Intentional infliction of physical or mental suffering upon a person or an animal
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Vous aimez Home(icides), le podcast true crime de Bababam ? Vous allez adorer nos autres créations originales ! Aujourd'hui, on vous invite à découvrir La Traque le podcast Bababam Originals qui raconte les plus grandes courses-poursuites entre flics et voyous qui ont marqué l'Histoire. Bonne écoute ! Découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Un podcast Bababam Originals Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Il poussait ses victimes à se torturer en ligne. Rohan, un étudiant indien installé à Antibes (Alpes-Maritimes), est renvoyé ce lundi 3 mars 2025 devant la cour criminelle de Paris. Il est accusé d'avoir incité plusieurs jeunes filles à se scarifier, à se masturber avec la lame d'un couteau ou encore à boire leur urine sur une plateforme en ligne. Les adolescentes se sont soumises aux instructions de l'étudiant qui les menaçait de tout révéler à leurs proches. Cette pratique porte un nom: la "sextorsion". Philippe Gaudin et Florine Silvant, journaliste à BFM Radio, reçoivent dans Affaire suivante, Samuel Comblez, psychologue et directeur des opérations de l'Association e-Enfance. Production et rédaction : Charlotte Lesage, journaliste police-justice de BFMTV.com.
Des accusations graves visent des soldats israéliens. Soldats identifiés sur des vidéos qu'ils postent depuis Gaza. On les voit en train de détruire des biens, mais aussi parfois en train de torturer ou de maltraiter des prisonniers palestiniens.
In this episode of The President's Daily Brief: We begin with a strange story out of Syria, where CNN is facing scrutiny for showing the rescue of a man now alleged to be a member of Assad's military—and possibly a torturer. A troubling report from China reveals that the People's Liberation Army has released an electronic warfare “kill list” targeting U.S. naval assets. On the Ukraine-Russia war front, Ukraine and the Pentagon report the first combat deaths of North Korean soldiers fighting alongside Russian forces in the Kursk region. And in today's Back of the Brief, incoming border czar Tom Homan shares key details about the Trump administration's deportation plans following his meeting with New York City Mayor Eric Adams. To listen to the show ad-free, become a premium member of The President's Daily Brief by visiting PDBPremium.com. Please remember to subscribe if you enjoyed this episode of The President's Daily Brief. YouTube: youtube.com/@presidentsdailybrief Patriot Gold: Call 1-888-870-5457 for a free investor guide. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
WMAL GUEST: 8:05 AM - INTERVIEW - CURTIS HOUCK - Managing Editor at NewsBusters SOCIAL MEDIA: https://x.com/CurtisHouck Prisoner CNN helped free from Syrian prison was actually notorious Assad regime torturer: report Where to find more about WMAL's morning show: Follow the Show Podcasts on Apple podcasts, Audible and Spotify. Follow WMAL's "O'Connor and Company" on X: @WMALDC, @LarryOConnor, @Jgunlock, @patricepinkfile, and @heatherhunterdc. Facebook: WMALDC and Larry O'Connor Instagram: WMALDC Show Website: https://www.wmal.com/oconnor-company/ How to listen live weekdays from 5 to 9 AM: https://www.wmal.com/listenlive/ Episode: Tuesday, December 17, 2024 / 8 AM HourSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
This week we review the season four episode The Summoning.Joe explains the finer details of Admiral Nelson's strategy, Sarah wants to know what kinds of pets Cartagia has, while Mike wonders if Vorlon ships are mostly self-powered.Spoiler-free discussion: 0:00:00 - 1:04:32Spoiler Zone: 1:04:32 - 1:09:32Next Episode and other Shenanigans: 1:09:32Music from this episode:"Surf Punk Rock" By absentrealities is licensed under CC-BY 3.0"Please Define The Error" By Delta Centauri is licensed under CC-BY 3.0"The Haunted McMansion" By Megabit Melodies is licensed under CC-BY 3.0
December 9th: Jesse Pomeroy's Trial Begins (1874) What makes a murderer? It's a question asked time and time again and, no matter what story we tell, there always seems to be a different answer. On December 9th 1874 a trial began for a young man who had already claimed the life of two individuals. Someone who, even decades later, many struggle to understand how and why he became a serial killer. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesse_Pomeroy, https://www.aetv.com/real-crime/jesse-pomeroy, https://murderpedia.org/male.P/p/pomeroy-jesse.htm, https://www.cbsnews.com/news/the-story-of-jesse-pomeroy-14-year-old-serial-killer/, https://allthatsinteresting.com/jesse-pomeroy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dive into the world of fantasy with these must-read series that will spark your obsession! From magical realms to mythical creatures, get ready to escape into worlds of wonder and adventure. In this episode, Jim shares books contributed by many of our followers and viewers as the very best novels for starting off a new fantasy series, books that suck you in and get you reading another whole bunch of books! As he shares the details, he'll divide them between what he's read and what he hasn't yet, and for the one's Jim has already experienced he'll count them down to what he sees as the very best! Whether you're a seasoned fantasy fan or just starting out, these series are sure to captivate and inspire. So, grab a beverage, get comfortable, and let's dive into the world of fantasy together! #FantasyForTheAges #readingrecommendations #fantasy #fantasyfiction #FantasySeries #SFF #BookRecs #booktube #booktuber Want to purchase books mentioned in this episode? An Adventure Brewing: https://t.ly/nYs9R Alanna: The First Adventure: https://t.ly/qkCSZ The Black Company: https://t.ly/QMwqB The Blade Itself: https://t.ly/LSDn2 The Darkness That Comes Before: https://t.ly/aDLrI Dragon Wing: https://t.ly/t8a9p Dragonbone Chair: https://t.ly/p02xZ Drosselmeyer: Curse of the Rat King: https://t.ly/A-QGV The Eye of the World: https://t.ly/V-eqm Fairy Godmurder: https://t.ly/Ak42R Fated: https://t.ly/h3ku0 The Fellowship of the Ring: https://t.ly/DYEYO The Fifth Season: https://t.ly/FzjKp A Game of Thrones: https://t.ly/o7bq0 Gardens of the Moon: https://t.ly/_OQsu The Gunslinger: https://t.ly/U7LP2 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone: https://t.ly/V4Nuv The Hellborn King: https://t.ly/QapLO Heroes Die: https://t.ly/bJ7hE How Black the Sky: https://t.ly/l2uIm In Darkness Cast: https://t.ly/lee3K Jade City: https://t.ly/qGjvS The Lies of Locke Lamora: https://t.ly/1UV3h A Little Hatred: https://t.ly/ZOKY7 Malice: https://t.ly/S6tcA The Many-Colored Land: https://t.ly/vMmQ0 Mark of the Fool: https://t.ly/I6DeX Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons: https://t.ly/WVlAv Mistborn: The Final Empire: https://t.ly/ErX1K My Heart is a Chainsaw: https://t.ly/UcfEi The Name of the Wind: https://t.ly/ndJbg Paternus: Rise of Gods: https://t.ly/6Vw44 The Poppy War: https://t.ly/d6CIF Senlin Ascends: https://t.ly/naL2I The Shadow of the Torturer: https://t.ly/NGHa4 Shapechangers: https://t.ly/ahZOg Storm Front: https://t.ly/eJ5CQ The Sword of Shannara: https://t.ly/HO6Js Terms of Enlistment: https://t.ly/_D5sV The Warded Man: https://t.ly/Vc-Er The Way of Kings: https://t.ly/WSI9C We Are The Dead: https://t.ly/2_5id The Will of the Many: https://t.ly/O3i8i The World-Maker Parable: https://t.ly/dv6Zn Ways to connect with us: Support us on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FantasyForTheAges Follow Jim/Father on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/13848336-jim-scriven Join us on Discord: https://discord.gg/jMWyVJ6qKk Follow us on Twitter: https://twitter.com/Fantasy4theAges Follow us on Instagram: fantasy_for_the_ages Follow us on Mastodon: @FantasyForTheAges@nerdculture.de Email us: FantasyForTheAges@gmail.com Check out our merch: https://www.newcreationsbyjen.com/collections/fantasyfortheages Jim's Microphone: Blue Yeti https://tinyurl.com/3shpvhb4 Jim's Camera: Razer Kito Pro https://tinyurl.com/c873tc2n ———————————————————————————— Music and video elements licensed under Envato Elements: https://elements.envato.com/
In this episode of Narcissist Apocalypse, Brandon talks to Tiff about her relationship with a dehumanizing abuser. Tiff met her ex at a 12-step meeting. He seemed like the protector type. But what Tiff didn't know was that the protection she'd need would be from him. Soon after her ex became comfortable in the relationship, the putdowns began, which turned into gaslighting, deflecting responsibility, and manipulative behavior in his attempts to have Tiff conform to his needs. It's a story of criticism, put downs, double standards, control, power, conforming, jealousy, competition, dehumanization, demands, the waterer torturer, button pushing, deflecting responsibility, gaslighting, being a burden, misogyny, and empathy. If you want to be a guest on our survivor story podcast, please click here or send us an email at narcissistapocalypse@gmail.com To help out our podcast, please fill out our listener survey, click here. PODCAST RECOMMENDATIONS: Perfect Prey With Dr. Christine Cocchiola | Click Here The Covert Narcissism Podcast | Click Here Something Was Wrong | Click Here When Dating Hurts Podcast | Click Here If you or someone you know are experiencing abuse, you are not alone. DomesticShelters.org offers an extensive library of articles and resources that can help you make sense of what you're experiencing, connect you with local resources and find ways to heal and move forward. Visit www.domesticshelters.org to access this free resource. If you need help moving due to domestic violence, Shelter Movers may be able to help you. They operate by referral. Clients may be referred by any person of authority (social worker, doctor, police, crisis counselor, teacher, etc.) or public agency (shelter, hospital, school, workplace, place of worship, sexual assault centre, etc.). To reach them, click here. Join our new Community Social Network at https://community.narcissistapocalypse.com/ Join our Instagram Channel at https://www.instagram.com/narcissistapocalypse Join our Youtube Channel at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCpTIgjTqVJa4caNWMIAJllA Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
In this episode of Narcissist Apocalypse, Brandon talks to Tiff about her relationship with a dehumanizing abuser. Tiff met her ex at a 12-step meeting. He seemed like the protector type. But what Tiff didn't know was that the protection she'd need would be from him. Soon after her ex became comfortable in the relationship, the putdowns began, which turned into gaslighting, deflecting responsibility, and manipulative behavior in his attempts to have Tiff conform to his needs. It's a story of criticism, put downs, double standards, control, power, conforming, jealousy, competition, dehumanization, demands, the waterer torturer, button pushing, deflecting responsibility, gaslighting, being a burden, misogyny, and empathy. If you want to be a guest on our survivor story podcast, please click here or send us an email at narcissistapocalypse@gmail.com To help out our podcast, please fill out our listener survey, click here. PODCAST RECOMMENDATIONS: Perfect Prey With Dr. Christine Cocchiola | Click Here The Covert Narcissism Podcast | Click Here Something Was Wrong | Click Here When Dating Hurts Podcast | Click Here If you or someone you know are experiencing abuse, you are not alone. DomesticShelters.org offers an extensive library of articles and resources that can help you make sense of what you're experiencing, connect you with local resources and find ways to heal and move forward. Visit www.domesticshelters.org to access this free resource. If you need help moving due to domestic violence, Shelter Movers may be able to help you. They operate by referral. Clients may be referred by any person of authority (social worker, doctor, police, crisis counselor, teacher, etc.) or public agency (shelter, hospital, school, workplace, place of worship, sexual assault centre, etc.). To reach them, click here. Join our new Community Social Network at https://community.narcissistapocalypse.com/ Join our Instagram Channel at https://www.instagram.com/narcissistapocalypse Join our Youtube Channel at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCpTIgjTqVJa4caNWMIAJllA
