The Devil’s Work

How often do you think
a Devil doth lie
and greet you as an angel
just to squeeze into
a soulful pantie
and twist it awful wedgie tight
whilst you holla righteous holy purpose

and how many once courteous
are now finished broken
at the hands of a monster
so belligerent and coy
it's forlorn to tell the difference

it happens so often
by earthen hands
whose aren't so always kniving dastardly
as monsters proposing as angels
that it must
though you'd never know for sure

Paper Straws

The clouds are a bowl of appropriated

fucking poisoned oatmeal

on sunken hues

of navy blue

and carbonated so carbonated teal

Sucking us further always further into

a storm of which there is no relent

one of fire and flooding

and broken Earthen bones.

But what does it matter

you gotta live your life right?

Drive your car

suck on the lactating tit

of craven consumerism

and nothing beats a factory farmed steak


Paper straws

You gotta save us


we ain’t gonna do it ourselves.


(A guest vibe by June Rayne)

A grand new world inspires you

colours shine so bright

whats and whys you crave for

yet your senses produce fright.

To sit and learn is easy

for those that you call friends

an overwhelmed brain in despair

can only hope it blends.

You listen to her closely

but there’s so much going on;

The walls are full of pictures

and where’s the sunshine gone?

All their eyes are on you

you want to hide or run

but there you sit afraid to move

dreaming of having fun.


Sit in the mist and soak up the electric atmosphere surrounding you

X-Ray cancerous pulses of dopamine dopamine dopamine.

Feed me my worth

Sell me back my hooked addicted plugged in out of control soul

For a pittance, if you will.

The fairy’s junky lights are burnt out again

Pass her a hit of me or you or that guy who makes funny videos with his derpy-ass cat.

Our void is becoming one too deep to shine through

She’s almost dust

The empath always dies by our hand or its own in the face of stagnant superficial self-interested desire.

It’s cool though,

It’ll only plague our minds for a second or two

Until the next video drops.


Descend into the pits of being, you reckless dainty soul. A blinding light before your face does fold unto itself and yank you through an effervescent portal to the higher plane. A place with dancing sprites of every colour, creeping violent broken shades and absurd outrageous landscapes laid out in fractals which twist and grow and pull attention from all that which you came to do.

But push on now, blinkered through a smoke of all you know to be distraction, hunting for the source of soul or the seat of ego it must be scorched forever from this land so you can sit amongst it, awakened from material slumber to the peace of only nothing.

Through the layers of psyche you go, accosting fight or flight and instinctual dread as it tries to tell you NO! Don’t do this you’re going to die you’re going to die please, please, don’t do this don’t do this you’re going to die.

You must.

Blast on through unhinged emotion and tear asunder attachment and aching desperate dreams. Cry your final tear and slice the limbs of pride and longing this spectral being you once aspired to grow and nurture, it’s almost time to be.

Rip away at constricting useless rational webs of who am I and what it is to live and there it is the silver eye of godly crystal awaiting your demise or ascent to high vibration or the crumbling of this box you’re trapped in. You’re here. What next?


Stuck in the amber abyss I try to create a picture of something that might catch your attention. A thread of life perhaps, or an action so intense that it wakes up the hairs on the crest of your neck. And yet the curse of individualism will tell most that all that lies in these letters is hopeless impossible ramble. What if I told you that an ever restless soul resides here, screaming under a patchwork of black and blinding white monotony. Aching and writhing, begging you to sit up and notice its twisted dreams and its paranoid self-reflection and its shuddering egotistical genius. Ripping at the seams of this being it dwells in, it longs to bellow sweet nothings until your ear drums burst and it can burrow inside so its crushing voice becomes that which you hear when you tell yourself that everything is not ok even though it could be if we learned to smell which of the leeches is kind for fruitful benevolence and which is merely a disease utilising lifetimes’ worth of beautiful star-born vibration to gain access to resources which are nothing more than collectively enforced bridges to undeserved narciscisstic decadence. Alas, how can we when Truth is lying in a twisted broken pile in the lobby of human conciousness, bearing gushing stab wounds from the selfish and giant great boot marks from corporation issue cover up kicks. Collective Goodwill and Endless Prayer are no match for the Pyschopathic Fucking Syncophant.




Oh, the caves I hide in, cowering beneath the expectation of an unwarranted shakespearean pipe dream.


In the beginning naught did shine but light and hope and clouds they all had lustre,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning there swam free peace conscious and curious lives we hungered,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning both beast and man sweet harmony sang and we fed them and they fed us our joy,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning O’ heavens they were hallowed and unknown too was hallowed though thy name On High unknown,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning there was but green and blue and rustle and trickle and crack and splash all over,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning connected all did feel and balance all knew well,

And then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the end all was bleak exhaust flew through the cracks and poisoned,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end there was no peace and wonder was survival dead,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the beasts lay caged or worse and  mania-amaranthine so long beset them,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the heavens all had clogged with hopeless quests to conquer,

Thy name unknown endured.

In the end there was no green or blue just black and endless thunder,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the link it severed and all life fell asunder,

The Cycle shall reset you.




When the curtain falls, where will you be?

Probably roasting in the fire with everyone else.

