mgenthbjpafa21

To wash away this pain, carry out the disdain
Don’t come in vain,
I am being mercilessly slain
But that’s OK,
As explicitly was shown, they may.
 
Hannibal crossing the Alps, winning,
Near the Po and Trebua, Lake Trasamino’s and Cannae
Didn’t save Carthage from the raise of Africanus
Till the total destruction of the Phoenician  rooted civilization.
After the disarray of my identity,
On who else this methods will be used, updated and upgraded?
 
Resources never dreamed at classic antiquity,
Nor in possession of the slayers of Titans.
In disguise as tactics of social harmonization
Even under the Asclepius Wand, terror is at hand.
Remember the  structuralism of Michel Foucault
Considering cum granu salis, understand
L’histoire de la Folie et Surveiller et Punir...
 
O irony, won’t you leave your job siding destiny,
Snarling at thy subjects syncretic misery?
No Ars Amatoria, maybe be sent to a glass shelter,
Making Ovid’s banning a cosmopolitan cozy place.
 
While the dogs bark the caravan is passing. No,
May all canines in unison and tone ferociously bark!
As Joyce let slip in Ulysses, history is a nightmare,
So one may not forget we are inevitably there.
Be aware, creed is fallacy, no one is going to care.
 
Statistical analysis, freedom paralysis. Etcetera,
What will you do about Baidu?
The question rests, will You?

Black hole sun won’t you come?

So many masks to bear testimony,
Farces played so often, veils of transparency
Silks and brocades on orchards so fruitful
Some although still refuse to be playful
Some broken in so many micro fractures
 
The one dismembered at birth
How could he advocate
The use of surrogate limbs
As effective as those unmet protuberances
 
Engine whose key has never turned
Bus never settled to a determined destination
Like the state of a startled nation
Devastated by evil brought in bottles of disease and fire
 
Unsettled occupiers of Scorched barren smashed
Dark land
Where lost souls yelling
Put masks aside
Pay nightmare fees of passage,
Pay for your masks of translucent mazes,
Nearly opaque recurrent
Daily itineraries
 
Baths not taken,
Freezing waters of disarray
After you, blurred Cape May
Where a soul was forsaken
Buried in white sands
End to all its errands.

Anne Sexton felt the need of religion
Oh starry, starry night, I am well with indecision 
For that is my nature to gaze at the fork,
To float in a windful sea of waves in a cork,
Seated gazing at that sexton's starry, starry, 
Sky that she borrowed from Vincent.

I take from her and pass it on, my intent. 
Starry-eyed people that carries our hope,
I carry on, tootling, persisting, I try to cope!

Seems to be a fascination,
In a time of Brazilian Wax
And shinning Cunni exposé
Legs open far, allegoric dorsum
As an Inventiveness of Self
Body Art categorically Alluring
 
Cohabitation, Tenderness
 
Seems to endure a spread taste
For bargains involving the Anima
Especially when almost nobody
Really believes having one anymore.
 
Maybe our grandparents had one
People think to ease
The restlessness
Of the acceptance,
The weak not conforming
With the loss of the traditional
Afterlife, whatever the form
It may reveal
It is
After all
Some place of rest to the worthy.
 
One of the great dangers
Of the nascent century
Is
(And now when gaining adulthood)
And
Still remains
The Revival of Faith.
(Are people gone collectively insane?)
(Embrace your eccentricities)
 
Sailing a Sea of Tolerance,
Could I Dearly ask of you
More wax less faith?
Avoid the latter.
 
Faith is a dangerous motivator.
Faith has been killing since the Dawn
Of Sentient consciousness
Made Glorious Shrine by a son
Of somebody
Sometimes believing being
The Son of Something,
Light, Fire, Morning, Gaia
Or Not the Owner but its Son.
 
Usually with Capitals like Lord, Prophet,
Or even the Arian Race,
Or the Masters of Disgrace.
 
Yes, don’t fool yourself
This is all a Faustian Bargain.
 
Be proper, don’t disdain
But how not to
When organized
Religion
Mutates into the same Conglomerate
Logic that transverse society?
 
TED talks are more “religious”
In a sad way
That the politically correct sermon
Of Sunday
(Hail to Theology & Epiphany)
 
Why are people so fond of exorcisms, vampire or werewolves?
Are those sects more accessible than health care?
(In an Extensive meaning which includes aesthetic
And genetic treatments to say the least)
Well, I’d rather become a Vampire.
It seems a relatively open and functional group...
 
Don’t give up on Caustic words to an Acid world.
 
Is it related to the plutocratic society
That dictates how the workforce
Will be like in ten, twenty or thirty years?
 
Like as in predicting 117th Tenessine?
“”Island of stability”
 
Are there enough similarities
To invoke fundamental questions?
 
Shame upon myself if I would ever give up
To your manipulative delusional promises
Shaped to get the compliance of an idiot.
 
Being an idiot doesn’t make
A complete weird stupid wacko.
So much was apparently given, but...
NOT.
 
