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>>43182162
>In my hand rests the power over Heaven and Earth,
>The authority to punish and destroy.
>I shall slay the wicked and preserve the righteous,
>And relieve the suffering of the people.

>My sight reaches beyond the western and northern lands,
>My voice resounds to the sun and moon in the east and south.
>The imperial seal and sword are glorious gifts from the Lord;
>My writings bear witness before the Heavenly Father.

>Taiping shall unite all under Heaven,
>Its glory shall illuminate the world;
>Its majesty and joy shall endure
>For ten thousand thousand years.

Hong Xiuquan - Poem on Executing Evil and Preserving the Righteous (1837)

>>43182162
Does it have to be published poetry or some of our own?

>>43182162
I yearned to be like a lamb
With dreams lifted from my bed
I thought I imagined Bethlehem
But created bedlam instead

By: Me, nigga

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https://youtu.be/ckSrdgSQpQE?si=AgckBjEGtxMxEoLX

songs in the key of monarch programming

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I love Moonspell. Wolfheart and Irreligious are my favourite albums.

Here's pure profane polish poetry.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjRH4bfDcfE

Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare
Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery
Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,
To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free;
The night can sweat with terror as before
We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,
And planned to bring the world under a rule,
Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.
He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned
Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant
From shallow wits; who knows no work can stand,
Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent
On master-work of intellect or hand,
No honour leave its mighty monument,
Has but one comfort left: all triumph would
But break upon his ghostly solitude.
But is there any comfort to be found?
Man is in love and loves what vanishes,
What more is there to say? That country round
None dared admit, if Such a thought were his,
Incendiary or bigot could be found
To burn that stump on the Acropolis,
Or break in bits the famous ivories
Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees.
When Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwound
A shining web, a floating ribbon of cloth,
It seemed that a dragon of air
Had fallen among dancers, had whirled them round
Or hurried them off on its own furious path;
So the platonic Year
Whirls out new right and wrong,
Whirls in the old instead;
All men are dancers and their tread
Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong.
-Fragment of Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen, by W. B. Years, poet and magician.

And so goodbye, goodbye to God
And the rest of all that.
Goodbye to the fear of being lost
Because I lost the track.
Goodbye to the need
for every mystery to answer back
I am standing on my own tonight
And that’s a simple fact

And so goodbye, Goodbye to God
and the rest of all that
Yeah, goodbye to God and the rest of all that.

I was once the one for praying it through
But now I’m through with praying
All that Asking begging pleading
Leading to nothing, nowhere
Finally I was reduced to Talking to myself
Pretending it’s God answering back
I was the perfect ventriloquist for the divine
Pretending something was going on

And so goodbye, goodbye to God
And the rest of all that.
Goodbye to the fear of being lost
Because I lost the track.
Goodbye to the need
for every mystery to answer back
I am standing on my own tonight
And that’s a simple fact

"Well, it is said that one of the trees heard a voice that was not the saint’s; that in the warm green twilight of one summer evening it became conscious of some thing sitting and speaking in its branches in the guise of a great bird, and it was that which once spoke from a tree in the guise of a great serpent. As the voice grew louder among its murmuring leaves the tree was torn with a great desire to stretch out and snatch at the birds that flew harmlessly about their nests, and pluck them to pieces. Finally, the tempter filled the tree-top with his own birds of pride, the starry pageant of the peacocks. And the spirit of the brute overcame the spirit of the tree, and it rent and consumed the blue-green birds till not a plume was left, and returned to the quiet tribe of trees. But they say that when spring came all the other trees put forth leaves, but this put forth feathers of a strange hue and pattern. And by that monstrous assimilation the saint knew of the sin, and he rooted that one tree to the earth with a judgment, so that evil should fall on any who removed it again.”
-From The Trees of Pride, by G. K. Chesterton.

Fungi from Yuggth:

XII. The Howler

They told me not to take the Briggs’ Hill path
That used to be the highroad through to Zoar,
For Goody Watkins, hanged in seventeen-four,
Had left a certain monstrous aftermath.
Yet when I disobeyed, and had in view
The vine-hung cottage by the great rock slope,
I could not think of elms or hempen rope,
But wondered why the house still seemed so new.

