Long Subconscious Poems
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My dear ones, years and accounts have passed since we spoke about the New Man, "Le Horla."
From the midpoint of the Reset cycle, it is known to emerge from the mix of slaves and technology.
Rudolf Steiner knew, the beginning of vaccination, non-foods prepared in the shadows of the times.
The control of the masses through technocracy, a vision of the 1900s when the world was slowly transforming.
Under the influence of drugs, Hitler saw prophetic nightmares, screaming in fear before "Le Horla,"
A fearless and cruel monster, a presence deeply haunting the collective social subconscious.
Poe, in 1840, sensed that autistic presence in crowds frightened by the mysterious inexplicable,
And Bulwer-Lytton, through "The Coming Race," showed us the way to a future full of uncertainties.
I merely connected the threads, for geniuses often reveal the hidden truth in the folds of time.
We lament the lack of empathy, the mimed emotional life in public space, a theater of our days.
"Le Horla" spreads, USR, a symbol of technocratic times, an experiment of the present.
A nano-metallic transhumanist nervous system, beyond which only Zombies can survive.
Zombies, USR members integrated into the 5G network, coordinated by towers watching from the shadows,
Soldiers of an unchosen destiny, in a world led by the deepest and darkest shadows.
Remember the '50s, when the danger wasn't in vaccines but in the hunger and fear that reigned,
Today, technological terror and transhumanists bring us times of darkness and fragments of hope.
The worst satanists lead, and strategic starvation is just the beginning of a story.
Under the command of 5G, group intelligence manifests like drones drawing messages in the sky.
A trans 5G USR member becomes an appendage of the Beast, an eye on the ground for its unrest.
And yet, in this nightmare world, there is still a chance, a thread of light in the dense darkness.
“Death, life’s old nemesis, comes unbidden.”
~ Quote by poet
It was a soft knock barely discernible
in the dead of night
I was in the vice-grip of sleep…
slumbering in my sanctuary
serenely snugly
who’s there? I wonder …
from my subconscious realm
a cry bubbles up,,,
who comes knocking at the door
in this god-forsaken hour of night
my mind dozes off again
knock knock knock
now persistent
now more forceful
now with a purpose behind each knock
a little louder a little more annoying
I plodded from bedroom down to the front door
stumbling through
a maze of hazy dreams
walking on shifting clouds
unwilling pushed from the back
toward the door and
I wonder …
I took a peek through the peep-hole
no one was there none was seen
just empty space
I stepped back turned around
started walking back when …
another knock!
now annoyed at my wit’s end
I flung open the door
and….
came face to face with death!
“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills,
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien
_____________________________
Place of Redemption is Darkness
unpetalling - - solace space unfolding
I sail drowsy dim seas without boat
or oars, conversing with walrus, whales
treading liquid tar silent, unseen
in distance a dog barks as I empty
bladder into ocean
underwater cables run fire
Darkness, Cloak of Protection
alchemy distilling gross, grime, goo
a thousand fingers unfelt sew broken
pieces of Life, loosen hooks, nooses
Angels of Death appear, wings
midnight blue, gathering loose threads
snapped nerves, false cues
I hear a night ‘plane flying passion
Here Crow visits sea darkly shining
untouching cast charming spells with
silent cymbals, unscathed holds sound
I covet cup of cold black coffee, unsmelt
swarthy, spilling on night waters —
hiding eels, oysters find their feeds
blankets have no feel, weave
unraveling, I perceive spindles
Coelacanth swim inquisitive incognito
individuated spirits shine poking
examine my tired flesh, as velvet
phantoms we attune to F o r e v e r
black cat runs sky, corrugated quarks
shatter moon smiles, its rock tumbling
rays on rippling nipples, navel upturned
circles spiral gene keys like piano notes
Place of Attunement is Darkness
no stagnation or pothole sidles, earthling placards, test tubes or empathy labels
shimmering umbra behind stars fall
dust upon midnight water smooth
gloom to-fro about unpaid karma
prison cell was scribbled with charcoal
I shout my name, nobody hears or cares
Humming, droning, buzzing black
holes beckon like blackboards with
light language — I recognise Cosmic
sound activating Heart, fall deeper into
b l a c k o u t __>>>
alpha kisses omega as breath leaves
returning in baby gurgles upon a
Bermuda Triangle ~ dog sniffs backyard
Darkness ignites laughter untasted
observing I pay Tolkien tribute, tinkling
___________________________________
GOLD Placement Poem : Allpoetry
May 26 : Prompt :
What may you find in Darkness |
Confirm no AI
Third Placement: Premier
Sponsor : Seth Pina : May : Your Favourite
Lock the door, close the WiFi,
Telephone and the Internet
In the dark night, I lay in bed
The subconscious in the daytimes get released,
Allowing Heaven, Land, and Desires all come back
To fulfill the reality of an ideal life
For a long time, I have been becoming nostalgia
To the nights, as if I had become the Lord of the dark,
Or the King of the world
However, It should be said that the survival competition
As fighting in the sun made me feel cruel and ridiculous
The greedy scramble simply for the sake of reproduction
And the gain of wealth and sex should not be recognized
Either holy or glory
Since I had seen the dust rolling over on the earth
I would have decided to put my body in the night
and to Send my soul to heaven
A veteran soldier dares not bear his soul,
for he knows that the pain he has
inflicted upon others in the name of freedom;
was not condoned by his conscience.
And when drugs couldn't dull
the cutting edge of guilt anymore:
the nightmares came.
Deep down, in his subconscious,
where dreams do not go willingly:
ghosts, tethered to night-terrors,
stock the ebony emptiness of sleep.
Shadows conceal shadows
within shadows of night:
shunning the glare of daylight.
