linealأمة

A conquered people is marginalized. As it blends with the conquerors, peoples from further away see the ruling people and subjected people as one. The subsumed and dwindling subjugated become a quirk -a subculture- within the wider victorious culture. There's habit-drift: defining traits of the subjects join the practices of the masters and vice versa. Traditions are shared and connect people in an amalgam culture.
Take the name of any nation. Where did its' people come from? One assemblage of tribes conquered others. Both blend together until they forget the names of their clans. Borders are islands where enemy garrisons sit across from one another in an ocean of peoples.
Sometimes the newborn culture takes after its' father, the conqueror, and bears his name. Like Tsaritsyn became Stalingrad became Volgograd. Sometimes the amalgamation takes after its' mother, the subjected people/s, like England stayed English after the Norman Conquest.
A conquering people are carriers. They harbor fragments of other peoples' personalities in their psyche. Over time some fragments spread, transforming the host from the inside out. Like Romans became Greek then Christian.
People who know themselves to be a separate culture but don't know their ancestors ways have a tabula rasa to be iconates. Like America's freedmen buying clothes it'd take years to grow into.

Magesicle

He has magic hands
the magic touch
he exaggerates
a little much
saw the last dodo
ate it for lunch
made a clever promo
earned mucha mulla
taught Islam
before the Qu'ran
swam the Nile
dressed in style
bought a museum
to exhibit his art
there're many pieces
it hurt him to part with
the exhibit's width
could fit football stadiums
its' power source plutonium
this gallery cast its' shadow on NY
but he can't tell the location
of this great work
he prophesied Diana'd die
and every royal family
it's a fact y'all
the beauty of a lily
fades and ends surely
as a man's days
he tells us his wisdom
which is base and common
shares the stories
of many things he's seen
each is to his glory
as he figures
he led the 36th Infantry
in the American Civil War
but he doesn't talk yankee
and didn't mention it before
doesn't look too old
and though he talks of yore
won't tell his birthplace
only things he has done
sounds like he's been 'round
since the Earth was young
he invented electricity
but gets no credit
it's a form of wizardry
most haven't learned yet
I finally laugh
and call him liar
he lifts a staff
and forms fire
in his palm
lightning on his fingertips
and sings a psalm
which shakes the ground
with its' ancient sound
he turns and leaves
then I chase after
and 'mongst the leaves
find prank shop items
to make fake wonders
in the night I listen
catch no sight nor sound of him
and I believe.

Midlife

A life at parity with tragedy
ends on a ragged edge.
If a life's uplifting
it floats above grit from birth.

Cardinal Church (North East West South)

Pliant is the mind pickled in media porridge
pulse invitingly do the pores
information pours in
giving smell to the mind in brine
an invisible ephemeral scent dancing ascendant and descendant for a chance at delivering its' pheromone message
the wind winds from speaker to paper in people and screens
data pops mechanical and fleshy, digital and tangible
from Marrakesh to dirigibles and billboards the word spreads
a susceptible receptacle is the mind unfamiliar with proselytizing
prose is another part of a synthetic effigy
statues, idols, and icons are made to glorify beings separated by a degree or more from our perception
'cept folks forgot the reminder-representations created purpose and trusted them with devotion to things greater than man
like a rag read after it stops stalking your famous love interest
so what does this infrastructure resemble the form of?
does it or they consider our nightly attendance at the anchors' service praise or offense?
What do we owe for our works?

Scaring Yourself Serious

In twig-split midnight sky I hear howls.
Pale yellow moon bathes the branches.
Yale campus soon dews and frost creeps across acorn, blade, and sidewalk.
Wind slides, turning shade light and back.
Students flip in layered sheets, chasing sleep in chill illumination.
Their souls jump the mind's track.
Scraps, hatred and sorrow leftover from murdered men.
They've lost their sense of name and when.
Spirits are dense as the swollen fog.
Quasi-voices scratch psyches enveloped in brows now moist.
Quality normality is sent far from foreheads soggy.
Squishy human anatomy feels the pressure.
Worlds, living and dead, press closer to amalgamation.
Wood moans and groans, beds send sleepwalkers to cool witching-hour-air.
Analog ambulation retraces the tread of folk long dead.
Fat faculty actively unearth locals' caskets.
Girls lose their maidenheads to a red-dressed hot mess of a man.
Youths' animus corrupt bodies through oils and allegiance to the oldest foe.
Robed men chant to bless el diablo.
Planets properly aligned, circles in wax and blood inscribed, pacts are made.
Powers of the fallen host toast the health of Anglos ignoring their better angels.
A cult carves shapes for sounds plain English can't produce.
Dug up embalmed puddles struggle to stand.
Slumbering mugs in local pajamas won't taste the morning's orange juice.
The cowled chanters and the powers reached a truce.
Vacant vessels are steered through waxblood circles for infernal use.
I wander, looking for my body, lost 'tween live and dead lands.

The Lie Never Experienced

Shake hands in a shaken cradle while shells crater the burning cities.
Making an armistice requires armed soldiers shooting citizens.
Policemen obey their captains like pirates charmed and sold on intimidation.
Bankers release no nations from debts and mutineers are taught regret.
Bandits cease raiding when they're colder than a disarmed NRA.
Thieves sneak food from farmers' yards, traveling far and working hard.
Every administration kills for a rumor. Where were you during the revolution?
Resentment or acceptance grow; both responses impoverish hearts of soothing lotion.
Love's a balm bombs turn to fuel, burning earnest optimists, would-be pacifists.
Whether or not the Bible's true one brother slew another in man's 2nd generation.
Very many are born straight slayers. Survivors convert to the movement.

Realize I'm the Prize

This drink has me think I'm happy.
These numbers say I'm wealthy.
My hand makes me feel sexy.
The shadows whisper I'm stealthy.
In an empty space I'm lonely.
With glasses I'm intelligent.
First time she's one and only.
A parade shows I'm magnificent.
Mustache and beard give me a wise face.
With a crowd I'm social.
Sympathy brings me to a nice place.
Pregnancy finds me emotional.
Death turns me numb.
When hope flees I chase.
Poverty leaves me some.
Worry instills idiocy.
Then I am dumb.
Together we are democracy.
Her body heats mine horny.
Moods' lances are sensory at the tourney.

Waterworks

Salty rhines, my cheeks are raw from tears,
brimming over heavy lids.
My still tongue tastes them.
An august end: yawning throat;
where light can't reach.
Mouth silent, closed.
Open are the reds of the eyes,
bright as flush cheeks brushed.
Every snuffling breath beats against a mucus membrane.
Air, stifled by leaks,
rushes upstream like horny salmon.
As crime from a ghetto,
lymph through the body,
bacteria overflow its' filters,
sinuses turned to foreign enemies,
slayers of the gate guards,
breeding in their homes,
rioting in the streets,
I leak, and leak then leak.

Rebel Rules

The tyrant weakens his rule by weakening what he rules with his rules. The rebel is as evil as the tyrant overthrown but until he is maintaining enough institutions to cripple other people as much as the tyrant did there's a period of freer living which allows greater prosperity. If there's a boom and bust cycle it's the rise and fall of states. Humanity's booming then cancerous elements grow their unneeded tissue, disrupting healthy processes, until the body they keep with them decays, they're removed from the larger human society, and with healthy forms of laborers left the pace of man's ascent quickens again.

Lent

See the crown is blemished,
tarnished, scratched and sullied,
it reflects a littered dirty floor,
has gaps where were stones,
the points are bent,
its' sides cracked,
the old face wearing the symbol knows it holds no power,
and I look 'tween his wrinkles rimmed by white hair
and see no hope glimmering there.

The joker laughs and prances near,
he speaks riddles the king can't hear,
their answers insults to raise noble moods,
lament rules their hearts and cheer can't intrude,
starved as it is,
in this famished land,
where smiths turn panhandlers,
and only coiners keep clean hands.

To: Address From: Sender

Dear Despair,

Bosom companion blossom again,
be new, renew the revenue you draw directly from my breast rubbed raw,
emotions are rapids eroding will, breaking apart self and flesh into sedentary segments,
fish swim in rivers and feed on macerated joy,
fuel destroyed by the flow,
surging, course directed by the stone though stone is honed, coursing o'er to the ocean,
errybody learns the worst feeling is absence,
souls turn, tossed in a spiral 'round the void,
and I laud
as did God
the counter-rebel Want,
winning the fight for light against cold simplicity,
let life abound
complicated and procreated for recreation.

Sometimes Yours,
Luck-Dodger

Ad Personam

Do you remember Pikablu,
the rumored pokemon?
It existed in our social imagination:
a wild grown lawn
which none can shun
but sobriety mows
and I'm like Barney at Moe's
planting seeds
between heads of grain
eating like it's Eid
from the mind's mane.
An earthquake, a roar
for stress causes tremors
in the sub-strata
(turned batter)
of popular fantasy.
Real as a cootie
is our country,
the virtue of submissiveness,
and love.

Ed the Poet

Here are the B-sides. If you think that other shit's bad here's the worst. If you love my stuff here's more! The following are selections of poems and thangs I started to write and gave up on. They're pretty bad which's why I abandoned them. Also, I forgot what I had planned, subjects, rhyme schemes, etc. for them all (and some I'd no plan and thought a line would be potent enough to set me off).



