Cognitive Self-slavery

nooseP

You are not allowed to do what you want to do,
your owners have little to nothing to fear,
you’re only allowed to do what they let you,
until you wake up to the truth of their smear.

They teach you what they want you to believe,
they feed you full of a partial false reality,
the only thing they will not let you perceive,
is to truly be the master of your own destiny.

They let you vote for most everything you want,
including which master you’ll bow to as a slave,
when it comes to your life they act nonchalant,
you don’t matter unless you begin to misbehave.

You have your electro gadgets and video games,
injustice surrounds you and your blind friend,
the world around you is going up in flames,
as you pretend you can’t see or comprehend.

They deceive, disrupt, discredit and divide,
you don’t own yourself though you think you might,
they make us fight their wars while they run and hide,
overcome your dissonance and join the consciousness fight.

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Recoiled Kisses

hatelove

A pretty girl tried to kiss me on New Years Eve,
I recoiled in pain and disgust,
my smile she did misperceive,
as an invite for spontaneous lust.

She told herself I must be taken,
or gay or something like that,
she couldn’t have been more mistaken,
I just don’t engage in emotional chit-chat.

My deadness is easy to sense and see,
there must be someone who can wake what’s inside,
my world is full of chaff and debris,
until they appear I will live as if I have died.

Sun Flare Care

The Sun has gas,
he is burping out flares,
but when looking around,
nobody really cares.

People would much rather,
keep their heads in the sand,
pretending things are normal,
living in their own dreamland.

Most people live life in a state of denial,
is so much more pleasant to live this way,
ignoring everything that doesn’t effect them,
as they all do this society does decay.

Godless Heathen Goddess

Sarah Jane is a godless goddess heathen
her very liberal views are magnetically charged
crazies throw bibles at her for no reason
she appears to have a brain that’s enlarged.

She’s turning something like thirty-three
or at least she kind of thinks she is
or turning something like Japanese you see
she is all hers but wants to be his.

She loves to accomplish nothing perfectly
and feels wonderful about it every time
she does it continuously and discretely
her outsides are hers but her insides mine.

She wants to be loved in her wraparound jumpsuit
wearing white cotton panties against her will
bloated purple dead on a toilet and destitute
waking up in a pool of her own vomit spill.

She’s into Knitting hella metal cuffs
and can turn any song into an ode to her cat
with one semester down she’s strutting her stuffs
only a few left to go and that’s where it’s at.

 Evil sickness ravages her for four weeks away
she aces grueling exams and then dances about it
celebrates with bad movie night in a perfect way
she makes time to party yet will never quit.

She makes pots of dark black coffee two at a time
ignoring the twitch that comes with each one
finally feeling like she’s coming into her prime
life is great but it takes two to have fun.

She listens to Inter Arma over and over again
staying up all night reading is her great joy
she sings to her cats in the morning now and then
her higher level of consciousness is a great ploy.

Her eyes light up when she sees equations about time
formulas and theories excite her to no end
she likes it loud and hard and numbers that are prime
the smart are never easy to defriend or offend.

Brutal death metal creates for her a happiness
she looks at her problems as a source of entertainment
trepanation deliberately accelerates her braininess
I’d volunteer to be her next mad self experiment.

Like With Our Love

Like dancing particles and new waves,

truth and words slightly entangle,

together they create an ultra reality,

of course the grinning lairs lie and commingle.

With the suddenness of a bad haircut,

epiphanies creep in and outwardly crawl,

it’s easier to believe in comfortable lies,

than admit to the hopelessness of it all.

Our souls are in need of repair and soothing,

there is only one way for this to be done,

they’ve been torn and thrown into oblivion,

superposition is two that become one.

Love conquers little to almost nothing,

except in the realm of our feeble mind,

to find that real someone is rare indeed,

it’s when we stop looking that we finally find.

S.C.R.E.A.M. for P.e.a.c.e. Turns 100 with Acharya S.

S.C.R.E.A.M. for P.e.a.c.e.

S.C.R.E.A.M. for P.e.a.c.e.
Art + Physics + Philosophy = Consciousness
December 23, 2013

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Tune in to a very special broadcast as we record our 100th program with Radio Valencia. On this special day we will be interviewing academic pioneer and distinguished scholar Acharya S. (DM Murdock), author of “The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story Ever Sold”, “Suns of God: Krishna, Buddha and Christ Unveiled”, and numerous other books and articles. She is considered worldwide to be one of the leading scholars in the field of Comparative Religion and her work provides irrefutable evidence that Jesus was not an historical figure, but rather a  construct of the ruling elite based upon previous mythical characters and the movements of the Sun and stars. Her work was the source material for the opening Astrotheological sequence of “Zeitgeist the Movie”, and has influenced the thinking and…

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Wormwood & Reverse Polarity

The Sun’s Son ISON

The people have their heads in the sand,
the message is before them clearly to see,
ignorant bliss is all they understand,
they’ll only realize when there’s no place left to flee.