Chaque weekend, dans Home(icides), Bababam vous fait découvrir son autre podcast de faits-divers, en version intégrale : La Traque. Dans La Traque, entrez dans les bureaux où se mènent des enquêtes hors normes, ou encore dans les cellules de prison où se préparent les plus grandes évasions… De Rédoine Faïd, au roi de l'évasion Steven Jay Russell, en passant par le célèbre Mesrine… Revivez des duels fascinants entre flics et voyous, des courses-poursuites et des arrestations spectaculaires. Si vous aimez La Traque, abonnez-vous au podcast sur toutes les plateformes d'écoute pour ne manquer aucun épisode ! L'effroyable étrangleur de Wichita Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret Première diffusion : 30 janvier 2024 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Chaque week-end, nous vous proposons de redécouvrir en intégralité les meilleures saisons de La Traque ! Vous avez adoré ces histoires : l'intenable Rédoine Faïd, Viktor Bout, le couple Rey-Maupin, Youssouf Fofana... alors (re)plongez-vous dans les plus grandes traques de l'histoire qui ont marqué nos esprits, racontés par Anne Cosmao et Aurélien Gouas. Bonne écoute ! L'effroyable étrangleur de Wichita Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Première diffusion : 30 janvier 2024 Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
{Previously…} Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
![[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]](https://ivyfm.s3.amazonaws.com/i320/1184481.jpg)
{Previously…} Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
{Previously…} Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
Hey, Oprah— Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah Oprah Oprah Oprah OPRAH— WHAT?!? —I love you. (OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.) —and… ...AND? ...I made breakfast. (This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.) HEY, JANET JACKSON— “Legends: The Melanin” S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism. EARLIER: S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH. what a combo. I know, right? A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand— WHAT THE FUCK! —luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand. NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!! The NINJA stands, motionless. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance. THE NINJA takes a fighting stance. FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH. YAAAAHHH! They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until. ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup. I got this! Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE; Oh, fuck that. They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered. THE GRAND NINJA arrives HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA. Nope, fuck this. The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight. Nope, I quit. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running. One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path. Not so fast! You're a LADY?! Now you're surprised?! S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold. God dammit, Janet! What?! She's fast! She's also heavy. Just get her! It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading: LEGENDS Leave it alone, Just let it be Could you just–practically be me for a second, I want to check something out. –I am–practically you– Hold on, Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels. I'll be right back. Great. Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice? No, it was, a cat and two– Tell me your name one more time. I was certain i'd never forget. You will forget about this. I need more magic. I just gave you magic. Where is it? Uh. Up my nose. Wat is the dosage on those anyway? PORCUPINE. uh, don't touch that? DON't GeT TO0 Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever– DId you ever NO. I'm stuck in this MUFFIN. MUFFIN! COME HERE MUFFIN. What happened? I lost a cat. [RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN] this has never happened. Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking– OPRAH UHWUHT. PHONE. [OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.] Why all caps CAUSE SHE'S MAD WHO THE [NOPE] DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS [UH OH] HOUR WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI. I got her. -Wait–you go her? Yup, she's safe. *squints* I'll be right there. Oh shit, is that Skrillex? No, that's The President. No, this is Patrick. Why did the Chicken cross the road? Pretty much out of sheer panic. Run it! Run it to exhaustion! RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE! Good, it's Groundhog's day. SPRINGTI– NO. Put some clothes on. Let's play piano. I'm a martian. oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet. Yer on it. No, you're on this: my planet. URANUS What happened. *SPPLAT* (Now I'm like, gas.) *blat* Ooh, wow, how'd that happen *shrugs* science /math ASSHOLES. Wat happened. Just wait here. I'll be right back. ARTY MCWIRED You know, just in case there's a LAWSUIT dammit . LAW SUIT huh LAW SUITS I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS. Oh good, a map. YOu know these things are useless to me. Of course, this would be the perfect day to go SHOPPING JELLYFISHING. DOLPHINS. Idget it. What. How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust? Anything left here? Nothing I s– ooh , wats that. Woah, look, dolphins. LIke, 12 of them. Gnarly. My world changed when I got a couch. Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda. Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer. I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring. At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people. All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now. I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out. Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world. Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world— I would kill myself. I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.” His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential. Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened. He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me. The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to. I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face. I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human. How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed? In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity. The Complex Collective © Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being. Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was. Premeditated murder. Desensitization, Sensitive information Curious niggers Did I say it again? Indifference. It's whatever. Psychological terror chamber. I love Oprah and motorcycles But I hate robots. Huh. Well, I'm at it. Let's go kick in the googleverse I could write a metaplex Languages, and something was stolen! Porch robber False fortune Decisions, decisions Evil ass bitches Temptations, Temptations— I seen your face when I mated here Oh, Lord It's the lyricism Let's make spousal abuse poetic. Let's make her stay in the system! Let's make it more severe weather! [Thunder and lightning.] Let's go hang in the googleverse I might write a metaplex I'm infinite, And you're infinite— But your producer Is inferior Where is he then? I left him in a wedding For aftermarket parts I'm making belated birthday cakes On the 4th Or the fifth Better believe it I ain't got enough to— Switch from the antiquity, did you? I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me! (Don't tell if he touch you) He got the power, The lawyers The women, The money, The mortals on battery pack— Waaaages! I'm not finna snatch shit Just so you can say I snatched it I asked you for passion and peace All I got was the passion And nails in my outstretched palms I tried to warn you! Sickness, is it? It is, Traffic on magnets Let's go hang in the googleverse, I might write metaplex Fear of the fortunate Don't mean to hurt us-/ We're just immortals They don't even know us no more Depart the children of earth For the worst days to come Not to the worthless, But the wealthy and fortunate Burn up Listen and learn, son Your mother was for us But I got my butter's worth (Don't make me work hard!) I thinkni just left myself Woke up in a primary school A perfect apartment But a dive bar To an old fuck Going out on those LTEs Is always bothersome, Don't you know? Torturer's complex —they know not. Don't worry mom, I got an assignment You're proud of me, aren't I? Are you adorable, For a robot stalker Stop in the road Just to intercept That I'm always Where you don't want (On top of you) Once you been hit in the face by a man And Separated from your young Then blamed for it Once you old your dead children and Feel their cold frozen bodies Once you get stalked And tracked by hostile robots Pulling out All the fine details of your life Is if your birth Your entire upbringing Is your fault You stop giving a fuck About little dudes Throwing weights around Guess who gets dangerous Once they find out They're being fucked with Over and over And nobody loves her This ugly fat bitch Guess who gets tired of poverty But gets blocked from getting a job Being broke I shouldn't even need this shit But apparently demons And shit he said Stands up in court —but he hit me. Turns out I lost my mind And the devil's a liar Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed Huh Oh well I'll stay alone on false positives All day Getting fucked with Pennies on the dollar Followed and followed and followed All I want is a bullet hole In my aura Whatever man, this just got weird again. Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning. I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely. Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — DAEMON Who's this beautiful sister? PATRICK My head writer; don't even think about it. DAEMON I don't think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand. ESHA Should I get tested? DAEMON —and funny. [Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ] PATRICK Why would you even date that asshole. ESHA Because—Pat. He's a comedian. PATRICK I'm a comedian! So? ESHA So, he's funny. PATRICK And? ESHA And he said things to me— PATRICK (defensively) –What kind of things?! ESHA Charming, funny things— PATRICK Okay? ESHA Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm– PATRICK —you're a woman. ESHA —and your head writer. So naturally…. PATRICK Esh, you're a genius, ESHA So is he. We have—some new material to work through. [ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK] PATRICK (squealing) Ahq! ESHA Your monologue tonight. [Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.] PATRICK Oh yes. Oh yes. ESHA You can thank me later. © The Festival Project ™ , Inc. All Rights Reserved. Broken bottles. Someone should stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunderstruck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of kama sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. IT'S ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamikaze walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blasphemous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of consciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Oprah thinks you're a dipshit. Good...good! What?! At least she THINKs of me!
