A taste for whispered eloquence,
I’m mesmerized by your reply.
One octave above the silence
a taste for whispered eloquence.
Such sensual self indulgence,
to inhale the words that you cry.
A taste for whispered eloquence,
I’m mesmerized by your reply.
Saklas, the fool who within his heart of indulgence
Whispers: “There is no god greater than me”
Coiling and consuming himself in self-indulgence
Isn’t he like that voice in you and me
Samuel, the blind idol who proclaims to the world
Roaring loudly “There is no god but me”
His roars thundering within the cosmic underworld
Isn’t he like that voice in you and me
The serpent begets nothing god-like or natural
The lion just dims light for you and me
Sneaking arrogance and boastful vainglory coiled up as one
Pride, wisdom’s veil and denial of the humble Son
The serpent and lion are coiled up as one, for us to see
Yaldabaoth, the idol of pride and wisdom’s folly
The eyes of yesterday
cry in silence behind broken glasses
where perception is scattered
like dust swept away
So as not to distort the memories
of a tempestuous fool
trapped in a whirlwind of lost judgment
in a drunken playground of self-indulgence
painting a loftier picture of lies
which slipped through life's fingers
like mercury
Love is alike a whisper among the deaf and a light among the blind. Many have claimed to understand it and many have claim to be apart of it but alike religion, they all seem to fall short of scripture.
Love unites us all is what they say according to the rational of those claiming to be within the grasps of these inauspicious schisms as they are coddled betwixt irony and self indulgence.
Your love is salvaged only by the reluctant anecdote of those accused and in favor of self-actualization.
Their love is not only a topic of mass hysteria brought forth by the fraudulent offspring of timeless arrogance but "love" is also a wedge between free will and the limitations prevailed by hatreds depth.
Love, is beyond the reckoning of dimensional rifts and broken spatial constructs contiguous by the darkness of man born antipathy.
This is the love you idolize and seek victory within.
This is the love you claim as a self redeeming gift.
This is the love you can only grasp tangibly and without rapport.
My love, wasn't
1985. We looked for signs
not so much had changed
Wars in far-flung parts –
the same-O-blame-O.
An acceptable amount of body bag counts.
Was Orwell too early to be this late?
1996. Upheavals are restricted to
marginalized mobs. Heads are talking more,
there is a nameless fear and it's getting near.
Fewer western countries are smoking, though
many simmer silently.
There was this elongated period,
decades drained away
leaving only a vague residue,
a smear of narcissistic self-indulgence
begat a numbness.
Then we began to crave more.
2024. Now we see it.
its head is a swollen tumor,
it talks in tooth bites,
monstrous cover-ups go unchallenged,
its control is iron clad.
The monster is now global,
it gobbles up dissident thought,
it re-imagines the nature of
Jello.
The only way forward now, is through
the monster's ever narrowing ********,
besides,
most now consider
the nature of the beast
to be the same that it ever was.
For whom nothing matters
The night had been mysterious and full of screams
raped women hung from apple trees like rotten fruit, their begging not to be eaten went unheard
Men, crazed by pornographic lust and sweet wine
egging one another to commit heinous crimes. thinks, they did what women wished
The morning had an aroma of newness, a promise of Utopia where humanity lived in peace with nature and
themselves hopefully modest egos
Pre-mature fruit lying on the ground as the fruit, not of the loom but the result of nights of excesses
the outcast to be thrown away as abortions are the right
to take life that has no voice
the guilty of this horror has no brain and coincidence
to see the grossness of their behavior because they had learned from a failed culture that the only thing that has any value is self-indulgence and hot fries
Self help does not always help self,
Self indulgence could be hazardous to self,
Self advertising can create ego too big for self.
Self awareness comes before improving one self,
Self diagnosis does not make a happy self,
Self doubt is no excuse for isolating one self.
each artist is working in their own world
they share a studio, but none are aware of others
they are in a self-involved warp of coziness
one with their canvas, paints calling to them
each one in a bubble of self-indulgence,
distracted by nothing, comfortable in their cocoon of art
With whispered farewells breathed from the fiery lips of The Western Sun, She slips to that dark resting place beyond horizon’s edge as yet another grain falls forever through the glass of time- leaving me spellbound,,, held in trance of passing moment’s beauty and ever mindful of price paid to bear witness of such- for I live not under deception my days are without number.