Neolution Fringe?
As in Netflix?
Don’t make me laugh.
Rather have a deserted epitaph
 
Humanity is improving skills with 10% of science
And 90% of resilience
The neo slaves, indoctrination in action.
We map ourselves and (who?)
Choose the buttons to pull.
 
A truce could be called to reflect
But only Acceleration is at the table
Solving the problems created
By
“Those who came before”
Sacrifice now, protect
“Generations to Come”
Blindfolded to reality, misty shore
On the edge of a world not only uncertain
 
But planned by an elite smaller than ever
Controlling a network powerful and new,
Fast pace always telling tales about education
 
Teaching us emotional control to stand after suffering.
 
Who really stands over the death bodies
Of wars and revolutions fought
Of unjustified disease, of countries turned to ashes?
How many times we had to rebuild over a century?
Just say who won the contracts
Tell whose benefit all that pain has become
 
Tell it
If your man made character
If your growth personality still allows it.
You tool, you fool,
Come and see.
 
A believer Golem was manufactured
Out of Human Clay,
Only to dissolve anyway.

A touch of blood to the head.
A corps in inverted position.
Attraction, ended communication,
All her remains analyzed, 

Not a given supposition. 

It was a sunny morning, 
Sara always went downtown 
To catch the ferry to work
Her head already at indexation.

We will never know the cause.
Has she gasped some sense before
The blow cut her off, ended her lore? 
Only Devil may know, heard as a whisper.

Sara Denton spoke no more.
Sara laughs vanished.
Sara stays at her tomb.
Sara will never be seen.
Not a wife, nor a next of kin. 

A blooming blue tulip she was.
A void where once grew life,
No children, nor husband or wife.
At least she's not Jane Doe,
Most of them treated as a foe.

Words are just painted impressions,
And the world has taught us how
They go astray and turn, or still.
We stand upon this tainted hill
Of diverted intent and call it History.

A layer upon another in a giant pill,
Like a palimpsest and we say Culture,
Some dominant, others compliant.
But each, not a predator but a vulture,
Scavengers on each others’ feelings,
Both calling it to collaborate.

New culture name to the Takers arrive.
Now History will call them Makers.
For some time the perspective will thrive,
As truth or evolution of social interaction,
When they putted us all hovering
Over an uneven Time-line,
A global pissing contest, new rules
Of engagement, no time to grief,
The decay of personal inner belief,
Substituted by forms of legitimate slavery.

Growing Inequality, rise of acceptance
Group therapy, everyone is a hero,
A special subject overcoming obstacles
Stay politically correct, get your tattoos,
Use your piercings, LBGT+, all is permitted,

Except to steal hope, the actual opium of people,
Except close the temples,
Were a guilty society catharsis happens,
Except suppress health addiction, a productivity condition,
The many serving the few, nothing new,
For now, yet,
Happy us there isn’t enforced curfew.

Have you noticed the growth of yellow lines?

(New enlightenment VS coercion)

Someone should stand to someone’s convictions,
The Falcon should go respectfully on its prey.
There should be axiological principles to obey,
Pigs or henhouses should have better living conditions.

Cows should not die by the hammer or other means,
Parents should relate well after deciding to raise children.
Movie directors would have to embrace their fine art;
People who want to be together should not stand apart.

Life should not be a prima Donna,
No one must, therefore, die from glioblastoma,
Or anywhere in biology be found a granuloma.

And I, being idle,
Should not have rotational inertia,
Or angular momentum.
Instead, immobility is spinning faster...
Conservation of angular momentum,
And I, falling into myself,
should open my arms as a valediction,
Take a stand, rise to a better condition.

Algo horrible antes de sus ojos infinitos
Que desconsiderar e odear,
Al dicho, jo, que me recuardariam las nostálgicas canciones en el viento.
Transmutadas en un puerto de sueño acorralado.
Canciones de almas caladas.
De madres muertas enterradas.

While my body asks for
Temperance I persist
Arsonist that I may be
Never my flames will consume thee
O my fever, intemperance
O my inner self, perpetual dance
While my body asks for
Rest and calm I insist
Assassin that I may be
Never my blade will cut thee
O my incipient stream of words untamed
O world of things unseen
Every skin I have not been.

Uma hora de dias, os concertos Promenade, 
Subserviência ao Império Anglo-saxónico
Onde querem o mundo eu sou o chão, 
Onde querem herói eu sou perdido, 
Onde quer que esteja, aí não estou. 

É que quando cheguei aqui nada entendi 

Alguma coisa de suíno queimado, rançoso

Quando vos encarei por certo duvidoso, 

Do coelho na toca, da raposa no galinheiro. 

E foi quando soube que não voltarei inteiro, 
Meus cornos serrados, meus bagos esmagados,
Meus membros truncados. 

Olho presentemente com meu melhor olhar ausente
Em composição surrealista, uma paisagem portuense 
A minha presença entra pelos buracos de tantas cabeças 
Tantas tetas cheias em contratos Leoninos,
Tanta camaleoa que tive que recusar à toa. 
Há tanto tempo que não vejo a corda em Lisboa!

Hit the road jack 
Jack of all trades, master of none 
Till the end of the week you must be gone
No more, no more, nunca mais vais?