Lives of sound health:
It's a rare wealth,
Like sounds of drums-
Happiness comes...
What rhythms fit,
Dancing legs split.
Bata drums keep,
Whole body deep,
Into its beats...
With all aesthetes
That summon stance,
Which beats romance.
It does take strength,
To last at length,
With set pattern...
Not of modern,
Skip; leap- series:
Rhythmic ease...
Brings lively haste,
Twisting each waist,
On sandy soil.
Yielded souls boil...
Hot drill's leisure,
Cum shared pleasure!
What a black Bait,
Only skills rate-
Its rhyming steps,
That culture reps.
Holds attention;
Toy contention.
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
The astrolabe – how it depresses me!
The thing’s too perfect, no room left to grow.
Repeat, refine, reduce – a legacy
from which no vital spring can ever flow.
The thing’s too perfect! No room left to grow,
no seas to sail. The time is out of joint.
We made it our religion just to know,
but failed to think we’d reached this nadir-point.
No seas to sail. The time is out of joint!
We once sought distant moons and unknown suns,
but failed. To think – we’ve reached this nadir-point!
The Sultan’s poet plays around with puns.
We once sought distant moons and unknown suns,
while shallowness possessed us, unawares.
The Sultan’s poet plays around with puns,
as modern aesthetes shape the harem stairs.
While shallowness possessed us, unawares,
Venetian warships anchored off the coast.
As modern aesthetes shape the harem stairs,
the fortune-tellers fail to spot, engrossed,
the palace guards, abandoning their post.
Repeat, refine, reduce – a legacy
that stultified a people. Yet we boast
the astrolabe. How it depresses me!
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