Submissive floor lets me walk all over it and sprinkle crumbs



Grass-rilled hills thrill at the thunderous touch of exploding napalm.
Dirt were there was a farm.
Smoking jelly where there was a farmer.
Their skin and fat flow thin and wax, popping crisply in the chemical mixture.
Bubbles of lymph steam on short blackened blades.
The Vietnamese have seen better days.



Wisdom is poison lived in and tested, wistfully remembered.
Pain's presence a comfort familiar as romantic essence.
We're between mortar and pestle, stirred, mixed, shrinking into tinier easier to dilute pieces.



Apple's a flavor
and strawberry too
versions of taste



In your provinces are piled high
beliefs in many insubstantial lies
the light of electricity dispels no darkness
of the sort thick as fog in minds without sense
Crushed by seven gables
was the shaggy mantis
who Abe's 8th general
shaved and skinned in public.

The exoskeletal clips
piled in chitinous heaps
were listed as raw walls
(industrial matter).



Dry circuit boards, childless mothers, present an article on water boarding, what we're learning at our boarding school, leaving pretensions of

One out the Chamber

got a crick in my neck
my own body gives me no respect

Deproduce

Shatter a pane at the point atop
the wall-clinging ivy stalk
strong enough to support my weight
for the time taken to climb
at a gait less than walking
above the west gate where
guards talk about their
family troubles and shallow caches
while I undo their ward's window latch
coming from a bar far-off to snatch
what my fence's middleman said awaited.

On tips of toes and hunched
I slowly step on carpets
costlier than my clothes
blowing darts in guard-pets
I wait for the sleeping poison
shipped from the river Poseidon
when the death-froth bubbles
on puppy's large lips
I know the way's cleared.

Humans surpassed and animals slain
I steal on with open tread
still I'm quite quiet so she
stays asleep unaware of me.
Too heavy to carry: the many baubles
which make her wealthy,
yet I look for one trinket only
and spy it glowing o'er yonder
and have to avert my eyes
lest the staring spell compel me.

In a sack which breathes
made for the task
seething with hatred at the light
eager to smother the sight
I stuff the unwatched tingle-in-hand
turning to cheerily be on my way.

Behind me upright sits the daughter
aware her tower's invaded
though I'm experienced in my craft
and would kill for a laugh
I hesitated and heard her say,
"stranger if you are a man
then I can not understand
yet now wonder...
yes surely your employer
lied to you of the item
by robbery in your possession"
straight standing I strode
and pressed 'gainst her robe
a knife and knicked her left lobe.
With composure unseen in some men
she let out not a whimper but grinned,
"up close I know you are a man
and so will return Eskrigan,
so long as it shines
the Dutla are confined
to beyond my father's borders"
inside I said to myself,
"kill her and follow your orders!"
but she'd cried for no help
and if I had dealt
the Dutla an aid
my debt'd need repaid.
She pointed at the window,
above a carpet cast with glass,
I dragged her along
warned she'd sing her swan-song
if this were a trick of her class.

Boldly she opened the frames
holding intact window panes
and pointed to the horizon
where we could see Bayon's Canyon.
At first I stared in darkness
and sensed something but saw naught
but slowly I noticed
winged shapes in the blackness
spreading from the canyon
like a pulsing cloud.
Horror hurt my heart
so even a frail's voice gave me start,
"before they kill my people
please release the symbol"
and feeling it right
by every gut I've survived by trusting
I tore at the bag.

It would not open
again I tried
to ply the threads
they sucked in
like turtle heads
and the mouth puckered
a kiss for a sucker
then in anger I stabbed
grabbing tight the bag
slashing and cutting
'til it bled and died
with a haunting outcry
then shriveled to a husk
ripped open untrussed
and flying out thrust
Eskrigan.

It flew above the tower
and made the land look as day
flash!
flash!
light dark light/dark lightdark
and with screeches miles distant
the Dutla became scant
and I saw she
was a beauty
past the pretties
I'd collected.

Next time it went dark
she ran from her room
I chased in the gloom
but from the stark variance
in luminance
was blinded
I couldn't find her
and she familiar
with her home
ran on ahead
then I was struck dead.

Mazed Man's Dilemma

He sees lightless black. He walks forward. It is possible he may freely move in any direction. Any way which is blocked is perennially blocked. He is weary of only going straight ahead. He suspects to his left is a wall. He hasn't reached out left to confirm the presence or absence of a wall. If he reaches to the left and finds a wall he will always know he can't go left. If he doesn't check he may always think he could go left.

What should the Mazed Man do?

1) Should he be content going straight?
2) Should he reach in every direction to define his options?
3) Should he stop checking for alternate routes lest he be aware he has no choice?
4) Should he want to go a different way?
5) Should blockages spur him to search for openings?
6) Should he take a turn if one's available?
7) Should he change his policy after a certain outcome?
8) What would you do as the mazed man?

Your Traitor Forever

Who opened our slumber-heavy hearts and left us love to keep?
Who raised high his banner, now unfurled, on his castle above the deep?
Where and why the dears disappeared gurgle drowning in our sleep?
What took our lost and left us loss too great to weep?
Wilting eyes bespy dark tides and rest never one peep.
My shy looked-for Sheen of Days sand to sea's surely a tiny leap.

More than I knew want before I desirably want you,
past feelings weak foreshadowings of something new.
Presenters played their trumpets; (horns whispers in your call)
To live without you while about you I'ven't the wherewithal.

I know the cause, knew the monster, my father fought her on this shore.
Yet blackest blame come take me, heavens soon unmake me, I'll be your paramour.

Painful as you Take it

Sammy longed for the peace of a razor,
didn't have facial hair,
didn't need a shaver,
felt heaven was cold,
cause it heaped snow on the lowly,
he took a steamy shower,
and split his arms like petals,
they bloomed a vibrant red,
which spread across metals,
ran along the floor,
pooled at the door-jam,
Sam felt December-tired,
he lay in the tub,
he felt cold with lobster skin,
that is the rub,
he ended with the year,
a monster to his children,
seeing their mother: Mildred,
face swollen and red,
as the stained green tiles,
she forces a smile,
for sepsis finished,
what Gillette started.

Kith

At the end of a tunnel of light sits a royally fat thin-lidded man.
He's attended by a running train of toiling cat-man servants.
Hidden in the courtroom shadows sit slinky whispering advisers.
By his right side stands a wheel immense beyond visualization.
Vis a his authority he spins yon immeasurable decider.
Marked on its' edges are the lowest living forms.
Circle within circle towards the middle greater bodies are displayed.
From worms to kitten litters and he seated himself dead center the depictions exquisitely exceed the kinds of creatures I'd seen.
Between me and him two tall men in flowing embroidered robes.
Thick gems stretched low their ear lobes.
The one on the right read my best doings.
The sinister reader bared my worst shames.
Oral report done my judgment begun.
Nodding, deciding, he gestured at the towering shining wheel.
Its' movements were so complex if I'd my lifetime again to study it I couldn't describe its' organization.
I was shown my chosen incarnation.
A gaunt figure, skin meatless and tanned over a brittle ribcage, long dirty hair, stomach shallow , egg-shaped eyes bulging beneath their lids (outside sockets), naked with long fingers.
When my study of its' body was complete I was looking at the hairs on my own arm.
Humans passed through me but did no harm.
On a trash heap steaming poo seeped from a rain-half-washed diaper.
I licked my fangs and walked over.
Shit smells bad as ever and tastes worse than I'd imagined but it's all I can eat.

Que e A

Ask me how I am today.
I am fine.
Ask me how I was just now.
I was lyin.
Asked you where you went last night.
Heard no sound.
Answer me you stupid bitch.
Right now.
He'll ask where I was tonight.
I know why.
I've prepared an answer.
My alibi.
Won't find forensic evidence.
I'm clean.
Mabye I've dirtied my hands.
Been mean.
But exin factors make us what.
We are.
People plainly rudely put.
Cruel beans.
Ask me how I feel right now.
So calm.
Watch my face and see it twitch.
Something's wrong.
Never a good player I.
At cards.
My open intentions read.
Didn't try.
To hide emasculated rage.
Deep sigh.
Ask me how I am today.
Doing time.
Ask me how I was just now.
Doing fine.
Asked her where the hell she'd been.
No reply.
Notify the next of kin.
When she die.

Antediluvian Tinkerer

Beneath these sheaths: twin hoods for headlights
twelve and twenty thousand bacteria merge from fat cells
they're so asexy I can feel their orgy
heat underneath my eyelids
squirmy, squishy, gelatinous membranes
bump and grind across the floor
colonize contacts then come into proximity with me peepers
make me want to sleep
catch atleast forty winks
before they escape to flirtatious eyes
twinkling with burgeoning flirtation.

Fluster, buster make a noise!
Grunt and groan to shit or piss?
Press and sigh with every breath,
what is the meaning of this?
Why not take your ease and
enjoy your life?
Why constant worry, beloved strife?
Struggle, scramble, invent trouble
when none exists distract and doubt
multiply problems within, without.

It is dark and he depressed
fine traits for finding a moment's rest
temporary escape from conscious awareness
we wear moods like a doll her dress.

