Modern Art is Corrupt

I have a writing disability.

That means I cannot paint.

I literally, physically

Cannot paint.

 

So, if there are modern art pieces

That I can actually, feasibly do,

Without any training

With my crippled hand

That cannot draw a straight line

For the life of me,

This is why I’m not an author.

This is why no publisher accepted me.

This is why I cannot make a living.

 

What is the correlation?

Rather, the causation is that

Poop is patronized

While disciplined artists cannot make a dime.

Rather, you have to be a savant

To make it in the art world

Actually drawing good pieces of art.

Only if you were painting Leonardos at 5

Do you make it in the art world.

If you paint them at 29,

You’re stucked.

 

High quality

Means just having no discipline.

When a few stars

And a little rainbow

Circle gets to be 125,000 dollars

Like a five year old had painted it

And copies of my work do not sell.

Rather, if they are, Amazon is hiding it from me.

If a five year old had painted a good piece of art

I’ve actually seen it before.

It’s marvelous!

But if I did a finger painting

At five years old,

It shouldn’t be worth the paint that splattered it.

Unless you’re my mother.

 

But no… good art is not patronized.

Great artists are not given the chance they need

To eat.

Because undisciplined artists

Make a living, while the disciplined among us

Starve.

This is called corruption.

The man who works hard

Gets nothing.

The man who makes a doodle

After sleeping all day

His work is worth 125,000 dollars.

 

That, or someone is stealing from me.

Or, maybe it’s a little bit of both.

 

Analysis of the Herb Leech by Joseph Campbell

I've seen in this writer something prophetic. Some kind of insight. I did not know he was writing so contemporary; I thought he was writing in the eighteen hundreds. Generally, the reason why I'm so interested in it is the schema of a very normal delusion, that being a brain parasite of some sort that causes the illness of Schizophrenia.

So, this is what influenced my poem about the "Yeerk"; was I read this poem the Herb-Leech in my Barnes and Nobles' leather bound A Treasury of Irish Literature, and was like, "Well, I'm having really bad dreams, and have a lot of problems with xyz." And, there must be some mythological reference here to a mythology that Joseph Campbell once read. But the poem is talking about dreams, and the fact is that they have a reach into the person's mental health. When a delusion enters into the dream sphere, it begins to reach into the conscious and begins to be believed. And the mythology, literally here, is not so much being believed, but rather is manifesting in the dream.

But, the poem is definitely dealing with Schizophrenia. And "Schizophrenia" is often not having a filter in day to day activity. That means that everything is going to be interpreted as it is, and the brain is going to put all that information together. A good example of this is the rotating mask. The Schizophrenic sees it rotating the correct way, but the normal mind sees it with a filter which makes the illusion as if it span in both directions. So, Schizophrenia is a lack of having those filters.

At the end of the song, there's talk of the Murrain Stone. That right there, "Murrain" means sickness. It's speaking of mental illness, specifically, schizophrenia. Because anyone who believes, and I quote "All things on earth/to me are known" because of the "Murrain Stone", then it's obviously saying outright a man does not have omnipotence with this line. The poem is rather talking about Schizophrenia, with regard to an omnipotence delusion. It's impossible for a man to know all things, so the poem is talking about something else.

Which, seeing he got conflated with other religions---and this is why I really would discourage people from learning about religions other than Christianity---is that he must have picked up a delusion from believing in Folk Tales, giving him the "Murrain Stone." Or Schizophrenia. Because experience with the Mythological---as he puts it in an essay I was doing research on---is something I think ought not happen. There's only one God, that's Jesus Christ. And there's a ton of other religions that are not Jesus Christ. They have other revelations, and it is a sickness when they are revealed; that is, if the magic of the superstition reveals itself it is a sickness.

When I look at this, my mind thinks of the "Yeerks", as if they were some kind of schizophrenic pathogen. As if the mental illness of Joseph Campbell, by reading into Mythology too much---because that is where the pathogen takes root---is being likened to a Brain Leech of some kind. As if mythology can be a pathogenic cause of schizophrenia; which Campbell would not accept this thought, but I find it accurate. There are other pathogens, too, like the Truman Show, or generally speaking any source of literature that skews the mind from the one solitary truth, and that is Christ.

