel.
Money-hungry Judas’ name,
Power roosters crow and squeal.

Factories to burn the trash,
Fuel the flames with lies and hate.
Needles filled with poisoned ash—
**** the weak, decide their fate.

Trash “can heal,” they proudly claim,
Cowards swallow poison’s bite.
Less than fascists, but the same—
Crushing Earth with blind spite.

War’s hot breath upon the neck,
Chosen pigs with poisoned veins.
Syringes crack the last speck—
Fueling lies, spreading chains.

Neighbors lie, fake docs, cops,
Playing cruel and ***** games.
No excuse, no cleansing stops
This cesspool, filth, and shame.

This is trash—these darkest times,
Filth amassed and piled so high.
Hell itself in grime and crimes,
Burn it all beneath the sky.

If this hell is all we’ve got,
Then destroy, destroy it whole.
From the fascists’ filthy plot,
Save the Earth, reclaim the soul.

That’s why Sun now scorches fierce,
Burns the poison to the bone.
Hell’s foul stench it will pierce—
Wipe out ****, end their throne.



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



Bio-Waste

Trash dwells only in weak minds,
Fear’s the poison in their veins.
Food and shelter—chains that bind,
All the rest is ash and stains.

Lies shoveled in from birth,
Faith dumbed down, no spine to show.
They train to crawl in dirt,
Bow down, obey, stay low.

Only slaves breed in their lair,
Spirit crushed beneath their boots.
Few dare breathe the cleaner air,
Waiting for the Truth’s pursuits.

Monsters rule with toxic lies,
Fiends that crawl and spread their slime.
They enslave with crooked ties,
Killing souls, one lie at a time.

“How long will fools choke on their chains?”
Beasts with empty eyes comply.
Trapped in darkness, numb to pain,
Walking dead that live to die.

Bio-trash—flush down the drain,
Filth that feeds on every lie.
Cunning vermin, sly and vain,
Crawling where the morals die.

Rats flee light, embrace the dark,
Trash thinks it’s the crown’s own heir—
Lucifer’s poisoned mark,
**** bow down in blind despair.

Scoundrels profit, Judas’ brood,
Money roosters, puppets vile.
Burn the trash, ignite the feud,
Spread the plague, deny the trial.

Needles pierce the dumb and weak,
Poison sold as “healing grace.”
Fascists tread on Earth’s own cheek,
Crushing all the human race.

War’s hot breath, the needle’s sting,
Chosen pigs in chains confined.
Syringes make the madness king,
Spreading venom, enslaving mind.

Lying docs and crooked cops,
Playing filthy, brutal games.
No redemption, no clean stops—
Hell on Earth, devouring flames.

Trash and filth, these wicked times,
Piled high in stinking heaps.
Hell itself in darkest crimes,
Burn it down—no mercy, no sleeps.

If this hell’s all we have left,
Then destroy it—root and bone.
From fascist ****, from death’s theft,
Save the Earth, reclaim the throne.

Sun now scorches, fierce and raw,
Burns the poison to its core.
Hell’s foul stench will face the law—
**** will drown, forevermore.



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



Bio-trash burns — no mercy shown!
Fools and fiends will rot alone.
Venom’s fire will cleanse the ground,
Hell’s own **** is going down!



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



1.
Trash-born ****, your time is done —
We fight the plague, we burn the sun!

2.
Falsehood breeds the vile and weak,
Truth’s the hammer — hear it speak!

3.
Slaves of lies, obey no more —
Break the chains, ignite the war!

4.
Venom-fed and spirit-void,
By our fire you’ll be destroyed!

5.
Infected minds, corrupt and blind —
We’ll scorch the lies, leave none behind!

6.
Fascist ****, your reign will end —
The Spirit’s wrath will not bend!

7.
Feed no more the poison herd —
Rise as one, unleash the word!

8.
Cursed vermin breed decay —
We burn their hell, we clear the way!



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




Infected minds, corrupt and blind,
We’ll scorch the lies, leave none behind!
Fascist ****, your reign will end,
The Spirit’s wrath will never bend!

Feed no more the poison herd,
Rise as one, unleash the word!
Cursed vermin breed decay,
We burn their hell, clear the way!

