#Philosophistication

Scarred by the sight of scared toddlers,
those feeding on pain like its fodder,
cared for by torture, torched loyals,
those searching for order in that
chaotic monarch, belts and hot
samp on left cheeks, those with
sadness flooding through eye sockets,
open up my pocket, inside out, broken
teeth, loose sanity; this is as vulnerable
as your writer is willing to reveal his
broken reality, I’ve been taunting the good guy
for a short eternity; now the reaper
controls what the palm writes while
the eye bleeds as it reads the glimpse
of hell in plain artistry, plant a tree
for the poet to shackle his sad part,
loss and soon spew mastery; the
summary of depression and schemes
of sounding wiser; monastery founder,
tear mom’s blouser, don’t leave me mother,
dug graves and searching for that familiar
face, I keep finding treasures in there,
different DNAs and colour coded dreams
that these dead keep ejaculating,
wet dreams in that world of Hades
or that of holy forest fires, call peter
piper from the entrance, ‘did you see mother?’;
‘no we chased her’, now my thoughts are burning,
scared little baby,  wait I keep dropping my pelvis;
failing to grasp under-standing,
still using her uterus wall to warm
my cold soul; the journey is too bleak,
little leach; I’ve been injecting consciousness
into your nerves and wombs, or maybe
tombs too, I’m Foo; fighting with voodoo,
still scared of what’s next within this
adventure; always dropping doodles,
that’s your treasure; it’s foolproof.

Hooking dreams and hopes using
dried up noodle threads, disembodied
little dolls in my head, here are
my memories lynched by the
threads of my beard, maturity
is a facade, hide self behind
a normal face, clenching the heart,
leaving the mind at bay, alert,
angered by the times, the art
of butchered maidens, the start
of a never ending circus, plant
the citrus, another tree for my
angered dying Queen, now snap
my spleen, plant seeds of gemels
to keep the writer upright, then
deny me breath, the angered mind,
the little boy blue in a dark continent,
will enlightenment ever suffice, is
freedom ever in people’s chants,
hypocrites searching for chance in
the hypothesis of being paraded on
social media billboards, hoards of
scorned folk holding pitchforks
again the noble fiends carrying
confederate cloths, oh the nobility
of these devils with crosses and nooses,
hallelujah and Yeshua is a white
supremacist; the colour coded delusion,
piss on the pulpit, crack open the
pit, slit throats with a chainsaw,
headless chickens on headlines, no
clucking no more.
The beauty of life, bestow upon me
that beauty once again, the cruelty
has smiles and innocent eyes, psychopaths
with Shalom tattooed on their skulls.
What more can one’s weight pull,
may some people’s existence be null,
a trip down a scary lane; aye, where
you die by stab wounds for being
a queer; brothers and sisters, the
hate justified and normalised by
the teachings of those from
Elohim’s creed; another dead masterpiece,
crying torched baby boys, little do
we know the humanity we destroy
as we try to invoke gods of the
olden thought.

Who or what is in the wrong,
sound the gong, the trumpets
have no composers for life
keeps being breathtaking, suffocated
isrāfīls, I wonder how justice
works in those NetherRealms,
sad angered abused young boys
become monstrous men who
butcher with no remorse, aye
find me a response from thy
universal thought, do we really
know what true goodness foretells
or how it was foretold, withhold
the entrance into the stronghold,
if abused young boys become
heart breakers and angered by
the world that they snap and
slap their lovers; no, they slap for
their brokenness flounders; no
justification, just damn all three-legged
monsters to hell, what is the
truth, what is goodness if all
is nothing but a lengthened
chain reaction of souls dying
within their pasts’ subjugation,
aye, the incineration, bring the
fossil fuels; the knee caps of
dinosaurs, we’re about to burn and
damn you all into the house
of daemons.
How do we handle or grapple
the tides, how does one control
the waves, how does one sit still
and find peace in the hellish piece of sh*t?!!!

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Krzysztof Heksel

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

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