Escape from DC

Feeling bowdy?
You should know this club's bouncers are bigger than GigaBowser
will punch you out of your trousers
across the saloon
catering through the air
like a cartoon
landed on the opposite side of the room
shaken like a howitzer hit yer wits out yer head
lost your pretense of senses when knuckles went boom
how it'd feel is unreally horrible
you'd drool like a baby adorable
see little birdies in a circle
walking nerdy as Erkel
talking suspended by bitten tongue
it's good fine ale makes gals act young
like Gale who giggles though she's a mum
at your inventive inebriated invectives
we need to get the heck out of here
before someone shouts back
I'll pick up the slack
put your arm across my shoulders
the crowd is our first hurdle
if Tajicks don't respect us Kurds'll
doesn't the cold coming through the door feel nice?
don't stumble off I won't tell you twice
now we're out sit down let the beer wear off
your dance was less grind and more Baryshnikov.

Pignorant

Pale prince in a purchased palace
do you fear the nearing bands of brigands?
They roam by your home
and loom at your doom.
Women flee the streets,
shoppers drop their wares,
the armored wall guards tremble,
such savages sow terror,
the garrison rumbles from footsteps,
thousands obscure the sandy dunes,
you've left your people in a monsoon,
like an ill-planning buffoon.
By the river did flourish your harem
now foreign men see women and take them.
Icy cold is your stomach,
wet and warm on fingertips.

Turkey-Tired

I'm thankful for forgetfulness.

Burnt Bacon

Each girl's face is an arrow that points towards yours
its' point punctures my wards
and I tear out cupid's curse
though it makes the wound worse
gaping open as spread legs
fertile as fermented eggs
porcelain decorations
Russian pewters
the extravagance
past tense
sensed so strong the one I long for
may as well be before me
her presence is a smoke
soot undone my lungs
wheezing like a wise man
ceasing his advice
to turn survivors from vice
lest the dying living be the damned
condemned by warning from terminal man
at this terminus bright light's my guide
guys and gals pay to ride
the river Styx and those who've drunk forget
the weighty baggage of self
our first desire a corruption
even a loving core who'd see man soar
with virtue proud, great deeds his shroud
the proclamation becomes loud
in song and tale
from far and wide
in home and vale
we're at his side
imagining what adventures we'd strike
out on if we left our homes
and how we'd like
stories of our own
but warriors gain tolerance to violence
'til they don't flinch at families mashed together
in simmering pyre-piles of bloody excrement
where their tender hearts went I know
to lovely lady wisdom
who makes boys into men
takes innocence
transforms men to heroes
and those unaffected serve traders in her good
here goes my attempt to keep
the hope she hasn't reaped
to preside as a Pope
jealous-vigilant over his herd
mistrustful of every stranger's word
against the incursion
of another incision
removing liaisons
from imaginationland
known to some as heaven
which sends emotional helium
to lighten the weary woes of years
gnosis puts a tariff on relief transports
were we calmed by hypnosis
we'd want for nothing
but desiring something
gives us suffering
we'd all be fufilled
as the surfer seeking a perfect wave
who can conceive of a better ride
after every straddled tide
by speech we think him addled
his skull a hollow rattle
but he got that from pot
and though he speaks stupid alot
atleast he doesn't rant.

Electrical Malfunction

I love to cook
and hear the gas hiss
then have a look
at the blue flames.

As a little kid
a thing I did
was to light leaves on fire
with a magnifier.

When a tween
caught between
boy and teen
I burned our yard.

At pubescence
I felt my essence
was hot so I bought
firecrackers, grill-fuel and lighters.

In college I learned
how to burn
the frosh dorm
and freeze titties.

With my wife
I got insurance
not for life
but our houses.

White in my hair
I grinned to see
the forest had caught
my gift to a tree.

When very old
I shed a tear
when they blow
mere cake candles.

Mountaintip Mining

I want to trim my emotional resonance of its' top
so the lows would stop
feeling so deep
yet I wake
at the sound of blasting
to a new view and veins to burn
at last the price in pain to take isn't steep.

SPunk Lyrics

I___ wish there was a devil
and I- had< a soul. to sell.
and the girl that I call angel
wasn't. whore enough for hell

Give me all your women
fatties serve me as cooks
but-her-faces raise the children
I would have with chicks with looks

A citizen of Pax America
pays his taxes like a tool
bankers dilute his dollars
still he works for them, the fool
on the pole, goes his daughter
she works to go to school
who needs a homemaker
when families break in two
loans go out to the empire
dying to subjugate Zulu

The modern WASP, a pussy
european men suck fags
leave their work for Juan and Lucy
the only free male is a stag

When my ears hear at long last
a tale of proud white men
they are talking of the past
and missing way back when

everyone's a christian
don't you tell me otherwise
cause Christ is as you imagine
getting between the church's thighs
don't you dare find that offensive
for a man must know his wife
in heaven together they'll live
without argument or strife

Son you need to get a purpose
must I repeat what I have said
very well then 'til you jave it
you can find me in your head

I will live here sometimes silent
like a schizophrenic's friend
study yourself like a fictional character
if your psyche you would mend

(accelerando during final verse)
sing along
so my song
has your tongue
listen, hear
so your ear
has my song
sing along
so my song
has your tongue
in an ear
making out
oh dear
fucked up lyrics
for an ear trick
fucked her
a mother
motherfucker!

The Life Unlived

When I've no more left to live,
I pine for the life unlived.

She stirs upstairs,
shelling crawfish,
dropped tails fall in the crawlspace.

In this segment of my timeline,
I am doing mighty fine,
yet there's more I want for mien.

Trapped where I usually sleep,
my past: something I don't want to keep.

He's hardly real years afterwards,
his absence the silence between words,
giving sounds substance.

Sans silence there's white noise,
a drone unadorned is ignored,
pitches unchanging hardly heard.

Invisible in a herd of people,
even we don't want to learn ourselves.

They're worse than us,
which makes us better,
superior versus mediocre.

Y'all hunt for fun,
find regrets,
ah gather we're slaves and pets.

Stuck with me,
the life unlived seems...

Hoard

The plane's unplanned landing turned to crashing when it ran out of track.
Its' passengers tricked with promise of refuge felt a deluge of false hope.
Meanwhile, surface to air missiles fired, a few missed, most hit.
Feeling ill from sweltering heat the pilot tried to take them safely down.
Their bodies ash by a namelessly small town.
Refugees from the Saron Gi were hated by the natives.
Settled in, relocated, their women were raped, left to burn in mob-lit tenements.
The ugliest were spared to share their story as a warning.
Sarongis unwelcome.
Starving men lined the streets in neighboring lands.
Why would they welcome an influx of begging hands?
There was not paying work enough for the men already there.
Yes Sarongis work to live but why should natives care?
Wives hear gossip of their husbands and new prostitutes.
Accused in public the whores are beat with bamboo shoots.
Neighbor kids throw stones at the ugly, smelly, refugees.
Parents of the Sarongi say come straight home.
Villages used to be beautiful.
Now they're blighted by attached camps.
Life was much more wonderful before these leeches clamped on natives.
The patchy tents are a terrible sight.
Someday they will all be razed.
Some crops are eaten by fungi and a maneater stalks the hills.
It is because Sarongis are bad luck.
UN workers bring the big villages medicine in a truck.
Americans teach English and missionaries preach Jesus.
There are not enough seats in the class.
But Sarongi children show up early and take the best seats.
They don't till fields to ensure their families eat.
They're free in the morning and all day to wait.
Helpful foreigners call it bullying when a Sarongi's told his place.
Aid workers waste their medicine cleaning cuts on a Sarongi child's face.
Why don't they stay in their own country?
There's not enough UN or US aid to share.
Sarongis don't care if they steal.
There's not enough America for the world.
White men come to give gifts but greedy Sarongis smell free things a country away.
Most natives dance 'round the bonfire built on the plane.
It goes out the next morning.
No survivors remain.

Disslist

Excitement for the coming time brings me to early wake.
I wish the grand computer took away this cloak of control.
I wish oneness with the universe left me detach whole.
(I can't find peace in being a piece)

Roll over to leave this real world in favor of a fake.
If my final senses were a monster tearing me apart I'd be glad to know they lived.
If my reincarnation were a promotion I'd be glad I died.

A last and permanent sleep would my sadness slake.

Cheer

Sad matters settled
depressions repelled
joybreak warms the wind
lighting scenes
in memories
of smiles and laughter
traded between friends
familiar stories
predictable advice
evening meals together
sure are nice
and they come easy
these simple pleasures
cleaning our homes
of spirits that stifle.

Imaginary people
perform lives like our own
romanticized realities
are an idle day's fantasies
and knowing them
we're happier
to conclude life's good
for their pleasantries
remind us of when
teeth would appear
on family faces
and familiar emotions
soothe the more
often they're here.

Uplifting

When the works of your hands glazed your heart in grime
and most of the time life has lost its' shine
you have matured.

Death is the end of knowledge
yet the beginning of wisdom
for in comprehending the ending
we complete our understanding of a process.

Not to put too fine a point on it
but when the fine details don't look too fine
and the repeated events we're smeared with aren't refined
so we whine while waiting in line to be fined again for trying
there's a prosperity in finishing
for which (with each whistled breath) we're wishing.

Pain tells us something's wrong
and that's better than nothing
despair follows hope
like joy fills a fool.

You Started it Lyrics

Why did I cheat on you?
How could I be untrue?