No more slaves to mental chains,
Break the darkness, end the pains!
Truth and Spirit—our sharp sword,
Strike the lies and cut the cord!



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




Brains infected, swarming pest,
Lies like venom in their chest.
Fascist shadows choke the light,
But Spirit flames will burn the night!

Wolves in sheep’s torn hollow skin,
Feeding madness, breeding sin.
Chains of sludge drag down the soul—
We’re the fire that makes it whole!

No more puppets, cracked and broken,
Words like hammers, sharp and spoken.
Truth’s a blade, pure and raw,
Slicing through their poisoned law!

Rise, the storm of inner thunder,
Shatter silence, tear asunder.
Hell’s own muck, we’ll purge and cleanse—
From the ashes, freedom rends!



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




Brains turned to sludge — virus plague,
Lies like claws, a poisoned plague.
Fascist filth, a stinking blight,
Choking truth, devouring light.

Wolves with fangs in human skin,
Puppets dumb, their souls grow thin.
Chains of rot around the mind,
Spirit crushed, the blind lead blind.

Burn the hive of wicked liars,
Feed their hell to raging fires!
Truth’s no mercy — strike and rend,
Smash the frauds, their twisted end!

Rise like storms, fierce and raw,
Rip apart their demon law!
Hell’s own sludge we’ll raze to dust —
From their ashes, free we must!



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



WAR CRY OF THE BROKEN MIND

Brains fried, minds hacked — virus strike!
Lies like bullets, shot to psyche!
Fascist ****, the stink, the slime,
Choking screams, end of time!

Wolves in skins of man, they creep,
Feed the herd — dumb, blind, asleep.
Chains of rot wrap tight, no breath,
Spirit crushed beneath cold death.

Burn the nests where liars breed,
Feed their flesh to flames of greed!
No mercy now — rip and tear,
Smash the cult that feeds on fear!

Rise! Storm-screams tear the sky,
Break the cage, watch demons die!
Hell’s mud floods their rotten halls,
From the wreckage — freedom calls!



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



APOCALYPSE SHOUT

Brains fried, infected minds enslaved,
Virus screams — the soul depraved!
Fascist filth in suits of lies,
Feed the herd — dumbed down to die.

Puppets dance on strings of ****,
Lying snakes with venom spit.
Cogs in hell’s infernal grind,
Human trash, dumb and blind.

Burn the filth, the rotten breed,
Feed the fires of righteous greed!
Tear the mask — reveal the ****,
Crush the plague till senses numb!

Bloodied fists and shattered walls,
Rise above the prison calls!
Hell’s own spawn will drown in mud,
Freedom’s roar — a cleansing flood!

No mercy for the mindless slaves,
No peace for those who dig their graves.
Break the chains — ignite the fight,
Scorch the darkness with pure light!



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



Brains steamed in toxic stew,
Mindless drones in their own poo.
Suits of slime, rats in the den,
Feeding filth to stupid men.

Fascist puppets on a string,
Spitting poison, death they bring.
Rotten flesh in gilded cage,
Slaves to fear, fools of the age.

Trash heap crawling, slick with lies,
Feeding on the world’s demise.
Bloodsuckers in the halls of shame,
Selling poison, fanning flame.

Burn it down, scorch the roots,
Trash the lies and rotten fruits.
Chains will snap, walls will fall,
Freedom’s fire will burn them all!

Mocking gods with hollow cries,
Feeding fear, the weakest dies.
Rise, you few, from swamp and dust,
Strike with wrath — in truth we trust!

No mercy for the soulless clowns,
No shelter in their poisoned towns.
Cut the cords, unleash the beast,
From their grip — be never ceased!



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



Art

Dedicated to poets and composers
Who only spew heroic snot
About events long gone, forgotten—
A show of glory, all for show.

What is art?
Just staged emotions.
Poems are vile
If not deeply personal.

They’re just vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
A label of weakness,
Rhythms devoid.

Only snot along the path
Of such quests.
Harder to reach the edge
Of other knowledge.

It’s not poetry, nor rapture,
But peak and… abyss.
No one grants the sentence there,
No one hands the pass.

It’s hellfire,
Where you burn alive,
And terrible stench
By day and night alike.

