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” The theistic philosopher has a tendency to devalue
insufficient worldviews, ideologies, and quite often
common sense for the greater good, and in such cases,
one should not be discouraged when seen as a bad guy.”
<< Criss Jami, Killosophy>>

Pregnant page, mad at an
erectile dysfunctional pen,
clucking hens when heads nod
to flaws|flows of appealing doing words.
Poisonous prose, rose in gardens
of poetic thorns; mold true thought;
get thrown to wolves howling about
so and so being truthfully raw and
scourning paws that composed
the murder we wrote; quote and quote;
‘treachery amongst gods.’
Pages drenched in syllables,
‘meaning’ lynched by cursive rods,
true geniuses unknown like the book
of Philemon; readers have forgotten
how to climatically moan, caged
chatbots roaming through phones
searching for better homophones
written through toxic tones by those
with down syndrome.
It’s various doors to different floors;
where audiences might nod or
throw heads of cabbages to your groins
and maybe loins, write and attempt
to be in the articles of Forbes,
rob thoughts from those knotted to robes,
or maybe become a Job fleeing from
the norm and following those scorned
in favour of seeming less botched
by your psyche you learn to decrypt
demise; forged thoughts and scribbling
for likes and bringing false awe,
random woes from petty gods,
forever a foe, pawn being pawned
for little or no gold, while stages
house bare cold toes.

Behind every villain is a truth,
whether it be perceived or actual.
<<Dalton Frey, The Darkest Light >>

Family feuds; Isaac and Ishmael,
wait to read the blank mails,
listen to the serpent for detail,
the ego growing frail, mindsets
covered with scales, pave the way
for dread, new jest lacking gist;
is that all that makes us ideal,
false roles and delusional kids,
electrifying fiends; eel in the
sea of ink, writers drowning in
the thick mist, blurred out dreams,
divided kids in the thickets of
thin trees, thorns and thrones
blind us from the path of holding
divinity, centipedes following trails,
fail to find beauty in momentary
time lapses, gasping for sanity in the
phychiatry wards while characters
keep jesting, hearing echoes of
wrongly written paragraphs, lost
in mind; peace offerings to pages,
easy to age when the mind is your
Avery’s trailer, snapped nerves,
writing yet lacking intent, leave
no dent on your time investors, rent
a room in an illusion of being blocked
from page porn, roam back and forth,
synonyms and cynics leaving mind
in multiple furnaces, lost in mental
terraces, loosely written messages,
less aging pieces and more messy
descriptions, fusions with various
maniacs, various mangers here, a lot
of saviours; messiah’s interns, those
needing detergening as an emergency,
monkeys dangling from ovaries to ovaries,
uterus walls being their border walls,
where they can’t make it through,
worshipping warships while the slaveships
have reached their shores in a tik,
new tick sucking on Saxon’s tit too.

“There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn’t have enough money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great. The truth, however, was there was very little greatness. It was almost nonexistent, invisible. But you could be sure that the worst writers had the most confidence, the least self-doubt ”
<<Charles Bukowski, Women>>

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Anton Semenov

Philosophistication Poetry © All Rights Reserved ©

Personification Of Carnage

Are writers stupid? Are writers merely lunatics drunk on narcissism?

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