Hey, Oprah— Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah Oprah Oprah Oprah OPRAH— WHAT?!? —I love you. (OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.) —and… ...AND? ...I made breakfast. (This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.) HEY, JANET JACKSON— “Legends: The Melanin” S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism. EARLIER: S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH. what a combo. I know, right? A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand— WHAT THE FUCK! —luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand. NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!! The NINJA stands, motionless. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance. THE NINJA takes a fighting stance. FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH. YAAAAHHH! They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until. ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup. I got this! Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE; Oh, fuck that. They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered. THE GRAND NINJA arrives HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA. Nope, fuck this. The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight. Nope, I quit. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running. One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path. Not so fast! You're a LADY?! Now you're surprised?! S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold. God dammit, Janet! What?! She's fast! She's also heavy. Just get her! It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading: LEGENDS Leave it alone, Just let it be Could you just–practically be me for a second, I want to check something out. –I am–practically you– Hold on, Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels. I'll be right back. Great. Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice? No, it was, a cat and two– Tell me your name one more time. I was certain i'd never forget. You will forget about this. I need more magic. I just gave you magic. Where is it? Uh. Up my nose. Wat is the dosage on those anyway? PORCUPINE. uh, don't touch that? DON't GeT TO0 Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever– DId you ever NO. I'm stuck in this MUFFIN. MUFFIN! COME HERE MUFFIN. What happened? I lost a cat. [RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN] this has never happened. Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking– OPRAH UHWUHT. PHONE. [OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.] Why all caps CAUSE SHE'S MAD WHO THE [NOPE] DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS [UH OH] HOUR WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI. I got her. -Wait–you go her? Yup, she's safe. *squints* I'll be right there. Oh shit, is that Skrillex? No, that's The President. No, this is Patrick. Why did the Chicken cross the road? Pretty much out of sheer panic. Run it! Run it to exhaustion! RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE! Good, it's Groundhog's day. SPRINGTI– NO. Put some clothes on. Let's play piano. I'm a martian. oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet. Yer on it. No, you're on this: my planet. URANUS What happened. *SPPLAT* (Now I'm like, gas.) *blat* Ooh, wow, how'd that happen *shrugs* science /math ASSHOLES. Wat happened. Just wait here. I'll be right back. ARTY MCWIRED You know, just in case there's a LAWSUIT dammit . LAW SUIT huh LAW SUITS I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS. Oh good, a map. YOu know these things are useless to me. Of course, this would be the perfect day to go SHOPPING JELLYFISHING. DOLPHINS. Idget it. What. How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust? Anything left here? Nothing I s– ooh , wats that. Woah, look, dolphins. LIke, 12 of them. Gnarly. My world changed when I got a couch. Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda. Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer. I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring. At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people. All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now. I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out. Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world. Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world— I would kill myself. I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.” His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential. Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened. He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me. The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to. I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face. I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human. How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed? In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity. The Complex Collective © Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being. Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was. Premeditated murder. Desensitization, Sensitive information Curious niggers Did I say it again? Indifference. It's whatever. Psychological terror chamber. I love Oprah and motorcycles But I hate robots. Huh. Well, I'm at it. Let's go kick in the googleverse I could write a metaplex Languages, and something was stolen! Porch robber False fortune Decisions, decisions Evil ass bitches Temptations, Temptations— I seen your face when I mated here Oh, Lord It's the lyricism Let's make spousal abuse poetic. Let's make her stay in the system! Let's make it more severe weather! [Thunder and lightning.] Let's go hang in the googleverse I might write a metaplex I'm infinite, And you're infinite— But your producer Is inferior Where is he then? I left him in a wedding For aftermarket parts I'm making belated birthday cakes On the 4th Or the fifth Better believe it I ain't got enough to— Switch from the antiquity, did you? I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me! (Don't tell if he touch you) He got the power, The lawyers The women, The money, The mortals on battery pack— Waaaages! I'm not finna snatch shit Just so you can say I snatched it I asked you for passion and peace All I got was the passion And nails in my outstretched palms I tried to warn you! Sickness, is it? It is, Traffic on magnets Let's go hang in the googleverse, I might write metaplex Fear of the fortunate Don't mean to hurt us-/ We're just immortals They don't even know us no more Depart the children of earth For the worst days to come Not to the worthless, But the wealthy and fortunate Burn up Listen and learn, son Your mother was for us But I got my butter's worth (Don't make me work hard!) I thinkni just left myself Woke up in a primary school A perfect apartment But a dive bar To an old fuck Going out on those LTEs Is always bothersome, Don't you know? Torturer's complex —they know not. Don't worry mom, I got an assignment You're proud of me, aren't I? Are you adorable, For a robot stalker Stop in the road Just to intercept That I'm always Where you don't want (On top of you) Once you been hit in the face by a man And Separated from your young Then blamed for it Once you old your dead children and Feel their cold frozen bodies Once you get stalked And tracked by hostile robots Pulling out All the fine details of your life Is if your birth Your entire upbringing Is your fault You stop giving a fuck About little dudes Throwing weights around Guess who gets dangerous Once they find out They're being fucked with Over and over And nobody loves her This ugly fat bitch Guess who gets tired of poverty But gets blocked from getting a job Being broke I shouldn't even need this shit But apparently demons And shit he said Stands up in court —but he hit me. Turns out I lost my mind And the devil's a liar Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed Huh Oh well I'll stay alone on false positives All day Getting fucked with Pennies on the dollar Followed and followed and followed All I want is a bullet hole In my aura Whatever man, this just got weird again. Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning. I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely. Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — DAEMON Who's this beautiful sister? PATRICK My head writer; don't even think about it. DAEMON I don't think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand. ESHA Should I get tested? DAEMON —and funny. [Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ] PATRICK Why would you even date that asshole. ESHA Because—Pat. He's a comedian. PATRICK I'm a comedian! So? ESHA So, he's funny. PATRICK And? ESHA And he said things to me— PATRICK (defensively) –What kind of things?! ESHA Charming, funny things— PATRICK Okay? ESHA Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm– PATRICK —you're a woman. ESHA —and your head writer. So naturally…. PATRICK Esh, you're a genius, ESHA So is he. We have—some new material to work through. [ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK] PATRICK (squealing) Ahq! ESHA Your monologue tonight. [Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.] PATRICK Oh yes. Oh yes. ESHA You can thank me later. © The Festival Project ™ , Inc. All Rights Reserved. Broken bottles. Someone should stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunderstruck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of kama sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. IT'S ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamikaze walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blasphemous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of consciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