Rumor has it
you've a habit
fuck like a rabbit

I know you don't go slow
you'll be stuck with curled toes

You've been texting a lot
I'm sure reading it's not
a girlfriend like you say

My friends keep telling me
your in public and raunchy
they've got no cause to lie

You're too dolled up for shopping
where else have you been stopping
when away so very long

Rumor has it
you've a habit
fuck like a rabbit

I know you don't go slow
you'll be stuck with curled toes

Though stories might be false
so long as I've a pulse
I'll look into these claims

When I searched your car
I found a cigar
I know you don't smoke

At your house what did I find
dirty underwear not mine
I could have strangled you then

I visited my ex,
we had passionate sex
Now I'm feeling better

Rumor has it
you've a habit
fuck like a rabbit

I know you don't go slow
you'll be stuck with curled toes

Pointed in its' Pointlessness

Friend you're sensitive where soft,
feel most when weak,
your tender outsides know exter.

Bitch you drive for a dick,
drink to blow,
and years invested in a former man are ruins in the city Ye.

Fellow you didn't make your "son",
can't turn a woman who doesn't love you into a wife,
and the state will say what's your's is her's.

Stranger you love to think of the things you'll do,
great deeds you'll get around to,
while idly entertaining yourself.

Acquaintance you passed by so quick,
you didn't even get a name,
I couldn't've your birth to blame.

Facts breed with perception to make interpretations,
Thee is a mystery,
and sensing is answering.

It's a Healthy Baby _______

Unbalanced
but the vertigo's good
it should steady me
ready me
to place feet
far out apart
to meet again
a steady plane.
Surely there is to be found
secure footholds, firm packed ground.
I've lost my footing
it is unsettling
and wonderful.
More feelings than
ah knew I could have
permeate me
to such degree
familiar flavors
are experienced new.
These events' cause is you.
To believe such greatness
could be and moreso grace my life
steals breath, stirs body, prompts psyche.
Exultant trepidation makes a man the more alive
and it all becomes closed in consummation when you arrive.
Words take on new meanings
the old definitions' husks
their crisp crinkled skins abandoned
littering Earth's grainy crust.
Now a syllable's complexion is white
as an elephant's ivory tusk.
With a word of power spoken
a tortoise shell cracked open
I'm tempted to tape the broken
home of slow safety.
In forests old and oaken
I'd laze and lie observing
each days' leaves wind surfing
in cool breezes of winter.
Some sparks singed the damp
and ended with steam.
Later wild fire
cast out water
with brightest heats' beams
lasting days as leaf became hearth
until smoky charred shards were left.
Do we mourn the forest cleared
the hills sheared of Furs in summer
when lightning flashes purple anger?
No.
The topsoil 'twill yield to farmer's will
more easily thanks to tree's twilight.
So the prepared place
produces ripe taste.

Cursight

The last bit of hearing drools down his lobes,
constant screaming did his inner ears in,
here in the lower wings of the house shrouded by blackened wings,
broken bones hold crippled gooseflesh taunt,
a stream of feathers and sulfur marks their trail through the air.
Maggot-white bodies stretch the epidermal surface of the floor,
they nearly tear the membrane stretching for a helping hand,
one never comes,
unable to see,
kicking one another to push up against their ceiling,
blind by the skin strung over their heads,
their mouths open to vent their agony,
a muffled chorus vibrates the floor.
Neon skeletons reveal spiked iron cages
hung from the ceiling.
The melting flesh of the unfortunate drapes from wrist to hip,
like webbing,
as they reach up,
from rapids of molten gold,
so bright they burn the beholder,
and when he's hungry,
a local lord dips his pudgy hands deep,
the heat hardly irritates his old scabs,
and by the handful,
he stuffs the damned down his beak.
Out-of-their minds with pain they raise a racket,
a drizzle of blood from the ceiling sizzling in their throats,
which could swallow snow yet know no chill or damp,
can't anyone suffer in peace?

Videogames are the Greatest Art Medium yet to Exist

Following is a hierarchy of artforms from lowest to highest. They're a pyramid based upon what senses the art forms stimulate. This art pyramid's based upon the definition of art as a work successfully attempting to stimulate one or more senses more than normal intake does. The degree of skill shown in the work and stimulation demanded's relative.

1 Sense
Literature (includes poetry, prose, etc.): Visual symbols for auditory stimulation. It could be argued words stimulate all senses but similarly any sensory stimulation evokes other senses (smell muffins>imagine what the muffins look like). This assortment of art forms is based on innate properties not human interpretations. Literature is a visual recorded translation of sounds so it's equivalent w/music. It stiumlates 1 sense and's on the tier of low art.

Music (hearing)

Statues, Paintings, Reliefs, Architecture, etc. (visual)

Cooking (olfactory)

Rollercoasters/Extreme Sports (sense of equilibrium)

2 Senses
Comics (the audio stimulation of words and the visual stimulation of pictures)

Movies, tv shows, webisodes, etc. (realtime comics)

Theatre (live movies)

3 or more Senses

Videogames (so far the only medium in the tier of high art. All that music is movies encompass. Comic's envelope all properties of literature. A movie's movement excludes it from including the medium of literature within itself likewise the stillness of comics exempts music from the low arts it can represent. But in a videogame reality is simulated. Music can play while poetry's read at leisure. Every trait of most low and both medium artforms is incorporated into videogames. What has yet to be but has potential to be included in the medium are senses of taste, touch (rumbling's negligible), smell, etc.

What's the matta? Synthetic Synthemata

It's not that I don't want to do anything it's that there's nothing to do.
It's not writer's block it's cock-blocking bollocks: bullshit keeping me from spitting/emitting any thing worth writing (casting in the ring of causality which casts me as a member of the cast.)
Gold became common currency in societies united by rulers.
Humans in freedom are more freeform in their exchanges. We barter.
The guy who beats everyone else until we stand in a line kills until his tradegood is standard payment.
He is a needle cutting through the bone and sinew of humanity to sew diversity into homogeneity.
People w/differences are peoples -isles, keeping to ourselves.
Bonds are wed by bleeding thread a gleaming metal needle who punctures and pinches.
Plenty leaks out but what he keeps is bundled.
His grip makes slip vigor yet the bound bundle is imprinted into a handle.
Conveniently impressed we let him carry on carrying off our sakki.
We'll drink sake to our health while he drinks our wealth.
It's not that there's nothing to do it's there's nothing worth doing.

Before the next Charge

The freshly slain lay together as hills and plains,
birds' caws echo,
beetles nibble gums in skinned smiling mouths,
air tugs on torn clothes too weak to wear out their final threads,
moss spores pour into the sky from decomposing muscles,
bones whistle and rattle,
a gory musical gallery,
cats gracefully leap from ribcage to femur,
the lower strata's skeletal,
limbs entwine in patterns finer than latticework,
worms wriggle in little tunnels where meat and mud meet,
armies of ants and squadrons of flies dine on dried flesh,
beneath the bomb-battered shrapnel, ground-soil toils to swallow blood,
earth sucks loads of lymph,
rain washes ash through gaps in former people,
the skyline has burned down lower than the waterline,
skyscrapers are pyramid profiles on the landscape,
stacks of cracked office supplies overflow from broken windows,
crates and material are marrow greased,
it drizzles too lightly to put out fires fed by oily munitions,
vultures pass over looking for fresher eyes,
housewives' faces are leathery in their kitchens,
foxes eat their fill and bury the extra,
packs of wild dogs sniff out the hidden human,
pits of rot are warm from teams of teeming bacteria working, tireless,
treads crushed corpses with their mark in passing,
sewer pipes -exposed and ruptured- vomit on the scene,
rats gnaw on the fattest cockroaches,
brambles break the breathless breasts of once-men in rambling paths,
reeking ramparts buttress crumbling concrete walls,
pebbles pepper stagnant bodies,
uprooted trees straddle this sick sea,
full of charnel passageways.

Lead on Me

Most men enjoy the wear and tear of their bodies, the blunting of their minds, in labor to greater society. We like to think we contribute our part, give atleast the worth we take, and provide cause for our fellow men to appraise us highly.
Most men are discomforted with commanding. To grasp any new tool puts one's mind into a temporary confusion while the tool's integrated. The more vast, potent, and complex a tool is the greater the fright of confusion besetting a mind sounding out its' use. No tool man may grasp is more vast in its' applications and abilities than men. Mentally these dual role-developments can be taken as successively feminine then masculine. First an addition to the body is enveloped by the psyche then the addition is a projection of the psyche.