But it is what it is:
there is no wrong or right in war; only death.
It's impossible to ignore the silent screams.
And yet, he fools himself
into believing that he no longer hears them.
But anxiety's rise has proven
him wrong, over and over again.
Years of suppressing acid tears:
has worn a hole in his heart;
and he dares not bear his soul.
When you cross colors with you, color bleeds right through.
You then become an image.
Imagine that…
Is black considered as bad?
White is surely lesser more.
Fore-why wonder-what for—
Soar ecliptic in response to…; to who do you?
Too whom…?
Who what wonder for why colors bleed through our inner core?
Pour hearts out, floor core heart…; without doubt.
I prefer contextual words. Pictures seem to be the more for lesser is board.
On the exterior is judged by an individual, seclusive interior.
Some feel better than you, for manly man me feels subconscious; inferior.
Devolution is taking its place; right in plain sight of personal face. Lied to for you…
Lied to for whom!?
Do what-wonder you do.
Any color blind mind settles for lesser more few.
What’s a matter with you?
Blame him.
Blame her.
Cuff her up and label him enslaved by disclaimer.
Hate me.
For not hate you-You-and-YoU!
It’s your fault.
It is not mine.
Together our hearts explode when such stigmatic colors kalide.
-Ironic Zinc
inspired by El Dub’s Picture perfect post.
2016
grandma had always been a magical offspring of nature
collected herbs images mushrooms psychedelic support
tattoo in her mind rebellion independence and freedom
mescal beans at stakes looking like witches’ broomsticks
cultivated night shade a belladonna of sorts in the woods
tree house cut from the forest and the stepladder frayed
an outpost for the paradigm bare of dogma and convention
a jungle of green sheltering indigo orange and violet of mind
no phone no computer only drums of heart and pulsation
spirits did not haunt her impression of legendary surprise
a pen cut from charcoal a sharpener cut from pine growth
opinions and premises and razor sharp wits and emotions
no delete button no erasure only stream of the subconscious
free flow of psychedelia as she flowed in crocheted pants
over all happy and void of convention and stifling dogma
lotus position next to a mat woven from strawberry fields
coarse linen cushion haunted hunting to mould her behind
future certain breast happily sagging but pendulous thoughts
wicked and mysterious and candle light a flaming lamppost
from desk to kitchen and boudoir as a anthracite fire raged
pendulum swinging from knotted branches swayed in the wind
crystal balls blown from history nostalgia and fierce resistance
tea leaves coffee ground a cup full of memories and aspirations
never too old to have a happy childhood she abandoned the past
tribulations conjectures treasure chest of nuggets wisdom’s appeal
the old scribe never died for an apple seeds quite close to its home
26th June 2020
We listen to these wishes where evidence of our subconscious come to life
Where our subconscious mind lies awake to connect us to our sentient
Where we dream about finding love as much as we lose ourselves to love
Where we wish to listen to our oneirology and change direction while trusting the omens and our inner guidance
Where we yearn to hold these dreams inside of us and desire for secrets we dare not share, but have courage to put them on paper with faith that one day they will come true
Where we listen to our dreams while dosing off to our precognitive senses
Where we wish for the day we lie awake with our conscious and mind at peace
Where we vow o dream and dream to remember that our path is without judgement and threat
Where we wish to break from a history of fear and curse of looking back instead of looking forward and listen to our dreams while we do
Poet
Masego Nkuna
You swept in like a French impressionist with the leaves blowing in the air.
You snapped a photograph of me swinging and my long blonde hair.
We made love all night long, and shared a life that wasn’t at all wrong.
Now the haystacks are on fire, and the water lilies are gone.
I dared to embrace a pure boundless movement for creativity, exploring my subconscious like a Dali art form.
All I could see were fields of corn, with a lake full of whispers, as you walked away into your ring of fire.
Walking away from our dreams and desires.
I wonder who you now admire, with your social climbing, and condescending tone.
I tried to remain in composure in my mind full of strife.
As you took your vows and threw them down in an angry game of knives.
Now Monet, and Dali have left; the only thing I have left is this oil painting of Picasso, where the elderly man sings, his ruined clothing and a bucket full of dreams.
As he panhandles at night he hunches over his guitar with no one in sight, reminds me of my time on the streets, where I was left with abuse and no place to eat.
You swept in like a French impressionist with a camera in hand, ready to take advantage of my hair and the pure white sand. The haystacks caught fire, and the lilies have died, and now you have a new wife by your side.
I imagine it as
the embodiment of
the scent of despair
Or the sting of gloom
On a sore tongue
It slithered into my
unsuspecting mind's eye
I felt its chill crawl down my spine
I thought someone had
just walked upon my grave
when this furious rattling started
Akin to a miffed serpent's tail
A flurry blur of rapid motion
Quivering wildly through my mind
Like a bony twig's last leaf
That bravely flutters with vigor
In protest against the wind
which shoulders the burden of
autumn's periodic shedding spree
Its relentless frantic fit of frenzy
Drives my mind into a prison of terror
Where shivers of impending doom
Torment my cowering soul
All of a sudden the storm abates
It decides to fade away
Disappearing into the fog of confusion
Now swirling around and clouding
My perplexed subconscious
When I finally come to
Wishful thinking takes over
trying to soothe my bruised ego
If only this, if only that, o if only
If only I had latched onto its tail...
Hindsight is an awful time keeper
Always later than late!
But all the same if only...
I could have made it hold still
for a moment
Just long enough for me to
behold the truth of its nature
I wonder if it was even real
Might just have been a spooked
mind's twisted idea of a brain fart
Thoughts race my mind in its wake
And to this day I still wonder
What exactly was that!!???
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