The corpse of the old world
Only fits the screen.
Even the lyre will die—
Here’s the very bottom,

Where all is vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
Then helplessness,
Horror, void.

Where all is nonsense: poet — not poet,
Artist, writer, or not.
Where no one cares for years
About reason, honor, or the trace

The trace we leave
With a pen on water.
Better to add
Gasoline to the fire—

A fire that burns down
The lying world—
Spawn of evil,
Idol of fools.

This is not false,
Nor the pain of fools,
But logical conclusion
When you go all the way

To knowing hell,
That since long ago
Instead of paradise garden
Has been embodied here,

Where all is vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
Then helplessness,
Horror, void.

Where is all this art,
When fascism’s at the door?!
Everyone lies numb,
Each in their warm den.

They come out only
To sing odes.
They’re not madmen,
To die

For a righteous cause,
For memory of grandfathers
Who boldly smashed
Enemies

In that hell of vanity,
Torment,
Void:

Vanity of effort,
Torment of meaning,
Then helplessness,
Horror, void.



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



Art

Dedicated to poets and composers
Who spit heroic snot
Only on dusted pages,
Ghosts of battles lost and gone.

What is art?
Just staged theatrics—
Empty dramas,
Poems dead without confession.

They’re vanity’s spit,
Wailing banshee cries,
A hollow drum:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Weakness wrapped in labels,
Rhythms void, no defense.

Just snot on the path
Of hollow quests.
Harder to reach the edge
Of deeper, rawer truths.

Not poems, not rapture,
But cliff’s last breath and fall.
No pardons for the daring—
No one answers the call.

It’s hellfire’s scorch,
Where flesh melts slow,
A stench that crawls
Both night and day below.

The corpse of a dead world
Fits only on the screen.
Even lyres will crack—
Here lies the abyss, obscene,

Where all is vanity,
Wailing,
Void:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Then helplessness,
Dark horror, void.

Where fools masquerade as poets,
Artists or not,
Where honor’s dead—
The mind forgot,

The trace we leave
Is ink on water—
Better pour gasoline
On a burning slaughter—

A fire that razes
This world of lies—
Spawn of pure evil,
Fools’ idolize.

This isn’t lies,
Nor childish pain,
But cold logic’s knife
When you bleed the whole way

Into hell’s own heart,
Where paradise died long ago—
Here, rot and venom
In endless flow,

Where all is vanity,
Wailing,
Void:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Then helplessness,
Dark horror, void.

Where is your art now,
When fascists knock hard?
Everyone’s numb,
Huddled in their yards.

They crawl out just to chant
Empty odes.
Not mad enough
To die for roads

Where grandfathers smashed
Foes in hell’s glare—
This hell of vanity,
Wailing,
Void:

Vanity of wasted fight,
Torment of hollow sense,
Then helplessness,
Dark horror, void.



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



Art — The Brutal Truth

Art’s just snot on dead men’s graves,
Heroic lies from hollow slaves.
Poems? No — empty, void and fake,
Vanity’s cruel, ruthless quake.

Fire burns the world’s corpse cold,
Truth’s a blade, sharp and bold.
Fools worship idols made of slime,
Dancing in hell’s black grime.

No mercy here, no saving light,
Only darkness swallows night.
Fascists laugh — the herd’s asleep,
While souls rot fast and deep.

Rise or drown in filth and rust,
Art dies in a world unjust.
Fight the void, break through the lies—
Or fade with all your silent cries.



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



Art Is Dead

Art’s just snot on dead men’s graves.
Empty noise, vain fools’ plays.

Fire burns the world’s false skin,
Fools bow down to death’s grin.

No savior comes, just lies,
Hell swallows all the wise.

Fight or rot — choose your part,
Art is dead — ignite your heart.



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



Art Is Dead

Art’s just snot on dead men’s graves,
A serpent’s hiss in hollow caves.

Empty noise, vain fools’ charade,
Ashes blow where heroes fade.

Fire burns the world’s false skin,
Fools bow down to death’s cold grin.

No savior comes, just poison lies,
Hell’s black claws tear the wise.

Fight or rot — choose your part,
Art is dead — ignite your heart.