Sorts of personalities which lend themselves to leadership roles:
1) Egotists. Every man fails yet it's healthy to resume battle against opponents you've seen defeat from rather than cede the field to despair. I define a man an egotist when he crosses through an intermediary range of boldness and confidence into blindness and denial of his foibles. This sort of man isn't aware he's lying to you when he says he has done no wrong. He forgets his own mistakes. The account of his misdeeds is lost from his mind and he seeks to start no fresh list. He is unendingly sure he should get what he wants and be obeyed. His natural doubts are overriden by a process: feeding the emotional friction (which is uncertainty) of conflicting ideas back into his pushyness. His pride is a lightning rod for the energy cast from self-doubt. Prompting him to self-analyze refracts in his psyche to agitate him. He'll yell louder when you tell he shouldn't yell. The brief moments when he is overtaken by self-mistrust he is intensely broken, a madman walking through a small strip of clarity, having little developed the error>analysis>correction routine a man healthily reinforces.
2) Unsympathetic. Like a frightened soldier curtailing his fear to be brave instead of a coward, a man must subject his sympathy to be just instead of merciful. For mercy is laxity. By our social natures we're inclined to count other people, to some degree, as equal to ourselves. I do not mean equal as compared to a ruler, "he's just as good as me". I mean equal -as crazy as it reads when put explicitly- as in one. To some degree we even count strangers as an entity with us. But like our imagined self, the nature of these arrangements, and how developed they're varies by our appraisal of ourselves, others, interactions, subgroups, etc. Suffice to think we don't want to see others hurt b/c we don't want hurt and by an infinitesimal measure count other men equal with ourselves. It is when resources our scarce with which to feed the body we make further divisions to survive. We decide which leaves are clipped and which grow. A man without sympathy has a greater capacity for manipulating others because their suffering hurts him less. As he defines himself distinct from them he's isolated against their tears. No man is completely cut-off from his fellows b/c to be so he couldn't be social. Socializing is innate to all men: it's how we learn to speak, mimicking our fellows. A social instinct allows integration between species: dogs corralling sheep, horses obeying man, girls hunting w/wolves, monkeys tossing fish to dolphins.

These character-templates each allow for a man to command with less unease than his fellows. Possessing both is superfluous although a fraction of these traits could let a man perform with as unaffected a conscious as someone very specialized along one self. Between these two, the 2nd is master. A fault against nature in denying one's mistakes: the uncorrected man's as weak to faulty patterns of thought as he was when they proved ill in his observation. A lack of human sympathy has no innate flaw command-wise. We treat betratyers as friends, renewing bankrupted accounts of trust, because we don't want to retract our connection to Man to match the least sympathetic men in scale. Less empathy may mean less feeling in general which may lessen quality-of-life: for a man little-affected by his fellows' feelings is less stirred by the greatest party he organizes than an empath at the simplest family dinner.
The egotist won't need to rule in fact if he's convinced he rules. He'll especially be comfortable with recognition as the authority over people despite an Unsympathetic being the real decider of events. The egotist is content with posturing and outward signs of superiority. He isn't attentive enough to specifics or willing to risk the danger of self-understanding by analysis. Just as the Unsympathetic doesn't care if someone else hurts he doesn't care if someone else is happy. A crowd cheering for him doesn't cheer him up. The unsympathetic works to tailor higher-quality and more specific pleasures for himself and is content to leave the various mob affections to egotists. Together these templates describe many leaders who rise in prominence and maintain prominence. The egotist is the President who folks will identify as their leader while the unsympathetic is a banker whose agents explain to the president in private what he'll say about the new agreement or law.

How many men exist who've highly developed the traits of one of these templates fluctuates. A man of any type may lead. Rulers'll seem -relatively- to fit these templates by a ratio difference like clergy:believers. Every man beloved by man may seem to sympathize with no one because he doesn't even know any of the people you know (but in truth may love his family same as you). Every man obeyed by many may seem to not know what the fuck he's doing but in truth many men do many different things and it is only said they act according to his will.

Great Nuncle

Mist is harsh and no comfort.
Bakeries' sugary delicacies aren't delectable enough to toughen my delicate mental state.
Blue plastic cups carry amber liquid which shifts in stomachs then twists through intestines.

Today's forecast is another marker on a road to worsening conditions.
Stolen property clutters the rooms we'll soon abandon, swooning before sleeping.
We're riding on rails, the cardoors are locked, and the conductor laughs maniacally while we approach an unfinished bridge.
A boxcutter mutiny may salvage our dignity.

It's hot. But not from global warming.
We're poor. But not from lack of working.
We're fools with weakened wills.

Defiant

I'll live outside until pride shames me
like a prim and proper housewife
whored out by a pimp
primped and prepped:
by a train
and forcibly
injected substance.

I'll plan for trials
though the jury's out on viability
and the situation's volatile.

I'll go alone
though friends wait
or family gather
I'd rather
intersperse
my socializing
mercenary cool
with sizing up myself.

Eternity in a Computer

The song leaves off where it was paused and though the interval extends long when another terminal is activated (the old cpu's power terminated) that song restarts at the same part.
Inside the screen is a place, an acquired taste, where time moves as you want.
The chronology of history can be listed as desired, revisited in any order.
You can teleport from forward and backward steps, skipping the long routes originally taken.
It's a world reconfigured by a thought.
While a mind wiles away a man there hours and minutes are irrelevant human inventions.
For now we see and hear through electrons and I suspect the only reason we don't feel and smell is we're holding back.
There's a fear we'll wreck our bodies or lives in reckless pursuit of a scape man-formed.
Heaven's too good to soon be seen.
We're torn between a want for greater measures of pleasure + social integration and the reassurance of suffering.
There's an integral association in man's brain between strain and reward.
We'd hate to be weaned off pain so when trouble is lean we push our fellows, wanting a thrashing, or beg for the tight confines of legal fines to bind us close as ocean by shore.
Then the discomfort implies through neurotic lies a reward rests in the future.
Each ache is a glimmer of glossy hope sensed past the horizon.
When we close in-on-each other through electrical portals we know a new physical integration.
Having not had this status from the first periods of our lives we hesitate to dedicate ourselves to't.
Who'll first dare the invention, a suggestion of a digital all-sense gestalt?

Children's Hos

Chubby Teletubby actors pull their tinky winkies to peals of tinkling laughter in trailers with stars emblazoned on their doors.
Barney&friends are wearing Depends in case the LSD laced grub runs through their system before the porcelain altar admits them.
The Doodlebops are smashing their stained hotel room like a real bland rock and roll band: cigarette ash is stomped in carpets, drinks are spilled in the trays, presents were left by their toy pets, the smell will stay for days.
The Wiggles wear long sleeve shirts to cover their habits and lay blitzed, throats hoarse from orgasmic screaming (incited by fisting and tossed salad yum) yum.
Lazytown is coming down from four score and twenty keys in an unleased house hearing dancing bassoon music, eating runny eggs, red-eyed on a sunny day, and there is no musician to listen to around.
Sesame Street's replete with mother's screaming to God, "why my baby?" and girlfriends sobbing, "habibi" as hard bangers vie for turf, every guy must die tough.
Dora the Explorer was kidnapped, slapped, and held for ransom. Grandpa replied to calls about a high hostage-release price w/, "I thought I had a grandson". Not wanting to grab some more girls and risk arrest the criminals decided it best to sell the abuelo-abandoned nino to slavers.

Our opening bid is € 20, 000.

Dinner Scene

When there's no seat at the table
he forged one
and added it on the end.
Wrens fluttered about his bride
whistling soft
singing aloft the rafters.
He showed his teeth
in a smile
each piece symmetrically white.

The avians metered chorus
promoted harmony melodically.
Each seated guest laughed lovingly
the atriums replying with chuckles.

A question came
to undo mood
its' tenor rude
the subject named
his bastard son.
He showed his teeth
baring them
daring them
to ask again
of missing babes.

The question fell
and talk resumed
the table would be
cleared off soon.
Lords and ladies
then would dance
for few would
rather chance
prompting doom.

The candles are snuffed
their heat gutters
the strength of sparks
now a sputter
of trailing smoke.
Guests have left
at hosts' behest
the masters find
they're lonely.
Having seen
a former queen's
distant cousin
a baby
he
master of the house
wishes he weren't without
child
living with wife only.

Amends

He's gonna spit some real shit

after he has learned it.

For now the how and why go by

stared at through unblinking eyes

in an antlered head wed

w/beams of light bright and fast

incomprehensible from their first flash

to their last shine shown before they passed.

Which is cause and whom effect

is unknown as should he boast or regret

the compromises made and people met

halfway between hard and wet

b/c both happened simultaneously

with startling similarity

the unsimple simultaneity can be,

sharp enough in stark relief

to spark doubts in clouds of hasheesha

whether the meaning's captured

or by blind idiocy released,

ah shucks

awe sheesh

events are intertwined

there's Jim

ask Him

he's Dandy enough

to cut down a dandelion shaft

even-in-halves

u see the semis

in the circumference

yet the circle's

in the hemis

each whole contains smaller parts

that-at-any-time start

congregation into new formations

always potential

sometimes available

momentarily real

gone before you feel

the momentous bumper's

impact.

Triumvirate of Couplets

Free is man from man when a fellow exerts no influence
and we are bound friend to enemy by social dependence.
A man doesn't think upon the ending of his days
but only attempts continuing his well-trod ways.
A lot of folks would have to die to make the world a better place,
but after they're dead and buried they'd only be replaced.

Clearly

Ve click on favorites lists and (links clinking their bolts both subtly and loudly trying to untie themselves from a toolbar) c if there's anything new-to-do.
F5 on news sites, forums, feeds and social networking sites is a refrigerator door closed then reopened.
Peekaboo.
It's a basic human madness: hope. The belief something good'll turn up b/c you want it to.

We vear uniforms blazing the colors we're loyal to.
When you rule it doesn't matter if you're right only if you're agreed with. Subordinates are not appointed for getting things done but b/c they do what you say.
Majin Buu.
Let yourself be sealed and you make authored fiction real.

The last laws were lies all but this nth time the retried relationship of laceration will work.
Keep obedient to Who Takes What You Have and you'll get what you want.
Pikachu.
Love your captor. Live where he holds you. Fight whom he told you.