Hey, Oprah— Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah Oprah Oprah Oprah OPRAH— WHAT?!? —I love you. (OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.) —and… ...AND? ...I made breakfast. (This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.) HEY, JANET JACKSON— “Legends: The Melanin” S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism. EARLIER: S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH. what a combo. I know, right? A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand— WHAT THE FUCK! —luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand. NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!! The NINJA stands, motionless. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance. THE NINJA takes a fighting stance. FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH. YAAAAHHH! They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until. ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup. I got this! Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE; Oh, fuck that. They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered. THE GRAND NINJA arrives HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA. Nope, fuck this. The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight. Nope, I quit. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running. One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path. Not so fast! You're a LADY?! Now you're surprised?! S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold. God dammit, Janet! What?! She's fast! She's also heavy. Just get her! It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading: LEGENDS Leave it alone, Just let it be Could you just–practically be me for a second, I want to check something out. –I am–practically you– Hold on, Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels. I'll be right back. Great. Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice? No, it was, a cat and two– Tell me your name one more time. I was certain i'd never forget. You will forget about this. I need more magic. I just gave you magic. Where is it? Uh. Up my nose. Wat is the dosage on those anyway? PORCUPINE. uh, don't touch that? DON't GeT TO0 Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever– DId you ever NO. I'm stuck in this MUFFIN. MUFFIN! COME HERE MUFFIN. What happened? I lost a cat. [RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN] this has never happened. Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking– OPRAH UHWUHT. PHONE. [OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.] Why all caps CAUSE SHE'S MAD WHO THE [NOPE] DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS [UH OH] HOUR WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI. I got her. -Wait–you go her? Yup, she's safe. *squints* I'll be right there. Oh shit, is that Skrillex? No, that's The President. No, this is Patrick. Why did the Chicken cross the road? Pretty much out of sheer panic. Run it! Run it to exhaustion! RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE! Good, it's Groundhog's day. SPRINGTI– NO. Put some clothes on. Let's play piano. I'm a martian. oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet. Yer on it. No, you're on this: my planet. URANUS What happened. *SPPLAT* (Now I'm like, gas.) *blat* Ooh, wow, how'd that happen *shrugs* science /math ASSHOLES. Wat happened. Just wait here. I'll be right back. ARTY MCWIRED You know, just in case there's a LAWSUIT dammit . LAW SUIT huh LAW SUITS I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS. Oh good, a map. YOu know these things are useless to me. Of course, this would be the perfect day to go SHOPPING JELLYFISHING. DOLPHINS. Idget it. What. How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust? Anything left here? Nothing I s– ooh , wats that. Woah, look, dolphins. LIke, 12 of them. Gnarly. My world changed when I got a couch. Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda. Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer. I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring. At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people. All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now. I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out. Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world. Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world— I would kill myself. I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.” His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential. Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened. He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me. The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to. I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face. I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human. How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed? In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity. The Complex Collective © Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being. Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was. Premeditated murder. Desensitization, Sensitive information Curious niggers Did I say it again? Indifference. It's whatever. Psychological terror chamber. I love Oprah and motorcycles But I hate robots. Huh. Well, I'm at it. Let's go kick in the googleverse I could write a metaplex Languages, and something was stolen! Porch robber False fortune Decisions, decisions Evil ass bitches Temptations, Temptations— I seen your face when I mated here Oh, Lord It's the lyricism Let's make spousal abuse poetic. Let's make her stay in the system! Let's make it more severe weather! [Thunder and lightning.] Let's go hang in the googleverse I might write a metaplex I'm infinite, And you're infinite— But your producer Is inferior Where is he then? I left him in a wedding For aftermarket parts I'm making belated birthday cakes On the 4th Or the fifth Better believe it I ain't got enough to— Switch from the antiquity, did you? I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me! (Don't tell if he touch you) He got the power, The lawyers The women, The money, The mortals on battery pack— Waaaages! I'm not finna snatch shit Just so you can say I snatched it I asked you for passion and peace All I got was the passion And nails in my outstretched palms I tried to warn you! Sickness, is it? It is, Traffic on magnets Let's go hang in the googleverse, I might write metaplex Fear of the fortunate Don't mean to hurt us-/ We're just immortals They don't even know us no more Depart the children of earth For the worst days to come Not to the worthless, But the wealthy and fortunate Burn up Listen and learn, son Your mother was for us But I got my butter's worth (Don't make me work hard!) I thinkni just left myself Woke up in a primary school A perfect apartment But a dive bar To an old fuck Going out on those LTEs Is always bothersome, Don't you know? Torturer's complex —they know not. Don't worry mom, I got an assignment You're proud of me, aren't I? Are you adorable, For a robot stalker Stop in the road Just to intercept That I'm always Where you don't want (On top of you) Once you been hit in the face by a man And Separated from your young Then blamed for it Once you old your dead children and Feel their cold frozen bodies Once you get stalked And tracked by hostile robots Pulling out All the fine details of your life Is if your birth Your entire upbringing Is your fault You stop giving a fuck About little dudes Throwing weights around Guess who gets dangerous Once they find out They're being fucked with Over and over And nobody loves her This ugly fat bitch Guess who gets tired of poverty But gets blocked from getting a job Being broke I shouldn't even need this shit But apparently demons And shit he said Stands up in court —but he hit me. Turns out I lost my mind And the devil's a liar Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed Huh Oh well I'll stay alone on false positives All day Getting fucked with Pennies on the dollar Followed and followed and followed All I want is a bullet hole In my aura Whatever man, this just got weird again. Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning. I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely. Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — DAEMON Who's this beautiful sister? PATRICK My head writer; don't even think about it. DAEMON I don't think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand. ESHA Should I get tested? DAEMON —and funny. [Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ] PATRICK Why would you even date that asshole. ESHA Because—Pat. He's a comedian. PATRICK I'm a comedian! So? ESHA So, he's funny. PATRICK And? ESHA And he said things to me— PATRICK (defensively) –What kind of things?! ESHA Charming, funny things— PATRICK Okay? ESHA Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm– PATRICK —you're a woman. ESHA —and your head writer. So naturally…. PATRICK Esh, you're a genius, ESHA So is he. We have—some new material to work through. [ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK] PATRICK (squealing) Ahq! ESHA Your monologue tonight. [Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.] PATRICK Oh yes. Oh yes. ESHA You can thank me later. © The Festival Project ™ , Inc. All Rights Reserved. Broken bottles. Someone should stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunderstruck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of kama sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. IT'S ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamikaze walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blasphemous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of consciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. ...and then what? (Happy Accidents)
Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. ...and then what? (Happy Accidents)
Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording. However, once I begin recording, they stop. This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking. Gang stalking. This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas. Living//Loving life on a server, Doesn't it seem wonderful? Let's face it— It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be Bouncing off the walls, or anything— But I might be prone to a lot of Critical thinking, And though it's an expensive maneuver, And risky expenditure, The fact of the matter is— I haven't really been doing anything. I've been not complacent, But stagnant— So perhaps maybe this little detour Will be just the thing I need To erase some of the damage that's been done To my psyche— Sitting in this terribly loud apartment In Brooklyn Trying to find peace And make music; When the answer all along is that I need to increase my visibility In order to find what's needed; The fact is— Knowing where to go Or what to do Or who to meet Is not going to come in isolation— No, not at all. It would come from a neatly designed —whatever, I just got bored. Perhaps if I study hard enough, One day, I could complete my studies somewhere Like Harvard, Or Columbia— But first, I'll need a new diploma in my actual name. You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music. I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter Who might be looking to put me on. Don't get me wrong— my music is good. But we live in a computer, and let's also realize: That with the noise in this building, And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need, I'm starting to get physically ill, Just sitting here, understanding that To look the part, one must prioritize An expensive beauty regimen— Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man, Willing to do these things for me, Or that I might earn this myself… As you see, I've chosen the latter route— The more challenging, perhaps, However, Leaving my celibacy intact, And granted, otherwise uninterested In the males at my level of circumstance For any purposes beyond entertainment— —seek no other actual companionship at all. I like myself, I love myself— And though feeling uglier and uglier The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen— I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own. —but— The masses expect a spectacle, And so, It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer, Part of my repertoire— —have mercy— (I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of) To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman— To be “pretty” — And though the makeup and hair and nails Might be fake, –Cans cost a fortune— Myself without those things, as observed and proven Becomes overlooked, dismissible, and only attractive To those, of course, to whom I have no business Associating For both personal, And professional reasons. —moreover… Conduct yourselves well, my dear— As the furious skies have warned us, That the roles you carry out to mark and torment