Fellaheen Radio Network

A global shift in consciousness
Finds every-person refusing sustenance,
Refusing to move from where they are,

Within 8 days, every person has died,
Ending all human suffering.

Simply place a wind turbine on the roof
Of an electric car.

Charge the car once from an outlet.
After that the car charges automatically
As you drive.

Apply freely to
Trains,
Plains,
Ect.

Your Welcome.

I’m going to write a poem.
A big humorously serious poem,
Which encompasses, probes, and
Conveys all of human emotional mind.

It will be about eating, sleeping, fucking, and
Betrayal. Trust will be a main topic, as well as bloody
Bone gritting truth, and crotch lapping falsity.

I’ll talk about the inside, as well as the out side.
About how I don’t wont to be anywhere
But suicide’s not an option ‘cause I don’t
Wont people to be mad at me.

In my poem when I speak of sex I’ll write
About insecurities, and confidence, and how it
All is balanced on the tip of an erection,
A squirting deflating lonely stroked boner.

Oh, and in the poem I shall expound on the lovely
Quivering love hole round which women are designed,
About how repulsively alluring all the
Variety of smelly moisture is, and the madness
Which it drives into the heart. The poem will
Piss on jealousy.

The poem will speak of honestly hypocritical
Family, and forthright back-stabbing friends.
About selfish charity. It’ll talk about (caring)
Pretending to care, I’ll ponder upon love.

I shall caress my ego in what ever way
Makes me feel worth while. I shall damn
Reality and uphold my fantasy world.

I’ll speak of something, and nothing and
How they are synonymous; how I shall not waist
My mind, life-energy striving for ether.

The poem will talk about cares and worries,
Negligence and ease, about the removal of
These, and the cultivation of compassionate
Joyousness. Oh I shall talk about death and
How wonderful everything is because it all
Soon won’t be.

Speaking of appearances and illusion
I shall talk of the singular truth, that
Inexplicably patient extinct mind of
Loving acceptance.

In the poem will be a section when I talk of
Destroying it all and burning down the
Mind.

There will be similes and parables all
Designed to remove cares and worries.

Fearlessly the poem shall offer peace
To all who read it.

We were all desperate at that time.
We each wanted to make our mark.

A personal signature, that would
Remind the ages that we had existed.

In the days when no one can find the
‘x’ key……………………………
Still I find a trace of love.

There is nothing that’s been said
To describe the unseen frustrated
Brother moon.

A hidden solid body of a brother.
An early original protocol.
Hazy in it’s atmosphere.
Clearly they must return and stay
A while.

And here I am, with nothing to say.

Doddling, looking at my shoe.
Wishing something could be done.
Empty, with no savior.

The whole world is watching,
As my bowls quiver, and gurgle,
I smirk, and the world turns away.

There you see row upon row
Of fresh fetuses ripening upon
The boughs of people trees.

A thousand rows of yellow,
Five hundred rows of brown; dark to light,
Two hundred fifty rows of white,
And twenty-five rows of red.

“Is this how he does it?” you think,
Watching him toss some of the yellow into a bejeweled golden basket.
Hand selecting those he wishes to keep,
Smiling in his straw shade cap.

Then comes the tiny screams,
And the agonizing stench of charred flesh,

You see him inspecting a bushel of white,
With a dissatisfied look upon his pious face,

And then you see the burn pile.

I am the slave
Of a prisoner.

Heaven is a refuge dump,
Where all God’s throwaways
Go to rot.

There they mingle in stench.
Eternally toiling under
God’s whip.
To produce propaganda
Denouncing the devil.

Now the devil, he’s
Not such a bad guy,
He gets a bum rap.

You see God runs things.
And he won’t have people
Going around with the idea,
“Perhaps hell’s not so bad.”

So he and his angels, and
All the duped dead Christians,
Turn out perpetual gospel
In order to keep the veil
Tightly draw across our eyes.

When the world was at it’s bleakest,
That’s when I decided to get religion.
Oh and the Holy Spirit washed ‘or me.
There I was, wet with faith, reborn,
Mind washed clean with new vision of light and hope.

I went on a crusade.
Bought a school bus for my church.
Started gathering up neighborhood kids on Sundays.

I threw my crutches away.
Started speaking in tongues.
I gyrated with the power of the Lord.

And those around me started telling me,
“Hey, you look a lot like a white Jesus!”

And I felt like Jesus would’ve felt
Driving those kids too and fro,
Knocking on door after door,
Ringing doorbells of good tidings.

Good tidings that is until,
I rang the bell of 1570 Sawwarts Ave.
Well, actually, I rang it ten or so times,
Until I heard a shuffling commotion,
And out burst of vulgarity from inside.

Undeterred by reason, I knocked and rang again,
Knowing Jesus was there with me
Wrapping away on strangers doors
At nine in the morning,

To gather up their innocent,
In order to give them a good God infusion
Before they were old enough to tell
Make believe from carnal reality.

“What kind of cock sucker’s banging at this hour?”
The door swung open. Smoke accosted my lungs.

And there in old dirty boxers with hole in crotch,
Which allowed a peekaboo of under ball,
And crusty black socks, hair, eyes, and beard raging,
Heavy glass bottle in right hand,
Stood the figure of unholy terror.

I gasped, stepped backward,
Nearly falling off the porch,
But his left hand reached out
Grabbed my shirt collar and pulled me inside,
Where the door slammed behind.

“Have a seat, you lilting tambourine shaking chicken shit!”
His voice commanded.
And I found myself with bottle in hand
Sitting cross-legged on the ground.
He loomed above me saying,
“Drink!”

I hadn’t a drink in six months,
The twelve steps had worked beautifully.
But here I was with Jesus on my right,
And this mad man on my left
With all the influence of the devil,
Burning holes through me.

The bus still idled outside
With all the kids waiting patiently,
Singing, “Jesus Loves the Little Children,”
And, I hoped, wondering where I had gone.

Straight to hell it seemed as the whisky burned my lips.
At first nauseating, but then inviting
As his laughter and the liquor took affect.

Lord only knows how long I was in there,
Next thing I remember is the screams of the children,
And the horizon turning over and over,
As glass broke and metal twisted.

And then, I wake up to this;
News reporters and the trauma center,
What more is there to say?