Zz...z

The open door is an open mouth and I feel it wants to spout me out to roam about,

exhume me south from my dwelling with an expelling exhalation so I don't sprout roots binding my shoes to this plain plane of blue cobbled carpet.

Sitting still feels like a nut about to bust wanderlust is nuts.

What winds me up so my spine whines when sitting emitting an electric neuron impulse to neurotically pace post-haste and quit when exhausted?

Hunger's an energizer but milling isn't filling the quota I dote over very often: how many places I've been in per minute aught to've caught my accountant's attention but not a move takes away tension.

I'm pensive, pent in when standing in an open landing, a clearing with stars for a ceiling isn't selling me fulfilling healing I'm wondering then wandering mentally and physically shifty.

Could be a gift, for he who drifts most lifts his glass in glad toast to more sights than men who keep in the lights.

Exploring isn't trailblazing when someone has been there before or no follower blasts stumps 'til the path's cleared, pebbles laid and smoothed grooveless by sandals, hacked thoroughfares our handles on undiscovered lands fair and inviting.
My motor's cranked permanently so I attempt the accent more energetically than my peers in lower gears.

Domitable

Gus sees a spaceship.
Can you say spaceship?
Gus raises a fuss.
"Don't give me no lip"
his Dad says.
You don't hear a pip
from Gus, after that.

Gus sips a milkshake.
It's malted chocolate.
The flavor's fake.
Gus eats a burger.
It has cheese and bacon.
It's stolen by a burglar.

Gus leaves a tip.
He gets home late.
His parent's trust
their dog Grr
is on the Res.

Gus is at an altar
where a candle's lit
for his brother
so it may alter
his future.
The visit's another
chore Gus mustn't falter
in performing.

Osmosis

Creased heaps of criss-crossed sand pucker in mournful wind to ask for chapstick.
Seeds wilt and crack, sucking on dust.
Leaves green veins sprain, splay open, wrinkle into yellowed crisps.
Stalks slouch, bowing to the weight of petal-shedding flowers.
King sun smites fields dead.
Shirtless shallow-stomached farmers fret with rakes against rows the rare storms pound flat.
Leafless trees hold their moisture, comatose, turning purple for lack of breath.
Lightning splits them in rainstorms, quicker than cheetahs, leaving layers of aqua-beads thinner than dew.
Hungry mother's tits hang low, babies suckling though there's no milk to lactate, crying with thirst when their mouths are empty.
Boys with strength enough to run catch lizards for snacks.
The rare cattle are inured to flys chewing at the corners of their eyes where mucus crusts.
The highlight of weeks of living for children is a black-winged cloud of migrators texturing the sky.
Teenagers are tired of the sight.
Fathers hope their older children will take joy in the birdshade again.
White-haired elders have learned the ants' march, a harvest that survives, and a sky split by flying feathers are the good times to enjoy.

Tomorrow Street

Life's left less on lifeless avenues than news has heart to hew viewers eyes to in lieu of torsos lined with holes like fiefs or piccolos; they lull in tattered blood-darkened dress, kenning nothing while whistling unconscious 'cause kami blew through their gaps like a thresher saps a grassy field, gathering this season's yield.
To marrow's stress e tears, worm matted Tom mourns rows' treatise. Were more to mar* O treat te erstwhile mop-top merely strongly: teach worry. More torment borrowed screes tea-rights where ummah's it.
Men mingle a'tingle with a want ta meet. We'll all get together on Tomorrow St.
Riding a mare Tom arrives at a hospital. They help a little. Then his ummah takes him up. (Rocks slipped, skipped sloppily down a slope, tipped Tom's flagship, flipped his cup, and anxious wives found his body meanly taxed.)
The love of life's emotions in-breast. Belting tight our breath: expectations of death. Glory in self makes children>propagation. Go over an' speak wit' her when lifeblood burns hot. Stay still an' silent you're ill wit' rot.
Women wait for a great to greet. I'll see you there at Tomorrow St.

*he'dn't've lived.

Help me Lorites

It doesn't matter if a man means to help but by his clumsiness hurts or means to harm and by his skill hinders, the intervention of either is evil.
Utilitarians argue the usefulness of a deed for good or evil decides its' morality; Kant isn't concerned with consequences but intentions; Aristotle had an idea (I just found out today) disregarding intentions+consequences 4d "character" of d person which I suppose is evaluated by virtues and a bullshit means of pretending royalty is innately just, regardless of anything done, in a circular-reasoning bit to make out rulers as good. Egoism I disregard b/c morality is mostly the impartial arbitrary standard appealed to for dispute settlement. "You wronged me b/c [moral law*]". It may be thought "I didn't do right by myself", "a man shouldn't kill himself", or "you wrong your body with drugs" but these return to utilitarian standards, the lattermost really meaning "you'll get more pleasure from your body in your lifetime without drugs because the damage of drugs will cause a net loss of pleasure", appeals to a personified moral standard "your body is God's temple so keep it clean", collectivism "I don't like you when you're drunk", or weirdest-of-all the idea you're beholden to your body, that t'isn't a vassal commanded but somehow personified, for control of it you owe due maintenence.
Confusing me firstly, God is written in the Bible to've brought evil on people. This term is in the meaning of evil as a damaging state . Compare a tornado to adultery or flat tires to insults. The question "if a thing (God) is Good, the ideal/exemplar of the moral standard we want to obtain then how may it produce evil? If an action is good doesn't it bring about good? If it does not how is the act good?"
So, returning to the cause for which I originally started this [you decide], I presumed that my philosophical conclusion was foregone. I figured someone had thought the same thing before, written it down, it has a name, and there's a bunch of attached ideas revolving around it like an electron cloud. This impression was on me (I suppose) because some time ago I read in a book the names for every variable combination of God, Satan, and Man's existence, power, morality and relationship. I think the one where God and Satan were equal in power and Man is the neutral battle-decider was called Dualism. Maybe another capital name before or after. Anyway with a worldview for each combination: existence with man as good made by an all-powerful evil Satan in a Godless universe, man as evil with God and Satan as good one wanting to redeem man and the other condemn him (now I'm making stuff up), I figured someone must have run through the combinations of intent+action+result=moral. Good intention+evil action=evil result=good?
I checked out wikipedia and searched Google but haven't found the morality I'm currently ascribing to. I realized it when shifting back and forth about the Fed. Is there really a conspiracy to screw people over or are they inept idiots? I decided the answer's moot. Either way they're damaging us and so are undesirable. If they will not relinquish their power they should die because they do evil by ineptitude or intention. And that has been accepted in me as a generally applicable morality. A home owner has just as much right to kick out the mentally retarded relative who breaks his plates as he does the spiteful schemer who convinced the retard to do it. He is not obligated to care for either, to allow them in his home, to suffer his plates breaking. Funny I write this while housesitting.
I suppose, from the flipside, this situation's an appeal to individual rights. I Deserve, There is a Universal Standard and You Should are thirds of moral conceptions. You're just flipping the starting point and ending point back-and-forth. This house is mine (I bought it, built it, found it without owner, or it was given to me) and I won't have you in it breaking dishes OR you shouldn't break people's dishes and so I ask you to leave. That's the trick of collectivism: cowardly shysters who have the boldness to claim something but won't admit to others they're claiming start at the general end "you should treat someone who's sick, even if he gives you nothing in return" with the goal "I am sick, treat me for free" left unspoken to sink in as an impression of behavior people take for granted. I've never heard someone who has accepted such sublanguage be so clear as to include the fact "the doctor gets nothing in return for his work". That's one of the problems I have with Ayn Rand's writing: the villains speak their villainy explicitly as I've never known that sort to do in real life.

{Sublanguage: I just coined it and its' the optimum description. The entire point of such speech patterns is what I find a form of mislanguage but similar in goal and function so I can't call it anti-language. The righteous purpose of language is to observably define things so these definitions are known. Proper discourse appeals to a man's rationality so he may analyze what's put before him and by digestion let it sink into the lightless depths: wordless sections of his brain. Let it become conditioning, impressions, emotions, reactions, without the inner speech usually referenced by "thought".}