The Earth’s polarity is shifting and when it does,
the equator and poles shift position as well,
the poles contract and the ice sheets detach just because,
the belt shifts position and the new equator swells.

When the ice sheet slips into the ocean,
a surge will occur on each and every beach,
what once was still will experience motion,
there will be no place to run or anyplace safe to reach.

ISON is glowing and getting brighter,
his father the Sun is flaring with mass ejection,
on November 19 our nights will become brighter,
prepare yourselves for self protection.

When the lights go out the people will riot,
food and water will be out of reach,
there are camps waiting to keep everyone quiet,
stay away from fault lines and anywhere near a beach.

The ominous darkness approaches us all,
the plight of humanity is about to rapidly fall,
brighter than the daylight while next to the moon,
there is nowhere to run and ISON is coming soon.

The clock is ticking slower as the Sun’s son approaches,
time is not what it was or what you thought it to be,
most if humanity will become cockroaches,
I want to make it to the other side just so I can see.

There is nobody there in which to say goodby,
nobody waiting anxiously for my return,
nobody to miss me while I’m away,
no one to sit by my side as we watch the Earth burn.

Happy Slave-labor Day

Sucked by Everyone

People suck always,
oh yes they suck you,
they suck everything,
in all that they ever do.

They suck your life at the office,
each and every long dreary day,
they suck out your very old soul,
the part that wants to run and play.

They suck out your cash at the gas pump,
they suck your change walking down the street,
they suck from behind the fast food counter,
always beware of those you greet and meet.

No matter where you go there is someone there,
who desperately wants to take all that you have,
they’ll take your possessions and many friends too,
count yourself lucky if you walk away with halve.

Their trusting wide grin and sucking below the belt,
giving you the feeling you’re in the company of a friend.
no matter how many suckers you’ll meet in your life,
you’re the biggest sucker of all with the wrong boy/girlfriend.

Deeper Still Delph

Image

The deeper I fall the deeper the hole seems to get,
life is a daily romp through some kind of hell,
nothing is worth remembering so we forget,
there is never a reason to ring the win bell.

My head hurts and my ears are ringing,
clothes smell like red cigarette smoke,
listening to the screams like singing,
time dilates you and that’s no joke.

Friday nights are alone and stark,
those people who stroll by thrive,
there’s nothing to do in the dark,
I wonder how is it they survive.

My life is not my own to live,
there is nothing to celebrate,
don’t receive but only give,
alone I sit and deliberate.

Alone in the bright night,
alone in the darkest day,
there’s nothing to right,
no place safe to stray.

It is empty down here,
all alone with myself,
I feel only acute fear,
and an empty delph.