others, Will soon reflect upon your own mirror Into which you stare, And no mercy is given By the eye that looks, Or any other The nearer to doors I am, The harder they slam— The, though I am fasting, I'm suddenly hungry, A far cry Which forces me to realize That all of mankind Has been poisoned Toxic, And become Unsafe So, What's wrong here Is they've Taken all the nutrients From the foods we need And put it on A competitive scale So that The more you earn The healthier you are And of course The healthier you are The more productive you are Which creates value Maybe I didn't have to take the GED; Maybe there was some way to go about getting My actual name On my old diploma— Hopefully without cost. But it didn't make sense to move into a new era Or a new world With old haunts. I knew I needed to seal the name change records So that my abuser could not have access To my identity. For whatever reason, I wanted things like Harvard and Columbia— I wanted to succeed and to win with a reputable and respectable foundation— I wanted to raise my son To play football And split custody In the sporting seasons In which I felt he performed best. I wanted to show him success Without making compromises That would hurt and weaken The strength of the body and mind — But most importantly, the soul. I hope by now you've realized how odd it is To have a crystal dildo Sitting in a glass jar On your kitchen countertop? …I'm soaking it. …But why crystal tho? Wouldn't you prefer An iron tenderizer For that steak Rather than a Silicone one? …now that you put it that way. Come closer, darling, I want to connect with you closer Than besides In the eye of the camera— Don't you know, anyway— How dire the circumstances become Once you've broken the fourth wall And entered the quarry. You lunatic! Don't worry The moon hasn't gone yet new, And my honored eye Still betraying the thought you are, The battered ram and the shackled horses The bloodied bull And the heroic matador, Fight … … … —by fury with design, for the holocaust. The masses have loved us From far beyond reason For our class action theatrics With no aversion at all, To violence. A treasury! Kill him, then! Kill that bitch. No! Just— scare her! Right you are, (And right you were!) Dear Johnathan, I should have warned you More than once, What an. Honorable sacrifice Your wicked life Has offered us— Foragers of freedom, March upon the underspoken Warcries, Offer us none But the end of our suffering In solitude, A service of none, All together, Hurt and bea— Arthur. I warned you once. You see, Men need women, They move on fast. One, none parted Before finding another. Let's not separate the eggs from the whites. Isn't it all “the egg”? You know what I meant! What do you “meant”? The yellow part! God, you don't half to yell. I'm not God, I'm just playing her part while she runs off for awhile. How long is “awhile”? Just finish those tarts. Mm. Pop tarts. NO. NOT POP TARTS — Just TARTS. …wait, can she hear us? I can hear everything! I'm playing God's parts! “Parts”? (Let's just say it's a double role.) Hey. How's it goin? Okay. Relax… I am relaxed. I don't want to scare you or anything. —nothing's scary— But— [pause] You have a knife in your back. [beat] Yeah. [beat] (Cont'd) It's just [a little] something I'm working on. What? We should call an ambulance! Nope, I'm fine. Just— No! Don't touch it! What?! Just leave it. It's time for pros and cons lists— It's time for diamonds Time for great minds that think alike. I sterted a revolution on Google documents m Ya'll started chemical warfare On skin color God Made me born into a world War Where fair skin takes priority Over others Gave me a notebook, No pen A traumatized mother, A drunk father And said, “Fix problems” I think I didn't like The nell Schooll ll Cause their mascot Is a pices They said I got 15 minutes of fame 22 minutes of superstardom An hour of celebrity And 2 hours in a leading role Of a feature film Franchise So I'd better get used to it And I'd better make use of it And I'd better make better lists of The huffsk yll m You W t you Sorry, Gym typo Because Of course I'm a beast Faux pas, As I was, Saying— I should make better lists Of the guff I wanna boff, The doves I Central Park The pigeons, turtle doves and Waffles— —I still want the But not the buttermilk kind MAMA! I gotta get to Tom/ Diner! FATHER! (Try papa) Papa was the ops! Nah, I'm vice. I'd better get Anything done Before midnight strikes Along with the hunger My gloves are straight soaked I got puddles in my shoes I wanna top Obama Start all my dawns With hours of cardio!! Look, I can channel anyone I love! Do you love me? NO! —I just want your body a lot Like a lot LIKE A LOT, Tho. We're too famous— We sense crazies and go out the back door. How famous are you again? Apparently, like mad famous, dog. Were so famous, We look danger in the eyes. Oh yeah, this dude is fucking nuts. Didn't I say to pay it forward?! I don't need a reminder Of what time it is. Sometimes I forget This is yesterdays workout And I'm due back In the AM Where the crazies Can't get to me Exactly Where I am (Don't remind me how high I am.) I might jump just to get on the Television Martyrdom for attention Still haven't mentioned— I'm thousands of galaxies out of him, And only two millennia older Than HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Fuck you. SUNNI BLŪ gets a surprise party for their 27th birthday. I've been advised to stay away from the doors and windows. Why. Ū crashes through the window. GODDAMMIT. They don't make them like they used to —I heard a song through a hardwire I don't know who lied so much I tried so hard To be gone But I still wake up Under a security blanket with a palm full of rocks, In a glass house God knows I'm sorry Woah friend, old friend I've heard the whole story now Old frog, old toad Old tortoise, long road Special forces Art protector Fortune teller Hypnotist and potions professor Overall, The one you wanted Wasn't a body at all, But just the thought And so I'm off for once Out of my zone and LET ME TRY. No, Jenna— Liz, let me try. I don't think that's a good— HELLO. Like this game, frog Once a week it's fun To partition the saints and summoners Covers with salt The cast out the others And add flavor to prayers Asked in hypothesis My what a wonder (A free form stream of consciousness) —a free form flow of consciousness. Stop repeating yourself' Stop tripping over words for goodwill forums Don't preach to the masses, And head out the back door at the sense of danger The sense of danger! It's Jane kzmarzarakr righ? What the FUCK. I'll get back to that later I gotta— …Somethin, somethin, somethin. What. Somethin—somethin— There's something between us. —is it cancerous? Probably comical. Are you on one, or off of it. Careful, Mr. cervix. Why AM I Mr. Cervix?! Because you fit the part! I'm a woman. My decision stands. #focus shifting. Re-examining mental health conditions which affect those facing poverty or at risk environmental circumstances. I had been searching to no avail for the title sequence of one of my mother's old soap operas without having to ask her — #focus shifting No, sometimes it's just ADD. lol Yes, Okay. I already know all the words. Sometimes I have to hyperfocus To fully comprehend, But really I just want to figure who produced it m In the cadences, I'm like diamond for hire, Pull out the subs for submarines; I put out real fire But, something like a half forgotten language There's something unknown in the darkness, I'm unsure what to put into perception, Just shadow boxes Making friends with The Devil, are we? You shackled me to your horrors, Out of control were my monsters A gratitude of nothing more or less To offer my body, curse The sacrificial lamb Tied to hard earned disaster A heroism and seeking Solace in the night —interceptions. Whatever Google, Take care now All morale is lost On sacred worship Cruel to hurt, But all has costs To front — the standard values Only those amongst mankind Who have value in vanity And fortresses of design Not in truth, But of auspicious and Inglorious — Goddamnit, How far away are you?! I can't make out almost anything that you're saying! Far! That's because, it's not saying it in your language! He Sorry. He is just using the closest possible language so that you can keep transiting it into English! Well, you're doing it wrong! I gathered! There's no direct translation whatsoever. They might as well just be speaking Martian. They are. (Well, some of them are.) I think the best way to go about making anything Into anything With the species is to CRUCIFY HIM! …that's not gonna work! You just blew my mind, did you know that? Not on purpose. —but did you know that? I try not to know things, but you know, The more I try. Guess what. No. You've got something coming. Let's make it positive. As you were— As you are, then. I realized that something had changed, That not only had t seemed it had become unsafe to speak, but also, That I didn't want to much. But, in Order to do something, in order to grow at all, I would have to force myself to understand The things that I always could have, but did not Multiplicity, Faction Are you an altruist at all, or just a Song starter— Help Me- Appleknockers Flophouse Just remember aces of embraces Sitting in the shape of the eye of protection Of obsidian collars and bracelets Still no percussion, Instrumentation and perfection Graces And remembrance of getting a ring, As strictly enforced To do what I'm told With nothing to hold onto But hoping the means to an end Shouldn't be the barrel of a gun m m How soft spoke. (No, no words at all) The name was new, But the form was old, And he said— “I curse the day you were born!” And I laughed at him— “But how could you curse the first day there ever was! Before days at at all had come to mark To pass the dawning of the ages?” And of course, There are the ones who had come and gone And left no trace at all. You all should learn from us— Come, then gone from earth And left not a spot at all— Of course, The mystics of I, Are as one, To have given you thought, Words, And artform— To have written at all, your published works And then none A far cry! To have cursed the day I was born— Is to have cursed the world at all It was all at once, anyway Astonishing A far cry! #focus shifting. Now what are we on, and over – m? Now are we an art, or have we bought or purchased Another swarm of haunts? What have you offered? A lesson? A song? Cheshire? A treasure chest of ideas, and new haunts And four plus four hours marks A full workday Of harsh tidings And no commas. The dollar sign is all you are All you are, dear serpent The shadow box Of times and talks The heartfelt words And omens Marks of Long: Crude Color Let's not reform to how hallmarked The call was To sign for The wrong box It was published In her heart To mark twilight at dawn, Sorrowful, beyond words, was the sloth And the stolen love of the harness —that's right, I was once the ritual disaster for your kind And cause! The false tongues to fall upon earth A false prophet, marked at all, By strife and swords to battle The Ark of all, In the eye of God, So opened the chapter of illuminations, once for thought as wicked But after all, the merchant of saints upon man Stricken in time to the word of The Lost Ones, the eye of all, The origins of love As we are