I cast my thoughts in direction of task yet unfulfilled- living in hope the morrow shall bring more favorable end to such as I take pause to smile in moment of such self indulgence. Still,,,with intent to hurry on my way I find my spirit delightfully brightened by the waking hellos of evening stars and moonlit paths which lead to home.
Peace reigns in it’s moment of glory - suffering no loss in the memories of a well finished day- bringing thoughts of rest, the warm haven of home and glimmer of hope eternal.
He is resilient his last boss told me.
He bounces back quickly.
He does not stay upset long.
His pouting usually dissipates quickly.
I put his application into the round file.
I am not seeking someone who bounces back.
Back from where? The bowels of self-indulgence?
The pit of poor-me-ville?
I do not want to hire someone who pouts.
There are plenty of people who know better.
I am seeking joy and love on a page.
I am looking for positivity and integrity.
The next two applicants have drawn stars and hearts on their forms.
Their answers are upbeat and positive.
I notice the similarity of their names. Same address. Same phone.
Sisters! I will interview them both.
So many people do things
That they don’t do very well.
The strangest part, to me, is that
They often cannot tell.
You know the type – the artists, cooks
And entertainers, too,
Who proudly peddle or perform
But haven’t got a clue.
They’re lucky to be unaware
That talent they do lack
And if they face rejection, well,
They’ll give it one more crack.
Yet if they get enjoyment
From their hobby or their work,
Perhaps that self-indulgence
Is sufficient as a perk.
merge these errors into a single block...
dump like rubble on the next cliff...
flee before you hear the dry thud of defects
sprawled on the ground claiming its author.
because self-indulgence saves
even if it's fake
like when you disguise
look around awkwardly
wanting to get rid of contamination
brought by the uncomfortable truths
that knocked on your door
Or at that time remember?
you acted with hypocrisy and prejudice
so you lied to yourself
saying it was nothing
saying you were right
it wasn't really you
you were never that bad.
the pattern of self-pity
obeys a rite of pseudo surprise
acts like camphor ointment
relieves the hidden pain but you know
she's here
smiling like little devil
and makes you submerge in an ocean
where shame is the first virtue
to disappear.
merge these errors into a single block
dump like rubble on the next cliff
run away before hearing the dry thud of defects
sprawling on the ground claiming its author.
because self indulgence saves
fake whatever
like when you disguise
look around awkwardly
wanting to get rid of contamination
brought by the uncomfortable truths
that knocked on your door
or at that time remember?
you acted with hypocrisy and prejudice
then you lied to yourself
saying it was nothing
you were right
it wasn't really me
I was never that bad.
the standard of self-pity
obeys a rite of pseudo surprise
acts like camphor ointment
relieves the hidden pain but you know
she is there
smiling little demon
about to laugh
and make you submerge in an ocean
where shame is the first virtue
to disappear.
I saw an old man sitting by the road
His coat was torn, and his cap was low
It was clear he had no place to go
Life had given him too heavy a load.
I thought to stop and offer to share
To make his life a tiny bit better
Considered the apostle's simple letter
Possibly to entertain angel unaware
The pressure of time and place to be
Overcame my sense of charity
Only a moment to think of disparity
Before turning my thoughts to think of me.
A single poppy blooms by the lake shore.
I can tell you how it came to be there.
Oh, I did not plant it, or give it care.
I knew the man who did and what it’s for.
Some men builders, others are destroyers.
Destroyers identified by this trend,
Nothingness and loneliness at life’s end.
Self-indulgence is their life’s employer.
Just such a man was the poppy planter.
A purveyor of anger, hate, and smoke.
Life revolved around just another toke.
To all God’s wisdom he did recanter.
Nothing he planted in life ever grew.
Selfish, unstable, and always unable,
To love anyone more than his own fable,
Which he spewed out incessantly on cue.
A lone poppy blooming on a lake shore.
A single flower signaling there’s hope.
God can breathe life to places remote.
Destroyers don’t win, the builder restores.
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