Which, now the poem makes sense, that the Herb-Leech is his Schizophrenia. It is a delusion he's dealing with, something similar to a Yeerk, and Schizophrenia can be metaphorically linked to this science fiction concept. Which, the way to beat it, and the path to a healthy lifestyle, are to overcome the illness with love. To simply love; that is actively work at becoming a better and more empathetic person. Because I believe it is something like the "Error of Balaam" as talked about in the Bible. He was a so called "Prophet" and named his prophecies, but it is was then reinforced when he saw a Donkey talk. Delusory tendencies, with research to back them up with schemas, then start manifesting in negative behaviors such as fortune telling, and then when some of those predictions might come true it can lead to OCD or Post Traumatic Stress. Which, ultimately brings the illness to a much worse standing when the things we've fortune told came true. It makes us believe we have power.

Which, seeing his mentions here of the different myths that must have spurred it on, I think his dreams are actually spurring on the mythologies. That maybe he has some latent understanding of them, forgets them, dreams them, and then finds them, reinforcing the schizophrenia. Which, external stimuli that proves a delusion drives someone mad, into the depths of Schizophrenic tendencies. It's imperative that one understand that, and try their best not to prove a Schizophrenic's delusions. Because external stimuli that proves a delusion, will only reinforce the delusion, making it stronger in the individual.

So, the Herb-Leech is Joseph Campbell's mental illness.

Campbell, Joseph. "The Herb Leech". A Treasury of Irish Literature. Sterling Publishing Co., Barnes and Nobles Classics Edition, 2017. Text.

It’s All in the Heart

Yeerk = Demon Possession.

Baal Vision = Yeerk.

 

We have a pandemic of Demon Possession.

It’s all in the heart.

 

To cure the demon,

Cease from your sin.

Jesus Christ is Come in the Flesh.

 

Jesus Christ is the LORD.

 

I came to Animorphs the other day

And saw them in there.

I forgot about the book.

We need to understand there

Are no such things as aliens.

There are no such things

As Yeerks.

But there are such things as demons

And right now we have a society encumbered by possessed individuals.

 

Whatever your sin is,

You have to beat it.

You have to be stronger than it.

Jesus Christ is Come in the Flesh.

 

When Aliens come to earth

You have to be especially careful not to call them extraterrestrials.

They are simply demons.

Like those little floating things you catch on Pokemon Go

That’s all they are.

And everyone shares a hallucination

Because of sin.

 

Cease from considering the knowledge of our times.

It is all chaff.

The LORD is Jesus Christ.

God is good.

 

I will be proven right.

Tom Riddle

Tides of evening grains

So austere, so austere

Is my voice in poetry.

Tides of evening grain

So austere is my idea in poetry.

 

How the exalted verse

O’ thou exalted verse…

I cannot tell a riddle

A riddle, a riddle.

Blasted I am.

No riddle, no riddle.

 

Tom Riddle

The Master of Oxford’s

Fated day…

When the children, the children

The children,

Do shed their fame.

Forget they do the tyrants…

O’ I cannot tell a riddle

A riddle, a riddle,

Of that blasted fame

Of Tom Riddle

Tom Riddle

He who is unnamed.

 

I cannot make my mystery

So bleak

I cannot hide it in my exalted verse…

Pretty words do not come to me

O’ Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

Riddle, Riddle,

Children called men

Walking through the halls of Yale

Tearing down the statues

You use as refuse, like bales.

 

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

I cannot make exalted verse…

O’ you children at Oxford

Do you know the ancient verse?

 

Tyrants rise, I cannot claim

O Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

You blasted, ancient fame.

You are Bonaparte,

You are Mary Queen of Scotts.

You are Elizabeth I

Feuding, feuding,

Killing many lots;

Hold onto your power

So power very vain?

Does it insult you

O feminist, that I unearth your hero’s vein?

A tyrant among men

A tyrant among wos

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

You like Cleopatra or Augustus of Rome.

 

Nay, the gender does not lay a curse

Nay, the hidden message in my verse.

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

I have no exalted say.

There you went to Oxford,

There you were so gay.

 

No… there is no sad story

With which to tell…

Like “Harry Potter”

You and him grew in similar hell.

 

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

What is your fame?

Blast that imbeciles had

Ruined your infamous name.

 

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

You hide in ancient verse.

The darling who created you

Created you chief and first.

No, waving of a wand does not say

That magic is so very good…

That magic does not exist

That is what a sane person should

Believe.