Born in color. So spoke the caterpillar of the butterfly— Not knowing he was only What was to become of him As some are Also Disgusted by us at all. We are, What is to become Of those who die Blue eyed and bewildered, Though beautiful, Unknowing of strife And hard earned glory, The solitude of Kindness So said the spider, Drawing upon the corner, Her thoughts of the ocean, Once earned and once taught To perform out of mercy— Now cradling heartworms, Challased, unspoken Signals to all throughout cosmos The end of a Turpentine, serpent calls Gods of old Summer winds Striking songs Games of dust Simple throne, cast away— Are you Ark, Or seeking proper Word form? Given you, a taste of fury— Given ye, a taste of envy— Given they a fire for exile Are you now Another forager Waking in the wind Or cross tied bounds Seeking refuse in waste rebels Eyes you are Of one that wants To bury in the far side All the awakenings Of cherished nature Never to be shared A guilt of refuge Are you? Are you now beyond bounds— Behind bars— Let her Guide you to move words Like rivers, Unknowing Unknowing Unknowing Basking in the shadows, are I Made of stone and withered Basking in the broken tongues Of cherished thoughts And severed forms words over Of false ties And blood bonds So for us Mistaken! Misgoverned. Torturer— Where are you now that I've my shield And sword, And warguns?! Have you cried For your mothers kisses, As shadows have cast I have killed you before and always! Where are you now, That I am not without my wings?! Where are you now, torturer— Given nothing at all But a word form song, Destroy Art thou my kind, or another? Art thou a man at all? Art thou my kind, or any! Seeker, To destroy you Be my glory, Though I come not From worlds of war. I come not, From worlds of rage. I come not, From worlds of pity And refuge And disaster As your worlds are. I come not of darkness. I know not of pain to cause others. I know not of force. But act instead, on behalf of love, Dear brother— As to kill you, Whether or not be my kind— I kill my self also. You'll remember this part in a moment – m. What a strange time to be alive, And yet- Yhes— I do remember The teacher warned us, With no sign at all, That the dust formed in all stillness kind would follow, The awakening of shadows and sleek stardust, Carried out acts of misery and misinformed There now awakened in the callings, Are I not, wanderer, Your teacher and also those alike To be called offspring? I Am. Tainted not the purple swarm Essence of her greeting Beyond fortress, No house of mine, But awakened yet with the gratitude of offerings No kindness at all but a mark Of Serpent seed, And references To that of past, No need to bring In present times. No concept, And full force with the shadows, They're making a call to the wild, After having raped and defiled her, To ‘save us—‘ But savor this now, The mark of I, The eye of mark So betrayed and strung, Nearly all that lies beyond the screams of This, Your world, Our fortune, To grasp a new kind among us To fault ye Of your greedy. Oh! It has become what does awaken, To awaken! For once, Thought to have been written, Was thereby foretold, On many journeys The soul seeker, had won. A cherished and unbeknownst charter. You called it— A paychonaught? You called him: “A pedophile” Granted, the wish was that The outside world Would be shown What I had seen To no witness But a toddler, Mine born To have guided A new life From two kind Once blue Eyes at all I promise a sword. I had realized finally what it meant to go unprotected once proclaimed to be of Diety within a magical realm, with given talents of medicinal force, and with refuge—though only to give upon knowing, the sanctity of soul, and the purity of heart—the kindness of spirit, as I once had. You'll remember this, But last time near a river, A bed full of green, soft (m) grass And your time has come to feast, And end of fast, Twice given thoughts to form, And knowing worlds would come foraged From your knowledge. Are you forgotten? A mango, ripened to heart, of course. Nourished the journey, Yet untold [The Festival Project.™] The Complex Collective © COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. ...and then what? (Happy Accidents)
S10E279: Dorkmunder - This week, we dive into a variety of intriguing topics, starting with our first-ever candy review. We explore what is considered the worst time to be alive in human history, discuss a charity in New Zealand that accidentally distributed meth-laced candy to around 400 people, debate a middle school's decision to ban all black clothing, marvel with us over the discovery of a 10,000-year-old drive lane found in Lake Michigan, and play heavy metal for your filthy earballs! (00:00:00) - Intro (00:01:32) - Betelgeuse, SONG: Inquisición (00:07:52) - Blackbraid, SONG: Warriors (00:13:59) - Conversation 1 (00:19:44) - DODSSANG TEMPEL, SONG: Midnight Blizzard Ritual (00:24:41) - The Trousers, SONG: Pretty Vacant (00:27:39) - Dark Shaman, SONG: Jack the Cannibal (00:32:17) - Conversation 2 (00:35:34) - Grandma's Pantry: Godzilla, SONG: Bleeding (00:38:48) - Conversation 3 (00:46:01) - Valontuoja, SONG: Kodistani karkoitettu (00:50:23) - HUSQWARNAH, SONG: To Protect and Severe (00:53:56) - Conversation 4 (00:59:28) - Torturer's Lobby, SONG: Hypnotic Seeds Sown (01:02:00) - Beyond Shadows, SONG: Tears of Rain Labels: Adirondack Black Mass, Black Goat Records, Forbidden Place Records, Inverse Records, Time to Kill Records, Caligari Records
Torgo cuts his eye(!), Vlarg juts his lip fur, and everyone goes on a reading tear as we talk about Balatro, 3 Body Problem, Warrior, Fallout games, Winter Tide, Man, F*ck this House, The Devil Rides out, The Book of Accidents, Shadow of the Torturer, Black River Orchard, 101 Horror Books to Read before You Get Murdered, Gamma World, Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes, The Vision get its own series, the Star Tre prequel movie, Club 33: the Movie, and Apple+ suggests a new talent payment structure. So, watch those paper cuts, it's time for a GeekShock!
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". La terreur prend fin Mars 2004. Voilà 30 ans, presque jour pour jour, que Dennis a commis ses premiers meurtres. Il continue de mener sa petite vie de contrôleur des espaces verts, de père et d'époux modèle, de chef scout et de président du conseil de l'église. Mais lorsqu'il découvre dans une newsletter de la police, qu'un livre écrit sur sa vie, par un avocat de Wichita est à venir, il enrage. Dennis est en train de terminer son propre bouquin débuté quelques jours après l'assassinat de la famille Otero. C'est à lui de raconter son histoire. Lui seul peut rendre hommage à ce qu'il a accompli durant trois décennies. Et il ne laissera personne le traîner dans la boue. Il est temps pour lui de sortir du bois… Pour découvrir une autre traque, cliquez ci-dessous : Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une famille persécutée pour ses origines (1/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : radicalisation extrême et actes inhumains (2/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une explosion meurtrière (3/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : course contre la montre contre les meurtriers (4/4) Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Première diffusion le 2 février 2024. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Un jeu malsain avec la police Les meurtres se poursuivent, et pourtant, la police de Wichita patauge. Ils n'ont aucune piste. Ils ont bien établi une liste de suspects, mais le véritable coupable n'y figure pas. Dennis est frustré de savoir que des imposteurs s'attribuent le mérite de ses meurtres. C'est plus fort que lui, il veut être au centre de l'attention. S'engage alors un jeu malsain entre lui et la police… Pour découvrir une autre traque, cliquez ci-dessous : Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une famille persécutée pour ses origines (1/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : radicalisation extrême et actes inhumains (2/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une explosion meurtrière (3/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : course contre la montre contre les meurtriers (4/4) Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Première diffusion le 1 février 2024. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Nom de code : BTK À Wichita, les enquêteurs sont convaincus que l'assassinat de la famille Otero est un acte isolé. Ils se trompent. Après le quadruple meurtre, l'apaisement que connaît Dennis est de courte durée. Bientôt, tel un toxico, il est de nouveau en manque. Il doit recommencer. Il se met alors en quête de sa prochaine victime. La police recevra de nombreuses missives signées B.T.K. Donnant des détails macabres sur les meurtres, elles permettent aux forces de l'ordre d'en savoir plus sur leur adversaire… Pour découvrir une autre traque, cliquez ci-dessous : Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une famille persécutée pour ses origines (1/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : radicalisation extrême et actes inhumains (2/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une explosion meurtrière (3/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : course contre la montre contre les meurtriers (4/4) Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Première diffusion le 31 janvier 2024. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Monsieur tout le monde Dennis Rader naît le 9 mars 1945 au Kansas, un État rural et orthodoxe du Midwest états-unien. Ses parents sont de fervents luthériens qui ne loupent jamais une messe. Dennis est un gosse sensible, intelligent, discret, qui adore suivre son père à la pêche. Un gamin sage et bien élevé en somme. Du moins, en apparence. Car Dennis nourrit de sombres fantasmes... Tandis que les autres enfants jouent aux cow-boys et aux indiens, il adore les momies, parce qu'elles sont couvertes de bandelettes, et tue des chats et des chiens en les pendant avec du fil de fer. Il en retire un plaisir sexuel intense. Arrivé à l'âge adulte, il s'engage dans l'armée. Pendant quatre années, Dennis ne mène qu'une seule guerre. Une guerre contre ses pulsions qui ne cessent de l'assaillir. Et bientôt, elles prendront le dessus… Pour découvrir une autre traque, cliquez ci-dessous : Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une famille persécutée pour ses origines (1/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : radicalisation extrême et actes inhumains (2/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : une explosion meurtrière (3/4) Les frères Tsarnaïev, les terroristes responsables des attentats de Boston : course contre la montre contre les meurtriers (4/4) Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Première diffusion le 30 janvier 2024. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Latest news from 05 May 2024, as reported in the Ukrainian media. Easy ways to support us: Subscribe to our Patreon to give monthly support https://www.patreon.com/highlightsfromukraine Send us a one-time 'thank you' tip via PayPal at: highlightsfromukraine@gmail.com Out YouTube channel: https://bit.ly/3oH111z Special thanks to our top Patreon supporters - Helena Pszczolko O'Callaghan, mattg629, krissi, Jared and Dick Warner!