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



No saviors here—just wolves in suits,
Feeding on ashes, tearing roots.
Their “wisdom” stinks like rotted graves,
While freedom sinks in endless waves.

So burn it down—the fake, the lies,
Let truth ignite in crimson skies.
No more chains, no dull disguise—
From ruins, real souls will arise.



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



Propaganda

It used to be bad —
Now it’s supposed to be good!
Propaganda for suckers
Feeds them chicken **** for food.

Once we had pure slavery,
Now it’s “democrazy”’s face.
But it’s all deception —
Fascism’s just replaced.

Slavery couldn’t get worse,
Stupidity’s disgrace —
Five instead of failure,
Spirit barely a trace.

Honor’s trampled everywhere,
Conscience long is dead.
We turned into beasts
Under pressure, full of dread.

All these troubles are fake —
A cold genocide.
Only masters of lies here—
Reason’s deep asleep inside.

Lies pour out unceasing —
Drowning everything whole.
And as a “rest” they offer
Pop distractions for the soul.

Nothing left unspoken —
Anchors voice the script.
The “predictors” rule here,
The rest lie, tight-lipped.

It’s a global madhouse now,
Words promise paradise.
But souls are killed in silence —
Quietly, pay the price.

Yet this endless falsehood
Always hides one key:
If you don’t sell your soul,
The years left are few to see.

The sun shines hotter now —
That’s Armageddon’s sign.
It’ll burn all these fleas away —
Their spirits will resign.



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



Propaganda

It was hell before —
Now they sell it as heaven!
Propaganda for suckers —
Chicken **** in every sentence.

Slavery’s old chains —
Now it’s “demo-fascist” lies.
Same ***** game, new name —
Fascism in disguise.

Slavery’s shame can’t get worse,
Stupidity’s a crime.
Replacing failure with five,
Killing spirit every time.

Honor’s buried deep,
Conscience ripped apart.
We’ve turned into animals,
Crushed souls, broken hearts.

All the pain is fake —
Just a genocide scheme.
Masters of deceit laugh loud,
While reason’s dead, it seems.

Lies flood like poison gas —
Smother everything whole.
As “relaxation” serves
Pop’s shallow black hole.

Nothing left unvoiced —
Anchors chant their lies.
“Predictors” run the show —
Truth’s been crucified.

A global madhouse rages —
Words promise false skies.
Souls murdered in silence —
Quiet death in disguise.

But the biggest lie hides one truth:
If you keep your soul intact,
Your time is running out —
The end’s a burning fact.

The sun scorches hard —
Armageddon’s cruel flame.
It’ll burn out the vermin —
Leave only spirit’s name.



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



Propaganda

Hell was truth —
Now lies sell as light.
Suckers fed chicken ****,
Blinded day and night.

Slavery reborn,
Dressed in fascist lies.
Honor buried deep —
Souls crucified.

Stupidity’s a crime,
Spirit’s shot dead.
Genocide by lies —
Reason’s hanging thread.

Lies choke, no breath,
Pop’s dumb escape.
Truth silenced, drowned,
Souls left to break.

World’s madhouse roars —
False heaven’s smoke.
Keep your soul?
Armageddon’s choke.

Sun scorches vermin —
Burns the weak and vile.
Spirit’s flame survives —
Hell ends in fire.



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



PROPAGANDA RAP // “HELL IN CAPSLOCK”

Yo —
Truth is dead, lies on the throne,
Feeding you filth like a dog with a bone.
Chicken-**** slogans, media drone —
Welcome to Hell, just scroll on your phone.

Freedom's a brand, wrapped in decay,
Fascist chic in a democratic spray.
Think you're awake? You're just in the play —
Lines are fed, you bark on delay.

Reason’s hung, truth got stabbed,
Spirit’s buried, brain’s been nabbed.
Pop drugs your head while souls get grabbed,
This ain't a system — it's a slaughter lab.

New god’s a screen, priest is a cop,
Pills in your gut, death in a pop.
This ain’t peace — it’s a soul-shop,
Prophets in suits, blood on top.

Heaven’s fake, but Hell is near,
Sun burns louder, crystal clear.
If you still got soul — shift outta gear,
'Cause fire is coming… and it won’t veer.