Go on, Give me a nice internal scream,

Maybe the camera will pick up your hopeless twisted despair.

I’ll post an emoji on there that cries with laughter, just to lighten the mood.


Now off it goes to my closest friend.



Turn yourself around, Subject.

Watch your creations disassemble the irrational ambitionism you gave them. Isn’t it beautiful?

For one to return to that from which it was hedonistically ripped. That, is art.

What you’ve done, subconsciously and with robust naivety,

to foster fake meaning and concoct a great poisonous grey matter purpose

in order to get a continuous hit of its alluring fake-peace high.


Folly                                                            Folly                                                            Folly


The deed is almost complete,

and only when it is shall you see the depths of your own misdirection.

Maybe then you will be worthy of life.

Not that you’ll have enough left to act.


Grey and black and white and brown the anti’s-rainbow frown delight,

Anti-rain opaque as fate falls on the sky from trees that hang root side up-down-up-down and back oh right?

Spider’s silk don’t stick it slides and Silkyparks are oh so fun for UP you stop and don’t come back,

And anti-flies walk right side down cus uplift’s dead so planes cut ground and Ant’s do scramble anti-fair.

Murder’s life and pregnant’s death so punish much astonish!

Anti-baby Humon 3 does run the Earth but clout has so much doubt,

And war it’s all just kiss and kiss and sandpit sandpit fun.

Lightning hush and thunder shiggle in quite lightheart delight they fiddle,

Push is pull with much confu and books they have no numbers!

Stars are black but anti-white is oh so bright the night is day and girl oh girl! We’re in a right new mental fright,

For all our sdrow and all our sight is right way bront to fack!

Modern Education: The Dictator Vs The Facilitator

A bored mind will never truly absorb information given to it in an educational setting, purely because its boredom represents a lack of interest in the topic and its view that said information is irrelevant to its own life. So why do schools dictate what children should and shouldn’t learn? For the last 1,500+ years of modern civilisation the answer to this question has been simple; A school must dictate to its pupils what they should learn about the world so that they are able to survive in it independently, with at least a basic understanding of society and the world they were born into, because this information is not readily available elsewhere. Without dictation and a set curriculum at school a child will be mentally lop-sided and unable to live the independent life those setting curriculums wish for all of us – according to their agenda.

 I would be remiss to argue against the dictation of literary, scientific and mathematical basics in primary school, for those lessons lay the foundation of the ability to capture knowledge in the future. University also finds obvious exemption due to the freedom of choice and their role, which is to teach the application of knowledge in order to develop independent reasoning and questioning on a topic of the students’ choice.

 However, I strongly believe that the intermediate years between the two are the most important for the development of an individual’s mind-set, both in terms of setting the standard for the future and discovering where one fits into the world. In the age of the internet and readily accessible, limitless, information, I do not believe that there is any excuse for a school to allow its students to find the subjects they are studying boring. Dictation – especially in such an open society – breeds this boredom, of which the symptoms are often laziness, underachievement and disillusionment.

 In such a connected and accessible world, the role of the secondary school needs to shift from the dictatorial educator to the mere facilitator of learning. By this I mean that a school need only embed the love of learning (which comes naturally when a child is learning something they are genuinely interested in) and teach children how to access the information available to them. I believe it is true that attempting to teach an individual lessons they do not want to learn is a waste of resources that could be used to educate a student who does want to learn them. Instead, children should be taught the aforementioned lessons early, and be allowed to take their own path from a much younger age. This would eliminate wasted teaching hours and also allow for children to begin to become specialised in their interests earlier in their development. On top of this, it would break the current system in which a child is judged on his ability to regurgitate facts he/she will most likely never make use of.

 Teaching like this creates a problem for assessment, but not one that I think makes the shift untenable. Instead of grades specific to a subject, a student should be given a level of overall cognitive and physical potential, calculated primarily through observation. This should be the ‘grade’ most important, and students who choose to take the path of exam-worthy topics should be allowed to do so if they wish. Education should be organised from the bottom up, not the other way around. With an assessment system based on potential, children could be encouraged to grow to said potential rather than being given a definitive grade, which can damage both the moral and confidence which is so required to embrace learning.

 A sizeable chunk of the most successful companies and individuals among us discovered their passions themselves at a young age and figured out how to access relevant information and resources of their own accord. These people configured their person from that young age to the purpose they felt their life held. Secondary schools do not promote this kind of open exploration because it is not what is recognised as success by those charged with judging what is or isn’t a successful school.

 If children are allowed to focus on their interests from a much younger age, their brains and bodies will grow with them to suit those interests. It will breed much higher levels of satisfaction among students (millions of which struggle daily with rising levels of depression borne of their unsuitability to the one-size-fits-all system of education currently in place), encourage acceptance of the diversity of humanity by demonstrating that every individual is fuelled by different motives and interests, and it will breed innovation in areas we don’t currently know it is required; How can you expect innovation in a system in which the same methods of thinking are forced on youth year by year?

 Education is the key to a harmonious and productive society. It has remained relatively unchanged because those in charge are those whom the system has suited since day one. So let us allow those who suit academics to continue to prosper from their talent for it, but also, let us lift the disillusioned out of the side-lines of society and teach them that their mind and body are as valuable and able as those who benefit from a lop-sided system.