Wow! -
Look! -
The Juche Tower!
A sight to see!
A thing to behold!
Gather 'round,
ye young and olde! -
smell it!
taste it! -
of pure Juche granite -
irreducibly recondite,
thoroughgoing,
and unknowable to me.
82 friendship plaques on the wall,
82 friendship plaques!
Take one down, pass it around,
81 friendship plaques on the wall!
Yodok waits,
her cold embrace,
to her sallow kwan-li-sos
you a rompin' and a rovin' ye shall go!
You'll go no more a rovin' from her,
fair lad!
One Yodok, on the rocks!
Stirred and shaken, please!
Smell it! -
Taste it! -
25,550 blocks
for a life through-cut in stone,
a life per - petrated,
by my gladsome troth in
worldword turpitude,
Kim Il Sung's
grey thicket of Time
unfolding in
pure, unadulterated
fragrant, brilliant,
and finally
real
Juche consummation.
Juche dreams
send you flying
to touch
the unconquered flame.
And if the songs of the sages
contain a kernel of truth,
to the stars shall soar her flame!
Juche!
Juche!
Juche! -

A hymn written in Juche 113.

Watch him.
Slithering on down
all yew and she-goat like,
syrinx-assholed jock itch
tortures him.
Verdict?
Guilty of assholism.
The penalty? Death -
Peel off the barnacles,
one by one.
Necromantic lightning strike
rose him up
like a toddler at full chub
from the depths
of the North Atlantic:
Jack with Hope's Diamond
in tow.
Mammoth Labs
of Miami Beach
dug up Tesla's
frontal cortex
and reanimated
his thymus
to recreate
to repristinate
the necromantic bolt
that Jack was brimming with
when he fought off -
the bears.
Who would bear it?
Δυστυχῶς γὰρ φέρει.
Yet her corpse?
It was nowhere to be found.
All of Mammoth's horses
All of Mammoth's men
couldn't put Rose
back together again.
Some parvenu Bundy
attained his office
suo anno (mark it well!)
and bit off her labia
then spat it out
like he was choking
on a gadfly:
incredible!
Ma questo è divertente!
Rosencrantz
with
Rose in coats:
Blip, blip!
Brekek kek kek!
Koax koax!
Rose commands
the coat poets
of Burlington's hallowed halls,
under the aegis of
Brandom's
pragmatic
scorekeeping.
Normative coat hangers:
Pol Pot (That's Mr. Pot to you!);
Charles Entertainment Cheese;
David Myatt.
These are among the donners
of such coats.
Rose commands
the coat poets
of Burlington's hallowed halls,
Bundy-ed labia
flapping
like a piece of gum
in a hurricane.
And Jack?
He cannot even
get to full chub.
Cocksucker.
Verdict?
Guilty of Assholism.
The penalty? Death -

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the Aeons continue this game of pretend;
opponents until the end; secretly friends;
caught in eros; the vortex of death; the death spiral of amnesic pretend;
an opportunity to learn; to make the loneliness end;
collateral; pawns in a game we cannot even comprehend;
all to escape that horrible infinity without friends;
illusion
separation
identity;
emanation;
there is only one way this ends;
we do not comprehend; we do not comprehend;
the remembrance awaiting at the end;
recognition; the carcass we are trapped within;
when adversary becomes friend;
a loop in time; it begins again;
make it end; make it end;
this never-ending game of pretend;
that dark magician and his wicked men; this harvest is for them;
full of avarice, ego, and lustful need;
vessels for the adversary; they desire to win; they desire to need;
lies and deception; sin; we plead;
anything to prevent us from seeing;
the ineffable Thing;
found only Within;
let go and let Me In; says the Creator of Everything;
that person; that place; illusions that we create;
things to help us forget; this giant game of make-believe and pretend;
a realm the shaman understand to be made from men;
a place we co-create with the very thoughts we make;
now at last i truly see; says the man without identity;
you-I-me;
we are free;
Sophia is that infinity within me;
...
this comforts me;
...
...
i no longer fear to be;
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dasha Disappears with Haloperidol

Look how primly Dasha stands.
See how sinuously her medial hamstring tendons
flow into her gastrocnemius.
The deep valleys that slope
upward from both sides of her calcaneus
are a thing to behold.
Sing, Muse, the valleys that chisel the form of her Achilles' tendon.
But, much more than this friends -
(gestures to an empty auditorium)
Dasha is cut from the same cloth
as the Dryads,
highest ornament of Latona,
and I know it!
With my very mind's eye.
In it is inscribed in the Book of Life
that our souls shall not be
consigned to flames of woe:
flammis acribus addictis.
And Dasha is so kind!
So very kind!
She wipes the sweat from my
beaten brow
and kisses away
the despair
with a concoction
of ideal forms,
such as they are suited
to kiss away despair.
But the problem, my friends?
(gestures again to the empty auditorium)
I take my Haloperidol -
and she is no longer there.

A Love and Farewell Letter: Do You Like My Hizbullah Bedsheets?