By contrast, sublanguage attempts, leaving absent the definitions of things, to make the definitions something only attainable as an impression. Do you understand the difference I'm trying to describe here? Proper language speaks to the speaking part of the brain so it may be relayed to the other parts. You're told, "look at that hotty" and the eye-controlling segment swivels the eyes to see what the sexual nethers are told to prepare for enjoying. You're told, "women have a right to choose" and approval for abortion is meant to sink into other parts of your brain, so the happy-juice releasing part of the mind puts out some cheer-me-up chems when that fat dyke Rosie O'Donnel gets cheered for holding a hanger. By its' nature sublanguage confuses people and to accept its' practice is to enter a permanent state of easier-to-delude confusion. No one's confusion is complete and there're degrees. I figure every person I've met would use and approvingly hear a "look at _____" phrase. It's a simple command implying the listener's eyes are missing a worthier sight. I can't imagine a sublanguage means of saying "look there" but herein are differences between these languages' natures. Regular language must be used for the simplest and most immediate exchanges of information because it is the basis of all language. If "here is an apple" is not understood to be an apple or "duck they're shooting at us!" the language is useless. Mislanguage is used for longer-term communications. It is used to trick minds into accepting what they would reject if plainly displayed. Mislanguage is really conditioning. "a woman's right to choose" has nothing to do with abortion. Calm down. I mean the phrase. Nowhere in "a woman's right to choose" is there a concept relating to abortion. Recombine the words how you want, study their descriptions, and you'll find an approving reference to abortion can't be taken as their meaning. The meaning is transferred entirely from context: at rallies, in the press, classrooms, corporate bulletins, political speeches, etc. It's mislearning the language.
You hear the word pollo and ask "what is pollo?" or "what does pollo mean?". Imagine asking that question, "what do they mean, a woman's right to choose?". Someone already indoctrinated would probably be pissed, taking it as a challenge. Someone comfortable with an innocently inquiring tone might say, "they're talking about a woman's right to choose abortion". I doubt the speaker'd be so to-the-point. But the phrase is completed. Consider mislanguage: the definitive noun the entire sentence is about is silenced to leave a sentence fragment. It's to be completed in the subconscious. It's to keep the speaker and listener from knowing what they're talking about. It's a call-and-response of approval. It's engraved in listeners by repetition. Even people who disagree that a woman has the right to abort her baby know that "a woman's right to choose" is intended to be misunderstood as talking about abortion because they've heard it juxtaposed so many times with abortion.
When a connection's accepted between "a woman's right to choose" and abortion 3 arguments are already yielded to.
1)If abortion is a right than any imposition to punish aborters or stop the practice is unjustifiable oppression; oppossition to abortion is wicked.
2)If abortion is a woman's than opposition to abortion is opposition to women; oppossition to abortion's sexist. Yet a woman should not be conceived of as a place. Really your dealing w/a third entity, "our baby". It's not feminine but evil to completely reject a father's claim to his child (the sort of message Joss Whedon approves in, "Heart of Gold").
So the accepters of this phrase have their minds already prepared for what arguments to connect to: oppression and sexism. What about choice? Everything's a choice. The phrase doesn't lead to a discussion of free will. It primarily serves as a red herring. At the end of a sentence, if someone's mind has skipped the appeal to righteousness and the appeal to feminism here's a way to kill time. It's filibuster material.
"But it's her choice!"
"Every choice she makes is her's to make -"
"It's her choice."
"whatever we decide to do's our choice"
"what she does with her body's for her to choose"
The idiot who more fully accepts the phrase has become convinced his opponent is disagreeing with a basic fact and so becomes involved in a dialog of talking past each other. Reminders of basics vs. pointing out irrelevance.
Finally, and worse is another meaning taken from the phrase. It's the most insidious part and my tracking skills aren't up to snuff to figure how it has been ingrained in people who accept this thought-fragment (like a virus is a fragment you must reproduce). Come to think of it...I guess it's the contrapositive. "A woman's forced to lose" or something. B/c it's an incomplete thought it's hard to get an exact reversal. But someone who identifies abortion as murder becomes (in the mind of whoever lets "a woman's right to choose" take root and grow in his mind) someone who'd force away chicks' rights. The dire evil of this idea is the implication rights can be taken away by the government, that the state determines our actions, etc. It's causality/reality in reverse: instead of us acting based upon our rights and giving power to the government, the government acts upon us and gives us our rights. It's also another interest of a man describing others as he least would want himself described and by his absence of fearfully identifying himself by the projected description fulfilling its' role comfortably. He is for gunman extorting wealth from parents to pay for their grandchildren's execution so daughters may go to the final state indoctrination center.
"think of your education. How can you have a baby now? There's government assistance for these procedures..."
These unprovoked, causeless acts of violence are justified in his mind b/c they're practiced. Again, as Rand noted, thoughts in illogical reverse: it's 1done so it's 2appropriate instead of it's 1appropriate so it's 2done. A causal punishment: murderers will be hurt because they murdered is thought to undo murders. Again thinking in reverse: if you punish murderers they won't be able to decide to murder.
That's the most concentrated example of sublanguage I know. I suppose such a convoluted association of lies is needed to displace the simple evil of abortion in folks minds. Other simple lies requiring convoluted wrongs are,
"# deposited today will become <# in [time]"
and
"you owe me what you work for"=taxes.
Even if you refuse to look at abortion as evil in a moral sense look at it as an effect, like God causing a storm, plague of locusts, etc. Is it destructive? Is something lost or gained by abortion? If you still imagine motherhood's somehow a perversion of womanhood than atleast you should reduce your lie to, "good is wrought by the evil of abortion" as I may jest "good is wrought by the evil of a crop's destruction. Land is freed up for development." A scraped womb becomes fallow.

*unrelated to a ruler's written orders

Cleansing

Flurries swirl in wind's busy whorl:
the breeze has places to be.
In the early AM my campus ensconces in sorcerous beauty circles of terra-flesh's purity.
Bare white crystal carpets reflect and refract like twinkling piles of powdery stars.
Sidewalk grids are rid of their imperfections by coats of antipodal specks.
Glacial breath throws banks from rest, tosses them to the whirlwind.
Down they fell and up some flew.
Ducks gather together near the bridge-covered river (in a pond's perpendicular feather-edged obelisks of light) to freeze their feet.
Tree branches are brought low as clouds mist on Virginia's moist land.
Sounds are muffled.
The multitude of insects, steps, scruffs, scrapes, scratches, and rackets are silenced.
Those few noises remaining ring out smooth, slow.
Street-lining branches, they lay reclined as nodding heads in rocking chairs, call to mind funnel cakes coated with powdered sugar.
The unseen sun arcs light across the humbly shrouded sky, bounding about reflective surfaces, scattered by the millions of anti-dust particles (composed of water versus oil) a cavalcade of wondrous lightplay beyond what a club's laser-spray through machine-hissed fog can imitate.
This night's storm's subtle.
The flakes almost hang instead of fall.
Light cones are shown by the dots denoting their circumference.
Snow makes the scenery new.

Muse 00

The most lovely lyrical lines of witty and resonate rhythm I envision are wind-stole and neuron-bounced before paper comes into play.
Fingers and letters are in the way of the emotive concepts I try to ply as a trade and ready-made convey.
Ready-made I say for similarities of sound are found prefabricated in the fabulous forms of language.
Music awakens which leaves me shaken then vacates the hollows of head w/out inscription, my guestbook unsigned by the best visitors.
Sniff, see, taste taint, frosted air on skin, cracking a neck-bone: these are mild channels.
Higher frequencies rare tuned to come through clear sometimes, the best times, and can't be recorded by one so used to bruised reality's misuse.
Does our universe ever give a muse for man to choose the subject of?
We receive visions matter won't envision or sequences physics don't hold.
My favorite things are bubble-ephemeral, fizzy carbonation in syrupy water, what turns flat and soon tasteless.
I wish I could produce them to [pass along / have forever].

Werthurtheil

Here's my latest die-rolling guess at metaphysical cosmology:
There's an unreached balance. Existence has an evenness, a flatline of activity it wants to reach. But there's excess in existence. Reality's a perpetual motion machine, unable to discharge its' excess. What in existence there's too much of to allow equilibrium to be reached is transitive as everything else. It could be a salt molecule, 8 solar systems, the sound of a bell tuned to b bouncing around a cave on the moon, and some other things individually or simultaneously. Before and later it's something else. It doesn't have to be all in one form. The idea is the structure of reality is such that it has a conception of perfection but is unsettled by a portion it hasn't fit in to its' ideal. Things shuffle forever. I write like our universe is conscious but I really mean the sum of physical laws are such that there's a stable formation the universe tends towards but can't incarnate.

Pretentious

Howabout a riddle?
What does every man have
and every lion need?
-or-
What do you need to get
similar to what a camera makes things?
-or-
What are you already that I won't tell
you the answer until you are?

Don't Leave Me

At the dispersal of a party, be it family gathering at holiday, friends for a drink, a dance club's closing, or any occasion there's a sensation of emptying in the revelers. Neural rows of connections between us snap off. Like series of usb ports unplugged.
It's hardwired in us to crave company, to love society. Some are satisfied with the gathering and look forward to the next. A remainder of the last party stays together to continue elsewhere. Singles split off to return to solitude. Some stay at the place of meeting to clean up or 'cause they live there. Maybe to linger and admire the setting. Some work to counter the flow of the mob, convince people to stay, and sometimes have charisma or new events enough to hold onto most of the crowd. On the greatest of scales: this last role in the party is fulfilled by politicians, bankers, and bureaucrats.
In the context of mingling, lawmakers are party-planners. Lawyers referees for our games. Cops and armies bouncers who decide who gets in without sneaking and who stays without wanting. Executors are hosts who won't give dinner to guests who repeatedly refuse to play. Then oppression is the neurosis of someone who fears the band he has assembled hates him and takes every measure to keep as many people as close as possible. Of course "The Man" in his manor is not inviting the rabble into his house but he's touching us through his currency, military, and infrastructure. He doesn't want to let go. The shame is these types seem to eventually become the depraved bully. The madman who hits a woman if she tries to run away and then will say how much he cares while stroking her face. Like that chick from the Stephen King movie who breaks a guy's legs...

Banhammer

An ascendent's first action, if he'd be a ruler, is to hinder those like he was from becoming as he is.



He burns the bridge behind him for if h3 is to k33p p0w3r h3 |\/|ust re|\/|ain elite.

It is the men w/gunswho would ban guns.
The governor hates other thieves, taxmen loathe their fellow extorters, those who issue currency most fear coiners. Did God bar sorcery to subject man?