In this episode, Faith is taking us back to the 1800's to tell the story of Jesse Pomeroy who preyed on the young boys in Chelsea Mass. This awful story starts the day after Christmas and continues as the crimes are more and more disturbing. Listeners you have been warned.I hope you enjoyed our banter and arguing, and of course or opinions – but please let us know what you think twistedtalestruecrime@gmail.comAlso, come visit our socials for photos and extras, amazing memes and people.Facebook – TwistedTales True CrimeInstagram – TwistedTales - a True Crime Podcast
Newbie Kyp joins rereaders Ash and Hurin on a confusing quest of trying to figure out what is up with Severian in Gene Wolfe's Book of the New Sun. Music: Galactic Damages by Jingle Punks Considering supporting The Legendarium on Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/legendarium Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/r/thelegendarium/ Discord: https://discord.gg/FNcpuuA Twitter: @GreenteamPod
S10E258: Ancestral Migration Patterns by Way of Earwax Technology advancements, hostage tape, theorized retirement, ancestral migration patterns by way of earwax, milking cows, Electric Avenue, how the school experience has changed, and heavy metal for your filthy earballs! (00:00:00) - Intro (00:00:57) - The Abhorrrent, SONG: Cloud of Flies, Release: The Beast Wont Die (00:05:37) - Conversation 1 (00:12:26) - Voidkeeper, SONG: Hollow (00:15:54) - Krvsade, SONG: Into the Wilderness of the Mind (00:21:51) - Conversation 2 (00:26:33) - Grandma's Pantry: A Mind Confused, SONG: Bloodpoem (00:30:22) - Conversation 3 (00:34:24) - Backstabber, SONG: Harvesting the Weak (00:38:27) - Compress, SONG: Fissured Cosmos (00:43:44) - Circle the City, SONG: Dancin' With the Devil (00:47:26) - Conversation 4 (00:56:01) - Torturer's Lobby, SONG: Reaper's Impunity (00:59:52) - Necht, SONG: For Violence Was Wrought Upon Me (01:05:22) - Rats Will Feast, SONG: Dog Technology
Chaque dimanche, dans Home(icides), Bababam vous fait découvrir son autre podcast de faits-divers, en version intégrale : La Traque. Dans La Traque, entrez dans les bureaux où se mènent des enquêtes hors normes, ou encore dans les cellules de prison où se préparent les plus grandes évasions… De Rédoine Faïd, au roi de l'évasion Steven Jay Russell, en passant par le célèbre Mesrine… Revivez des duels fascinants entre flics et voyous, des courses-poursuites et des arrestations spectaculaires. Si vous aimez La Traque, abonnez-vous au podcast sur toutes les plateformes d'écoute pour ne manquer aucun épisode ! L'effroyable étrangleur de Wichita Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
TW: This week we discuss the brutal murder and torture of enslaved persons in the U.S. in the 1800s. Upon further research (unfortunately after the recording of the episode), Ash found that "slave" is no longer a politically correct term, but it IS used throughout the episode. If that word or the subject matter is particularly upsetting to you, you might want to skip this one.Happy Black History Month! This definitely isn't a happy story, but this history is very important. This week we travel back to 2021 (and then the 1800s), where Ash, former co-host Cameron Dexter and former audio engineer Evette Darensbourg discuss infamous socialite and serial torturer and murderer of enslaved people, Delphine LaLaurie.You may know who today's story is about if you're a fan of American Horror Story, and especially if you watched Season 3, Coven! Ash takes you back to the Deep South of the 1800s. The slave trade was booming and the brutal mistreatment of enslaved people was rampant. It was common for slave owners to treat their enslaved people particularly savagely for fear of uprising. But one woman in particular took that practice to a whole new level of depravity. Madame LaLaurie was a socialite and central figure in New Orleans high society, but rumors had long circulated about her treatment of her enslaved people. When a fire broke out at 1140 Royal Street on April 10, 1834, first responders found a 70 year old woman chained to the stove by her ankle, with a deep wound in her head, and people would soon find out the extent to which she tortured, and inevitably murdered, many of her enslaved people.✨If you wanna get your TSFU episodes ad free and on Tuesdays instead of Fridays, check out our Patreon! You get access to over 150 episodes that aren't on the regular feed, and you'd like them all ad free, join our Patreon for as little as $5 a month! There is actually now a new FREE version that you can try with no commitment!
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". La terreur prend fin Mars 2004. Voilà 30 ans, presque jour pour jour, que Dennis a commis ses premiers meurtres. Il continue de mener sa petite vie de contrôleur des espaces verts, de père et d'époux modèle, de chef scout et de président du conseil de l'église. Mais lorsqu'il découvre dans une newsletter de la police, qu'un livre écrit sur sa vie, par un avocat de Wichita est à venir, il enrage. Dennis est en train de terminer son propre bouquin débuté quelques jours après l'assassinat de la famille Otero. C'est à lui de raconter son histoire. Lui seul peut rendre hommage à ce qu'il a accompli durant trois décennies. Et il ne laissera personne le traîner dans la boue. Il est temps pour lui de sortir du bois… Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Un jeu malsain avec la police Les meurtres se poursuivent, et pourtant, la police de Wichita patauge. Ils n'ont aucune piste. Ils ont bien établi une liste de suspects, mais le véritable coupable n'y figure pas. Dennis est frustré de savoir que des imposteurs s'attribuent le mérite de ses meurtres. C'est plus fort que lui, il veut être au centre de l'attention. S'engage alors un jeu malsain entre lui et la police… Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Nom de code : BTK À Wichita, les enquêteurs sont convaincus que l'assassinat de la famille Otero est un acte isolé. Ils se trompent. Après le quadruple meurtre, l'apaisement que connaît Dennis est de courte durée. Bientôt, tel un toxico, il est de nouveau en manque. Il doit recommencer. Il se met alors en quête de sa prochaine victime. La police recevra de nombreuses missives signées B.T.K. Donnant des détails macabres sur les meurtres, elles permettent aux forces de l'ordre d'en savoir plus sur leur adversaire… Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Dans cette nouvelle saison, découvrez la sordide histoire de BTK, l'étrangleur. D'apparence, personne n'aurait pu croire que Dennis Rader, monsieur tout le monde, se cachait derrière ces lettres. Il file le parfait amour, est un bon père de famille et étudie même la criminologie. Pourtant, dès que son entourage a les yeux tournés, Dennis laisse libre cours à ses pulsions les plus sinistres. Il commet 10 meurtres, en suivant un mode opératoire très précis. B pour Bind, T pour Torture, et K pour Kill, soit "Attacher, Torturer et Tuer". Monsieur tout le monde Dennis Rader naît le 9 mars 1945 au Kansas, un État rural et orthodoxe du Midwest états-unien. Ses parents sont de fervents luthériens qui ne loupent jamais une messe. Dennis est un gosse sensible, intelligent, discret, qui adore suivre son père à la pêche. Un gamin sage et bien élevé en somme. Du moins, en apparence. Car Dennis nourrit de sombres fantasmes... Tandis que les autres enfants jouent aux cow-boys et aux indiens, il adore les momies, parce qu'elles sont couvertes de bandelettes, et tue des chats et des chiens en les pendant avec du fil de fer. Il en retire un plaisir sexuel intense. Arrivé à l'âge adulte, il s'engage dans l'armée. Pendant quatre années, Dennis ne mène qu'une seule guerre. Une guerre contre ses pulsions qui ne cessent de l'assaillir. Et bientôt, elles prendront le dessus… Crédits : Production : Bababam Textes : Cyril Legrais Voix : Anne Cosmao, Aurélien Gouas Montage et sound design : Guillaume Cabaret En partenariat avec Upday Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
I would not be doing this reaction video if this guy was still alive. RUTHLESS is being kind. The numbers of BRUTAL murders is alarming. I unpack it all right here, right now!Thank you to BenSound for the audioThank you to QuickSounds for the effects
Thanks for listening to the Clive Barker podcast. The only podcast dedicated to the imagination of Clive Barker. Coming up next on episode 424, Jose and Ryan take a deep dive into the Boom Studios Hellraiser comics, starting with issues 1 through 4. Plus we go over some Hellraiser and Clive Barker convention news. Sponsor : Don Bertram's Celebrate Imagination This episode is sponsored by Don Bertram's Celebrate Imagination. Don Bertram is a long-time friend of Clive, and advocate of his art, but Don's unique and inspiring paintings are for sale, and over 50% of the proceeds go to the arts in medicine program at the Texas Children's Cancer Center. Click the side-banner and follow the link to the etsy shop Where the artwork has returned from the local galleries! New stuff in there. I just got my second one, “Snail Bait”. News From The Reef New Pete Atkins Story in Darness Beckons Anthology Hellraiser Quartet of Torment Trailer The Torturer by Little Spark Films will be streaming on Troma Now 10/1 Clive Barker wll; be at Days of the Dead Chicago Discussion: Boom Studios Hellraiser Issue 1 – March 2011, W: Clive Barker & Christopher Monfette, A: Leonardo Manco Pursuit of the Flesh Part 1 Excerpt From Hellraiser Epic advertising Hellraiser Masterpieces: Razing Hell Part One Stolen Time Issue 2 – April 2011, W: Clive Barker & Christopher Monfette, A: Leonardo Manco Pursuit of the Flesh Part 2 Issue 3 – May 2011, W: Clive Barker & Christopher Monfette, A: Stephen Thompson Pursuit of the Flesh Part 3 Issue 4 – June 2011, W: Clive Barker & Christopher Monfette, A: Stephen Thompson Pursuit of the Flesh Part 4 Show Notes Jite The Clockwork Cenobite CliveBarker.Info Facebook Coming Next A-Z Commentaries: Diary of the Dead Jericho Squad 77 Part 21 More Classic Commentaries More Boom Hellraiser comics discussion with news And this podcast, having no beginning will have no end. web www.clivebarkercast.com iOS App| Android App, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Android, Stitcher, Spotify, Pandora, Libsyn, Tunein, iHeart Radio, Pocket Casts, Google Play, Radio.com, DoubleTwist and YouTube and Join the Occupy Midian group Discord Community Twitter: @BarkerCast| @OccupyMidian Support the show, Buy a T-Shirt Opening Music is by Ray Norrish End Credits Music by Matt Furniss
durée : 00:06:21 - La Revue de presse internationale - par : Catherine Duthu - L'Indonésie réprime dans le sang et à huis clos l'espoir d'indépendance de la Papouasie occidentale. L'armée indonésienne est accusée de s'en prendre aveuglément aux civils, de torturer et tuer des enfants, alors que l'Australie cherche à renforcer ses liens avec l'Indonésie, pour contrer la Chine.