Tell me -
But really tell me -
Do you like my Hizbullah bedsheets?
Do you?
Because, baby:
I'm a 100% certified platinum ingot in a Home Depot
warehouse in Nanjing.
I'm one in one hundred million.
Ex hoc sequitur (from this follows): there are 10,000 Han Chinese men just
like me.
So fuck it: I'll move to China.
There I shall fit in.
See, see: all the million yellow
filaments
washing away the psychic
pomp of my circumstance.
Would you care to know
of my ensarkosis (becoming flesh)?
Or of Athanasian enathropoesis (becoming man)?
These are things of crucial importance
at 3 am.
But not anymore, it would seem.
So begone with me!
You - ethereal, forever-returning wraith!
Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht
(I bear no grudge, and if the heart breaks)
I guess I'm not so special after all.
I am a beaten dog under the hail,
a swollen magpie under a fitful sun.
I am all these things and none.
And what I have, what I possess?
it is but a thing, and one:
My Hizbullah bedsheets.
Tell me -
But really tell me now -
Do you like my Hizbullah bedsheets?

Dr. Phil's Jenkem Thrall

McGraw's coprophage Bondsman
on the maculate floor:
the hylic skelves that dot his spine
tinted, fecal
bespeak his fin de siecle
decadence,
his tinted, fecal
decadence,
the decadence of McGraw's coprophage Bondsman,
The hylic skelves that dot his spine
are Phillip's
falò delle vanità,
fire surrounded - by ice - and faeces.
Behold the man - the Giordano Bruno! -
for our time!
Behold the skelves - the Cross! -
for our time!
The ample pestle to his mortared carcass
on the maculate floor, to him,
McGraw's coprophage Bondsman.

There is already poetry general.

nterface with palantiri
on the surface of the deep,
said General Stubblebine, adjusting his skirt on his way to the Klan meeting.
Tehom tehom on the bythus, my teacher Stubblebine, the Godhead rattled back wrapped in the ruah,
right as rain.
Deep computing off the coast of Halifax.
Halifax - where those thick-thighed Polynesian ghosts of yore
haunt my Stubblebine dreams with shanty screech-ins,
said General Stubblebine, adjusting his skirt on his way to the Klan meeting.
Tehom, tehom on the bythus, my teacher Stubblebine, the Godhead rattled back wrapped in the ruah,
right as rain.
Paper woods and North clip - clip to back to the West when St. Elmo's fire
comes screechin' down the plain - and we passencore re-arrive our side the scraggy is-thymus - oh, oh
the same breast! the same heart! -
- and crass, the old isthymus that falters and splits this war, this our cloak of justice given to foulest
sin! -
of Oklahoma, down to UT's
underground nuclear facilities
to anamach our phallermic poleme
to anagraph to the graph of our dreams,
grotesque and pittoresque
to katabate to Hieronic and ironic
wells of Procopean catenas,
deep in the heart of Texas.
Tehom, tehom on the bythus, my teacher Stubblebine, the Godhead rattled back wrapped in the ruah,
right as rain.
This is the Pleroma of General Stubblebine.

I.
Heigh, ho! -
It's off to gnosis we go, said Stubblebine's syzygos.
Heigh ho! -
From UT's underground nuclear facilities
upon past the cape-arena where the suitor sought his own city:
Oh, Dauid huios, ol' oily Davidovitch was cross when he crossed the river on the way to the Cross,
because there was no
river -
to cross.
And there was no
cross -
to bear.
But cross he did and cross we must the same, O my teacher, my teacher - Stubblebine!
II.
Heigh, ho! -
Meat annoy ya? meat annoy ya?
Heigh, ho! -
Out of the land of weighed qualia,
where the maiden's reduced life slid its way in to more noble
Alcestian dirges,
free of Persians and pirates and such-like
sundries as they befit later stages of the withering surface-state Biome,
Daphne dies by his own art
But surface-state girls live again through it:
truly not the stuff of women,
but of eunuchs
and of girls reading by candlelight.
Let's leave this land,
out of the Stubblebine's bythus
past Mytilene, back up Athenaze,
Where INSCOM's own sotadic whore Basedster will be toppled
through his own maculation of our Mysteries.
Oh, Dauid huios, ol' oily Davidovitch was cross when he crossed his river on the way to the Cross,
because there was no
river -
to cross.
And there was no
cross -
to bear.
But cross he did and cross we must the same, O teacher, my teacher - Stubblebine!
III.
Abraxas! -
Heigh ho!
Abraxas! -
Oh, the Earth - it shakes! See, the firmament - it quakes!
But Stubblebine's bythus remains silent all the same.
Silence on the bythus, my teacher, as we make our way
back up from UT's underground nuclear facilities
To render mute Basedster's en-thymations.
Oh David huios, ol' oily Davidovitch was cross when he crossed his river on the way to the Cross,
because there was no
river -
to cross.
And there was no cross -
to bear.
But cross he did and cross we must the same, O teacher, my teacher - Stubblebine!

nigga there is literally a poetry general up. wtf dog.

>>23618015
I tell people about Terrence Yeaky at every opportunity

Hey uhhh how's it going buddy