Stopping a while to watch the fading day,
I heard faint howls, as from a room upstairs,
When through the ivied panes one sunset ray
Struck in, and caught the howler unawares.
I glimpsed—and ran in frenzy from the place,
And from a four-pawed thing with human face

Ghost Prisoner by Heid E. Erdrich:

The ghost prisoner, a murderer,
wishes he was invisible, sheer air,
already dead. His narrow bed
washes him away to dream escape
through holy gaps that open
in the grin of his small son.
Lost teeth offer him a freedom
so absurd he wakes and laughs.

No one hears the ghost prisoner.
Whether he groans or bears stoically
what instruments we’ve paid to play
this march toward a freedom so absurd
we wake and silently shake our heads.
We do not speak ill of the dead.

The ghost prisoner, still murderer,
wishes he was visible, fiery air,
rallying the dead. His narrow cell
just the place for prayer. Holy, holy,
a ghost’s revenge pushed through gaps
in his own gashed mouth, a curse
so absurd, he wakes to its howl.

No one says his name, his crimes,
how many jolts it took to resurrect
him as a betrayer of insurrection,
paying for freedom’s ring.

We do not want to know what it took.
We’d rather not speak the dead ill.
We do not want to know what it took
to make him wish he were dead still

Field of Skulls

Mary Karr

Stare hard enough at the fabric of night,
and if you're predisposed to dark—let’s say
the window you’ve picked is a black
postage stamp you spend hours at,
sleepless, drinking gin after the I Love
Lucy reruns have gone off—stare

like your eyes have force, and behind
any night’s taut scrim will come the forms
you expect pressing from the other side.
For you: a field of skulls, angled jaws
and eye-sockets, a zillion scooped-out crania.
They’re plain once you think to look.

You know such fields exist, for criminals
roam your very block, and even history lists
monsters like Adolf and Uncle Joe
who stalk the earth’s orb, plus minor baby-eaters
unidentified, probably in your very midst. Perhaps
that disgruntled mail clerk from your job

has already scratched your name on a bullet—that’s him
rustling in the azaleas. You caress the thought,
for it proves there’s no better spot for you
than here, your square-yard of chintz sofa, hearing
the bad news piped steady from your head. The night
is black. You stare and furious stare,

confident there are no gods out there. In this way,
you’re blind to your own eye’s intricate machine
and to the light it sees by, to the luck of birth and all
your remembered loves. If the skulls are there—
let’s say they do press toward you
against night’s scrim—could they not stare
with slack jawed envy at the fine flesh
that covers your scalp, the numbered hairs,
at the force your hands hold?

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art;
I warm’d both hands before the fire of life;
It stinks, and I am ready to depart

Thomas Bailey Aldrich:

A woman is sitting alone in a house. She knows she is alone in the whole world: every other living thing is dead. The doorbell rings.

A classic of classic, Poe's Conqueror Worm

Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

This poetry fucking sucks.

>>43182162
People may die too soon, before they can fully experience happiness.
Or they may live long enough to see happiness die before them.
People may endure suffering for so long that it turns into masochism finding pleasure in the pain
Or they may dwell in a state of stark, minimalist suffering, which they call asceticism.

She slept and she kept to her chest a grime of toasty brine,
For one hearth dusk bitten noon the glove was sent ashore into the dent of her breath,
Alone and befuddled the keeper of wains come not to her in brisket of saints,
She fanned to spring held by that which would quell her deep nighted sap,
A beast arose gnashing her to bone that she thrown and gave unto the spine,
The fire burned wide for her lions could set the stride,
The fever swallowed what preyed and took her hand to the discount bin,
And that is where the sheen fell to stall as she spoke against her sleep.

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>>43185994
Ok tripfag. Save your bullshit for someone who cares.

>>43182574
thank you anon, unpleasant but truly art