Black Widow Psycho SNARFF

I’m probably moving into yet another disastrous situation waiting to happen. One of the new roommates is a psycho and so is the other. There are at least two types of psycho chicks. There is the friendly artist type who is playful with an unpredictable spontaneity that can be trying at times to work with and be around, but in the end does the right thing with usually a pleasant surprise or two. This type of psycho chick makes the best friends and you always know what they think and are up to. Then there is the Black Widow Psycho Cunt-bitch whose mission it is, is to lure you into her web however she can and engulf your own web or bed or both and make it hers. She will then sever your connections one by one until you no longer have your own life to live.
There are two types of the Black Widow Psycho Cunt-bitch variety, non-lethal and lethal. Most are non-lethal, but as society collapses around us, scarcity becomes more apparent and the value of life diminishes, more of the lethal types with manifest themselves. Many begin as the non-lethal types and their first kill is sort of an accident, but they like it and want to do it again, and again and again.
The non-lethal types only want to get you to the edge of ruin and suicide, but will keep you well enough not to go through with the final deed and instead will manipulate your reality for years and make you her unaware emotional slave. The non-lethal types are the most cruel and usually have money already. There are in it as much for the game as they are for the stuff and people. It’s more like your life becomes their sociopathic art project with their words and actions the tools of implementation to paint your life black.
The lethal Black Widow Psycho Cunt-bitch wants you to die as quickly and efficiently as possible and you may never even have sex with her, or know it is her and her friends. They will take up all of your time and waste all of your resources as your life dives into a vortex of turbulent despair and excruciating painful wasted effort. Her friends may not even realize what they are participating in as they were prepped and told from the beginning that you are in a fragile state and could snap and fall at any moment. In retrospect they laugh at her apparent bad taste in men. Little do her friends know that each of you basket cases were carefully chosen for the sport, kind of like fox hunting, only you’re the fox.
More and more suicide is becoming the weapon of choice. It began with Picasso and Casagemas, and has grown in popularity ever since. Love, sex and trust are their weapons of choice and your death is their ultimate objective, be it figurative or literal. While local and Federal governments expend millions of dollars to investigate over 30,000 murders on an annual basis, killers run free everyday, many not ever investigated. With the suicide rate of society rapidly eclipsing the murder rate, exactly zero of those suicides go investigated for foul play.
A common scenario; You experience a tragic betrayal and loss leading to financial ruin and abandonment by family and friends. Emotional turmoil followed by a long and deep depression in which you question your reason for being and contemplate the world without you. You get a glimpse of George Bailey around the end of December and your mind starts racing. They find you in a room locked from the inside with a note, facebook posting and accouterments du jure. There are no suspects and seemingly nothing to investigate. It’s the perfect murder.
Your death represents a victory and reason to party. They will wear red to your funeral and throw a soirée that night to celebrate your passing with indulgent glee. All of your friends, frienimies, enemies and business associates will be there as well as any former lovers they can scrape up. This is their final and grand performance. Anybody whoever had a good thought about you will be invited and with a gang-like strategy, they will seek them out and slander you in such a way that everyone who leaves that night will have reason to believe that you had them fooled all along and are indeed a horrible person with the world a better place without you in it. They will bow their heads and nod back and forth wondering how someone like you could fall so far so quickly. Little do they know that on the other side of the room are those who paved your path and made everything easy to ensure your fall was steep, fast and deadly.
A string of many people will parade through your life and never hear a word you have to say because they just nod and smile politely waiting for you to move on, so they can take what you have to offer them and move on without any reciprocation. You are their meat your gullible nature is their target. The prize ? Your life.
It’s possible I’ve been living with handlers for years. First my wife, then a string of others, passing me off from one to another like a game of hot potato. I look back on the time vine for the ripe fruit of a year spent with Jessiqa and every memory is laced with bitterness. People who know me, like me. I’m friendly and nice, or at least I used to be, which is a deadly combination in San Francisco. Mix those elements with a state of desperation and that’s the perfect mixture for targeting and victimization. Compared to the last seven years of my nightmarish living situations, this seems like a well-deserved reprise, however short it may be.

Mobbing &Organized Gang Stalking in San Francisco

Arts Bombast: ArtPadSF

Did you ArtPad?

Ribbon Around A Bomb

Last week, I attended ArtPadSF, and It. Was. Fabulous. Rather than bore you with descriptions of all the beautiful people, ingenious art, and poolside whiskey that I consumed, I’d like to highlight my three favorite galleries that I (re)discovered, and strongly suggest that you check them out for yourself.

1. Queen’s Nails (San Francisco)

Queen’s Nails is a small gallery on Mission St., just past Cesar Chavez. I used to pass by it nearly every day, due to its proximity to my old house and some of my favorite bars, but alas, it was never open. There was about a week-long span where it just looked like a deserted white box, full of slowly deflating balloons. Well, I still haven’t been to the space, but I finally had a chance to learn more about the gallery at ArtPad. Um, you see the flames below? It’s part of the Sell…

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I Please You Please

please

I never really liked you much,
I never thought you were smart,
I never really liked your touch,
I never liked any of your art.

Please don’t say I love you,
please don’t say I still care,
you really don’t have a clue,
you were nothing but a dare.

You don’t ever ask to see me,
you don’t want to hear my voice,
please take my name off your marquee,
please eliminate me as your second choice.

Bigger Better Deal

fake

Lost and alone in the big city,
surrounded by a sea of people,
they know but don’t see me,
because they’re really sheeple.

Things are fine is my common line,
to let them off the preverbial hook,
they think like a vein australopithecine,
they’re most concerned about how they look.

On the lookout for the bigger better deal,
it doesn’t matter from which way it comes,
they don’t care what’s good or what’s real,
as long as the next deal has much bigger sums.

The Misadventures of Aslan, an Urban Oddyssey

I’ve been drifting through this life looking,
in search of somewhere with something to care.
For a over a decade now and count slowing,
the people who love me only do so by dare.

I remember growing up in little to nowhere land,
imagining what it would it be like to do a magic transport.
beam myself to San Francisco or someplace exotic with sand,
somehow be part of what is and with an import.

Listening in secret to Depeche Mode and the Doors sing,
who led me to embrace the rebel within one.
At the time I couldn’t sing or play anything,
so I started staring at the stars while dancing right past the Sun.

To show the world I wasn’t born otherwise wrong,
the U.S. Navy had my name the top of their list.
To prove to everyone and myself I didn’t have to belong,
I could do anything I wanted with an open handed fist.

I know I’ve missed the show by a decade or more,
it’s been a non-stop roller coaster ride and I’ve lost track of the time.
I’ve hit rock bottom and can prove it with a number on the door,
fuck it I’m here anyway can write what I mean and finally rhyme.