39 poems

A Belly, Not a Mind

Belly loaded, brains are numb.
Welcome, newborn sluggish chum,
Born inside the Kingdom of Munch!



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Your belly's full, your brain is none.
Welcome, slow-wit, newly sprung,
In the Realm where all just munch!



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Packed with paunch instead of thought.
Hail, dull fool the feeders brought,
Born where Munch is all they're taught.



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A Hole at the Bottom

A breach into the Other Side,
Too pure for Lies where shame resides,
Was sealed by those who dwell Below—
They war on Reason, this we know.



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The Bottom's Patch

A crack that led Beyond the Lie,
Where Truth could still outlive the sky,
The Bottom sealed with grim delight—
For Reason is its foe to fight.



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The Hole Below

A hole into the Other Sphere,
Untouched by Lies that flourish here,
Was plugged by creatures of the Deep—
They wage on Reason endless siege.



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A breach into the Other Plane,
Beyond the realm of Fraud and Shame,
Was sealed by dwellers of the Base—
Who battle Reason face to face.



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Blowhards

Blowhards stand where paths should lie,
Wounding every soul nearby.
"Media" and "laws" comply...
Hell is ruled by blowhards' cry.



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Windbags bar the Spirit's way,
Leaving deeper scars each day.
"Media" and "laws" obey.
Hell is where the windbags stay.



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Empty mouths become the bars
That keep Souls behind their scars.
"Media" and "laws" applaud.
Hell belongs to empty frauds.



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Blowhards

Blowhards block the Spirit's flight,
Wounding Souls by day and night.
"Media" and "laws" unite.
Hell is blowhards' true delight.



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The tension slipped away.
All nonsense ceased to stay.
Much work was done that day:
The Lyre, a living sting,
Struck deep—not there to kill,
But forged a stronger will,
And led to clearer Sight,
While driving off decay.



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The tension fell at last.
All foolishness had passed.
The work was deep and vast.
The Lyre became a dart—
It pierced but spared the heart.
It filled the Soul with might
And brought Enlightened Sight,
Leaving decay apart.



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The strain dissolved at last.
All empty trifles passed.
The labor was not small.
The Lyre became a sting,
It pierced—but did not kill.
Instead it forged the will,
Unveiled Enlightenment,
And held decay at bay.



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Blind to where your journey starts,
Through the dark you lose your heart.
To where can fruitless labor steer,
If every step begins unclear?



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You know not where your path began,
So through the dark you rage and run.
Where can wasted efforts lead?
Nowhere worth a soul's true need.



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You know not where your starting lies,
So through the dark you rant and strive.
Where can hopeless labor lead,
But further from the Truth you seek?



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You know not where your race began,
So through the dark you rage and run.
Where will all that labor go?
Tell me... does a blind path know?



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A gloomy reason, sad indeed,
To hear a fool's incessant creed:
Too few of Others now remain...
The times are truly dark with pain.



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Grim is the reason, plain to see,
To hear a fool's absurdity:
The Others now are all but gone...
The outlook's bleak—we're carrying on.



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Sad is the reason fools hold sway:
The Wise have nearly passed away.
So few of Others still survive...
The world's in dreadful shape alive.



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A bitter reason fills the air
To hear the fool's relentless blare:
So few of Others still remain...
Things truly have gone wrong again.



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Madness triumphs, Reason's slain—
Thus the Rotten World is framed,
Spawned by creatures' foul campaign.
Horned is every god they name.



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Madness wins, and Reason falls.
Rot now reigns through ruined halls.
Beasts unleashed this global blight.
Horns reveal the "god" outright.



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Madness crowned and Reason cracked—
Thus the Rotten World was packed.
Beasts have brought this foul collapse.
Horns betray their god at last.



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Madness reigns, while Reason's dead—
Thus the World is choked with dread.
Beasts have forged this foul attack.
Even Allah's horned, in fact.



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Madness reigns, while Reason's dead—
Thus the Rotten World's been bred.
Spawned by Beasts in full attack.
No surprise—the god wears black horns.



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Amusements in Shitworld

Scratch the itch—it's back once more.
What gets hammered to the core?
Naught but slander, lies unfurled,
Sent by rotten Shitworld.



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Entertainment in Shitworld

Scratch again—it feels so nice...
Every notion pays the price.
Empty lies become your shield,
Sown by Shitworld's poisoned field.



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Fun in Shitworld

Scratch the itch—it won't be still.
Feed the head with what you will:
Nonsense, slander, falsehood's swirl—
Gifts dispatched by Shitworld.



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Pastimes in Shitworld

Scratch the itch—it starts anew.
Soon your head believes it true.
Lies and slander, tightly curled,
All dispatched by Shitworld.



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Fortune slipped away.
Contempt grows every day
For this distorted place,
Where every card's erased.

No map of worldly lands—
Beyond all luck it stands.
Behold it deep inside:
The Light shall be your guide.



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Luck has gone its way.
Scorn grows day by day
For this misshapen sphere,
Where all the cards are clear.

This is no mortal chart,
Nor Fortune's fragile art.
Look deep where Light begins—
It shines from far within.



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Fortune fades from sight.
Scorn for life's dull blight
Grows with every day—
The cards no longer play.

No map the world can claim,
Nor Fortune's fleeting game.
Behold it deep within:
The Light has always been.



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Fortune's gone at last.
Scorn for life's decay grows fast,
Where every worldly card
Has long been broken, marred.

No map of this world's ways—
Beyond blind luck it stays.
Behold it deep inside:
The Inner Light's your guide.



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Dry as dust—you can't push through.
Sex appeal? A grim taboo.
Better choose the Higher Way—
Through the world's thick murk and clay.
Such foul haze fills every breath,
If you've got a mind beneath.



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Dry as hell—it won't go in.
Lust's a nightmare, steeped in sin.
Better walk the Spirit's Road,
Through the mire's crushing load.
Choked by all the world's decay,
If your mind has not gone astray.



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Dry as bone—you force in vain.
Sexuality's a chain.
Better tread the Spirit's Way,
Through the world's bewildering gray.
Muck and murk choke every breath,
If you've still escaped mind's death.



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Dry as dust—no forcing through.
Lust's a horror, tried and true.
Better walk the Spirit's Way,
Through the world's engulfing gray.
Murk so thick you fight for breath,
If you've woken out of death.