 

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

Know the ancient verse.

You burgeoned once

You burgeoned twice

Your lips in ignorance purse.

 

O’ you hide, you hide,

Specter in the Grae;

Ancient melodies were you sung

O hero lauded for your fame.

The Canaanites, the Canaanites

The famous as so slain…

O’ Tom Riddle

How a generation made you so very, very vain

To turn that Amon Ra

Into a warrior who would pray.

 

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle

Here so very vain…

Meditate on my wisdom

For Tom Riddle’s become the lay.

Why I Love The United States

Here is why I love the United States.

I can listen to any song I want to.

I can write any book I’d like.

I can think, and therefore create.

I can say what I want,

And if I figure something out

I’m allowed to say it

Believe it, think it

Even practice it as my religion

So long as I’m not hindering other people’s welfare.

 

I am allowed to jump into the local creek

And swim.

It is clean.

I can build a fire right on the edge of said creek

And cook marshmallows if I wanted to.

I can get on a raft, and ride it for miles

Without anyone saying I can’t.

I can go camp in the mountains

If I wanted to

And nobody would be able to charge me a dime.

 

I have the ability to work

And eat from what I earned.

I have the ability to write any subversive message I want

Without fear of Government.

I can call Trump a bad man

Or Obama

Or Hillary.

I can even criticize other governments

Other world leaders.

 

I have no fear of government troops

Knocking down my door.

I have no fear,

Even though the CIA might investigate me

There ain’t a damned thing they can do to me

Because I’m a US Citizen

And haven’t broken any laws,

Haven’t committed any Espionage

Unless YouTube were illegal.

I can know about the government’s dirty little secrets

Because of reporters

Who are free to report on whatever is out there.

I am free to watch them, seek them out.

I can even seek out news agencies called “Russia Television”

Or “Info Wars” and they are free to exist

And do whatever insane thing they want to

Say whatever sane thing they want to.

And watch them without any fear of being oppressed by my government.

 

I can believe any conspiracy theory I want.

I can even say anything I want about the government

Good or bad.

I can speculate on my government’s dealings

I can criticize it

And there ain’t a thing the government can do.

 

And, what’s more,

These freedoms are not being hampered by my government.

They are being hampered by the very citizens it protects.

 

 

 

The Citizen’s Investigation

There once was a man

A US Citizen.

He came under investigation by

The agencies of his country

Because he did something he saw on the movies

When scared that someone might hurt him.

He made a really bad mistake.

This was given to the local church

Where he went.

Then, he came under more investigation

Because it seemed he belonged to a cult.

 

For ten years they investigated him

And he thought he was being chased by gangsters

Being thwarted because of what he wrote.

He thought it was a conspiracy

Against him because he was

Writing something subversive.

So, he investigated the investigators.

He found them all murderers

Destroyers, thieves

Who broke into his house and spied on all his sustenance.

They broke the nation’s laws by unwarranted spying.

He found them, because they would follow him.

He saw them because they had claimed false identities.

He spotted them because they were liars

And he was surrounded by them

Even great warriors.

 

Every lie told against him,

He recorded it.

What should he say?

Should he give a good report?

Should he say that his nation is free?

Investigated for 10 years

For a misdemeanor.

Forced to confess his whole life’s story

Because he was pressured.

 

He has this one thing to say:

I am an American.

I am a Christian.

I will break you with my words.

So, Stood Upon the Walshon Road

So, stood upon the walshon road

The white stained facade clean and cold

Stands the voice of a lone protest.

He stands with ensign, flashed his crest

With colors of blue, gold and white.

He stands—paralyzed dreamer in the night.

Right is his goodly righteous cause

To save the Earth and keep strong laws

To bring the golden age of straw

Conjured in his bright, widowed mind.

He spends his time upon the brind

Of oceans and seas of strong words.

Those he speaks are the limpid lures

Wherewith he will strongly bait hawks

Whom he wishes to make to doves.

The message rather grinds a gear

Hunkering both into their fears.

Oh! Strong intellectual, spending all your years

In a dreamlike state, paralyzed

On the bleached white streets with your cheers.

Strong are your slogans, witty, thick

With the hypnotism you pick.

Yet, it is to none effect, love

For the words are like a paralyzed dreamer;

Conscience, they simply do not prick.