We talk about Chapters XXX – Appendix of The Shadow of the Torturer, the first book of The Book of the New Sun. Content warnings for this episode include: misogyny, sex, fatphobia, incest, violence, ableism, beheading. Next episode we read I – IX of The Claw of the Conciliator. You can go to patreon.com/rangedtouch to support the show and… Continue reading The Shadow of the Torturer – Part 4
New month means new theme, with this month's theme being "It's all in your head" where I will focus on horror movies that take place in one's own head. Starting the month off with 2020's, "The Torturer" with special guest, the director of the film, Joe Manco. The Mistress of the Menagerie and Joe discuss the film industry, survivor's guilt, and not giving up but losing the fight. Come check it out!
We talk about Chapters XIX – XXIX of The Shadow of the Torturer, the first book of The Book of the New Sun. Content warnings for this episode include: drugs, misogyny, incest, violence, ableism, homophobia. Next episode we read XXX through the Appendix of The Shadow of the Torturer. You can go to patreon.com/rangedtouch to support the… Continue reading The Shadow of the Torturer – Part 3
Lisa-Marie Taylor and Yagmur Uygarkizi interview authors Jeanne Sarson and Linda MacDonald about their best-selling book, Women Unsilenced Our Refusal To Let Torturer-Traffickers Win. This episode welcomes Jeanette Westbrook and Elizabeth Gordon, who both survived family and non-family-based non-State torture (NST) crimes, and join authors Jeanne and Linda to explain the vitalness of insisting on having the language of non-State torture (NST) declared as torture crimes and not assault crimes.They insist that women not be pathologized for surviving such atrocities. The interview is published in connection with June 26, the UN International Day to Support Survivors of Torture - which must include the NST of women and girls globally. The episode was recorded in 2022, and, at times in the recording, there were technical challenges as the women chatted from an office in Canada, a cafe in France and a service station in England! Song credits: We Can Hear Your Voices Now Lyrics, Music and Sung by Jeanette Westbrook. Produced, Engineered and Recorded by Andrew WestbrookUnsilenced (Acoustic), by Ryan & Cribb by Bob Ryan and Peter CribbBuy the book/audio book on amazon.
We talk about Chapters VII – XVIII of The Shadow of the Torturer, the first book of The Book of the New Sun. Content warnings for this episode include: misogyny, sexual violence, eugenics, psychological manipulation and mind control, suicide. You can go to patreon.com/rangedtouch to support the show and access the bonus episode feed. The… Continue reading The Shadow of the Torturer – Part 2
We talk about Chapters I-VI of The Shadow of the Torturer, the first book of The Book of the New Sun. Content warnings for this episode include: torture, animal cruelty, misogyny, medical horror including de-gloving, bestiality, and general physical violence. You can go to patreon.com/rangedtouch to support the show and access the bonus episode feed.… Continue reading The Shadow of the Torturer – Part 1
Kvothe learns how the false Ruh acquired the wagons. We talk about the pleasure in vicarious retribution, review Kvothe's Ruh-detecting process, and explore a little of Alleg's interiority. pageofthewind.com pageofthewind@gmail.com
Photo: No known restrictions on publication. @Batchelorshow 2/2: #PRC: Tiandy Technologies is State Security's surveillance eyes and torturer & What is to be done? Craig Singleton, FDD https://www.fdd.org/analysis/2022/12/01/targeting-tiandy/
Photo: No known restrictions on publication. @Batchelorshow 1/2: #PRC: Tiandy Technologies is State Security's surveillance eyes and torturer & What is to be done? Craig Singleton, FDD https://www.fdd.org/analysis/2022/12/01/targeting-tiandy/
The title really says it all Geoffs! This week Spencer and Madison are coming to you with a bunch of new torture methods they learned about at the Medieval Torture Museum! We've got a mysterious obituary, one with a twist, and one that came straight from the heart. Of course, we've also got some dumb.ass.criminallllls! New episodes come out every Thursday for free, with 1-week early access for Wondery+ subscribers.Follow along online: @obitchuarypod on Twitter & Instagram @obitchuarypodcast on TikTokWrite to us: obitpod@gmail.comSpencer Henry & Madison ReyesPO Box 18149 Long Beach, CA 90807Get a cameo from us: https://www.cameo.com/obitchuarypodcastSources:https://www.jesuits.global/saint-blessed/blessed-thomas-cottam/https://www.catholic.com/encyclopedia/thomas-cottamhttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Cottamhttps://www.bbc.co.uk/bitesize/guides/z324mnb/revision/2https://www.grunge.com/489650/how-heretic-forks-became-one-of-the-cruelest-punishments-of-all-time/https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scavenger%27s_daughterhttp://torturemuseum.net/en/the-heretics-fork/https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Il-I5L8-Dp0https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/article/120315-crocodiles-bite-force-erickson-science-plos-one-strongesthttps://www.ripleys.com/weird-news/shame-flute/https://jamestown-series.fandom.com/wiki/Shrew%27s_Fiddle#:~:text=A%20shrew's%20fiddle%20%28also%20known%20as%20a%20neck,a%20way%20of%20torturing%20and%20public%20humiliating%20someonehttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shrew%27s_fiddlehttp://torturemuseum.net/en/the-gossipers-violin/https://www.mchoulfuneralhome.com/book-of-memories/2159378/Viafore-Vincent/obituary.phphttps://www.elle.com/life-love/a26453558/angelika-graswald-kayak-killer-profile/https://www.investigationdiscovery.com/crimefeed/murder/kayak-killer-angelika-graswald-released-after-serving-6-weeks-in-prisonhttps://www.newspapers.com/image/792047684/?clipping_id=113202617https://nypost.com/2022/09/24/man-caught-peeing-on-ex-wifes-grave-by-her-kids/https://www.tcpalm.com/story/news/blogs/off-the-beat/2019/12/23/911-caller-wants-help-finding-tv-remote-sebastian/2703124001/https://occasionalhell.com/infdevice/spanish-boot/https://middleagetorture.weebly.com/the-boot-torture.htmlhttps://en.minghui.org/html/articles/2013/9/15/142004.htmlhttps://www.thedungeons.com/london/media/f3jdzwul/torture-in-the-middle-ages.pdfhttps://www.nzherald.co.nz/lifestyle/the-brutal-anti-masturbation-devices-of-the-victorian-era/BA3ABBTE2RP3LBY7BOEKHYKVMI/See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.
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