Inevitable

Every shape in universal scape squashed flat, a y-axis of zero.
Schedule.
Planned in a boardroom.
Help me mount my horse sirrah.
Briefcases canary yellow letters tell the cues.
Bring timber to the saw.
Your blue skin does glow.
Yeah you descend from clouds and nagas lift you up.

My body is as solid as a face in a painting seen from a distance. But up close each splotch of paint is telling.
What's it about?
Release receives boos.
Tricks of the light are subjects of awe.
Aurora Borealis isn't a magician's bunny, sniffing cutely for carrots over the brim of a top hat, smelling mercury. Our eyes are crooked telescopes showing a McDonald's sign where there's a yellow line.



There is only illusion. Lifegoals are shams. The falsities are so many they distract from one another's faults. Cutting through a wall's fabric shows there's nothing solid or better beyond.



Probing at best finds a better prestige. Else the searcher is consumed by lack.

Anachronisms

Why do I still ask people for information a Google search's liable to turn up?

The gain of communication isn't only the knowledge gleaned but the connection established. Innately a human wants to bond w/others and enjoys company.
Machines are flawed. Matter important enough (like when to launch a nuclear arsenal) though routed through computers as tools are left to man's judgment. Most questions can't be answered by a computer yet (remember a response to a question isn't inherently an answer). How does this dress look? Does the cuisine taste good? Yet I can imagine crude similitudes of man's analysis in the future: machines that sample the molecules of a foodtray and are usually right in determining if it's tasty or not. They could be based off those police alcohol-detectors and fed the specifics of a user's profile (allergic to garlic, doesn't like spicy foods, meat's favorite part of the meal). Yet still we'll ask each other, waiters and chefs, what's the best food in the house.
Chips may be raised to greater thought but they'll never be on our level. They'll always be servants, handling mundane duties while we humans discuss more convoluted matters.

Warm-Up

There's a place few go
in our studio
where between the shows
outside limelight
beyond spotlight
in dim Indian lanterns Atlantian glow
between carlights
under moonlight
the deals we'll wheel out are Faustian
hidden from ticketholders
leadin' some holy rollers
to baths with soap that scrubs off scope yet left dollars
gathered with hoots and hollers
by children, men, and elders
choose the cause of their living all yours.


An English teacher of mine, Mr.Arnold, would tell readers of poetry to deliver it w/the punctuation it was written in. He'd also stop at each line on the second read through to dissect it for meaning, sound, rythm, meaning, language devices and poetic form. Keep your breath when reading my poems. My mental voice doesn't need to breathe and can talk much faster. Part of the pleasure and merit I instill in a poem is that the emphasis of syllables+speed of reading changes how sounds blend together and complement each other. If you imagine every frequency not as a wave but a spectrum band, like a bar code but colored like your computers defragmentation report, then changes in pronunciation, inflection, tempo, spacing between sounds, and similarity of sounds would alter the final readout of those lines. Where was there overlap=one sound matching another? What words became less distinct, overtaken by a pattern of reemerging syllable? I don't have a single way of reading set in mind as the ideal. Playing w/the tempo of my reading gives multiple pleasant results and this experience is what I want for imaginary future readers.

http://192.20.225.55/tts/speech/9af60879e2e411fbbc5d4772a830fe1a.wav
http://192.20.225.55/tts/speech/7feb6f984b91ed823c6a29a37e7b592c.wav

Read by another language it's glossalia
http://192.20.225.55/tts/speech/6064288d156790940f24cd118aea25f5.wav

Diagnoses

What is the healthiest sort of man? By my reckoning we're mired in various types of people, the dusty wind a jello mold and people's dwellings marshmallows in it. There'll always be this kind and that. Even were every mime killed and the practice stricken from our records I expect makeup use would still be incorporated in entertainer's routines. Silent acts would reappear. Some would combine makeup, costume, and charades in such a way that mimes were inadvertently reborn. Maybe the way you blow on your toenails to dry the latest coat of paint harkens to a forgotten queen's footcare. The wrinkled nose you have at seeing no bake chocalate and rice cookies may be common among future bums. His afro and private music studio may indicate zoophilia.
Is the man who wants to control others the one w/the halest sensibility? Any man may recognize there's worth in having someone else do what ye tell but that's not the same as having the instinct to dominate. Children who love the sea may grow into fishers or surfers. We all understand the sea's lovable. But we don't swim daily. What better pursuit is there in life? How can home, family, armies, or even nations be weighed superior to the control of millions? Analysis and creativity (explorations of potential) are my greatest pleasures. You have your own distinct things that appeal to you more than other people -though you mayn't say why- and so your life largely incorporates doing/partaking/making whatever. We can't rid ourselves of our dispositions. {Conditioning doesn't eliminate a man's past experience} Objectively, isn't the want to rule the most logical? Then isn't hatred of oppressors covetousness or jealousy? Then again, wanting is not earning and trying is not skillful. He who'd have the world doesn't deserve it for daring the task nor will he come through the trial whole.
Things to think about before you die.

Blemish

There is transformation but not equilibrium, novelty, or destruction. Existence is eternal and unaltered. When new code is included in a videogame it must be sound w/in itself and in its' correspondence w/the game's other constituent parts else there will be a glitch. Games simulate reality w/personalities of polygon expressions, actors' voices, houses, and roads. When a pathing command is fla3wed a man in a game's town may walk into a wall forever as a method of reaching the tree on the wall's opposite side. If a glitch is severe enough in damaging other parts of the game (interrupting their processes) it may cause the entire game to crash. Humans, outside the gameworld, aren't impeded by the game's crash. We may reboot, observe the problem, and correct it. Were it possible for a novelty to be added to our reality we would have to simulate its' incorporation to predict any patterns it would impair and how the degradation of existence could be avoided, continuance assured. But if the element to be added were new there would be nothing to compare it to amongst those parts already in operation. The results of its' inclusion would be unpredictable. Afterwards, w/our dimensions crashed, we or God could not correct the fault, existing as we do w/in the thing affected. It is also probable that b/c a truly novel thing would not correspond to those existing it couldn't be interacted w/in ways existing things already do and may not have a means of interfacing w/the rest of reality at all. Also, what impetus could prompt a thing to be w/out composing it of what already is?

In the Bible God hears the blood of Abel cry out from the soil where Cain slew him. He hears the oppressed cry out. He hears the afflicted in their affliction, the haughty in their haughtiness, the secret hearts of men and is moved by some sounds to destroy. Rain falls on upright and wicked alike. Fire consumes righteous men alongside the vilest. When God brings punishment on a city it is impartial. He spared Lot but other places were visited w/famine, flooding, plague, brimstone, war, earthquakes, and other manslayers caring not whether they took a Devout Servant of Love or a Hater of Everything Good. In our own bodies, we hear nerves. If enough nerves in a spot cry out consistently, agitating, we'll bring our nails upon them to cut at and scrape the outcriers until their annoying pester becomes a report of pain. It is more pleasant to us to feel pain than irritation. Perhaps then we are God's nervous system. A city cries out for much wickedness is in it. Eventually the persistent call brings down God's destruction. Voices in the city turn to lament, crying out in pain, and there are fewer voices raised. God is comforted.

Party Planner

A man in a town full of neighbors who hate him would not propose a body be formed w/the authority to rape any of the wives in town for fear of his own wife's safety. For a man to propose a body be created w/some power over others or an existing body have a power added onto it he must be confident this entity atleast agrees w/his goals and at-usual won't escape his control. For the body to be successful it must be stronger than those opposed to its' practices. The proposal of a body's creation can be an act of opposition, a rebel faction meant to usurp rule for different standards establishment. Who will most pander for, work towards, and instruct fealty to a new institution? The men who gain influence by its' actions and their servants. So it may be determined that when Bush wants a department that'll capture people and torture us w/out a trial coming he shows he wants to have people tortured; when Gore brings before congress plans for a global credit system that'll tax corporations he reveals he wants to steal from these corporations.


A gang of friends is boldest when sure they're already the most popular and no rival clique can unseat their rule: the smaller/weaker associations and individuals will be unable to stand against the majority's force. A ruler pads his land w/laws which are oppression moreso separating him from other single men so they'd have to strive against more infrastructures, objects, people, etc. to overthrow the ruler or otherwise act against him.


Whatever goal a man gives for the changes he proposes is irrelevant: the state prerequired by the goal in his plan is the thing surer and more regular to be and so'll be more impactful and is his greater goal. Cameras to lower crime. Will crime be reduced? Maybe. It's more likely surveillance'll increase. Because the fundamental change is what must last (and will persist despite the goal coming no closer) it's what makes or breaks a plan. Robbing is not okay b/c you say it'll feed the homeless. The taxman robs, homeless starve, he robs more, still the homeless starve his state-of-looting persists and grows though the goal is no closer. A shining city on the horizon.

So it is the necessities of a proposal that're important. It doesn't matter if he says it's to save the Earth; it matters that he says we can't drive gas-powered cars. Like other forms of wealth, the ability to dominate isn't a zerosum game. Armies don't only take personal decisions from locals, enforcing curfews so the dead lay outside and the living stay en la casa, they can acquire weapons or implement systems (drivers licenses, stars of david, deer tags) to track, identify, and organize other people. The efficcient application and power of violence increases w/communications networks, tracking, etc. A paranoid/fearful (or wise?) ruler is willing to sacrifice all other forms of wealth to continually expand his ability to pin us to a position and pen us in at that location.