Archive for the ‘Thoughts For The Night’ Category

The newspaper’s full of lies,

sad surprise,

pretend integrity,

John Bull(shit),

bulwark of democracy,

deluding the masses

and buying

election victories

for the controlling classes,

puppet masters,

since the days of yore

and

forever more.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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The government wants to execute you!

But their heart isn’t in it,

fully,

otherwise it would already be done.

The pretence of justice,

trial and jury,

would be dispensed,

abiding by convictions,

the system would do as expected,

and you would be shot.

But instead you are hung

and left hanging,

in limbo,

in hell.

Often, you wish they would shoot you,

like a dog,

just get it over with,

but society cares more about dogs

than people.

Uncertain fate,

neverending circle of hate.

Inside, torment

is never dormant.

Yes, they have decided to torture you

in the way that only life and living

can do.

The government wants you

to execute yourself.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Visit the newsroom,

if you dare.

For some it’s a vibrant place,

information, process, disseminate, fast-pace.

For me it’s depressing,

an overload of noise and soundbites,

mostly meaningless shit.

The editors push,

the journalists (they don’t have time or freewill to properly think)

churn out crap,

factoids and innuendos,

the readers are ready to be fed.

Welcome to the Times, New York, London,

the Sun rises and falls, Daily News, Daily Mail,

hearts fail.

Welcome to democracy’s bulwark.

Welcome to lies and fear.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

It’s night-time.

I have better things to do at night

than drive

but I have to fetch the car

(Who’s car? Someone’s car. I don’t know…)

tonight,

not my choice.

Isn’t life just a series of coercions?

Parked on a steep hill,

total darkness,

beckoning abyss,

I start the car,

try to balance clutch and throttle,

but gravity is stronger,

the car rolls back,

hurtling downhill,

and I can’t stop,

no brake,

no help,

no chance …

Unwilling passenger,

fate and futility,

life in this world,

spiralling down

out of control

until the road ends

a sickening crash,

tree, ditch,

I don’t know.

I wake up,

dead.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I watch the TV documentary,

BBC-credible.

… Lies may have a basis of truth,

and truth is relative,

full of perspective.

… As for me, I am unable to contain myself,

I give the finger to the video (so mature!).

And, yes,

I cheer the Bolsheviks,

when the establishment projects

murderous fear.

… 1918 was an awesome year.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

“You know, it’s not real?!”

I said to the guy salivating

as he watched the actress undress

after she got a question “wrong”.

“It looks and feels real to me!”

he exclaimed, followed by

an almost sheepish

“Oh boy…”

Perceptions of reality and baloney,

hard to argue against.

We see what we feel,

what we *will*.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I’d been reading about a(nother) manifestation of Third Reich evil.

And my American friend told me about the TV series she’d been watching.

Strangely,

sadly,

disturbingly,

it’s difficult for me to assess which is worse,

more decadent, more evil, more *wrong*…

Nazi debauchery, 1943,

or American “entertainment”, 2018?

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Irony rusted

by bitter experience.

Tonight, I’m too depleted

to cleverly verbalise

my thoughts and feelings,

perhaps.

Futility is a salt,

my soul exposed.

Life, indeed, assaults

the deep thinker.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Pressure,

it creates diamonds,

cliché says.

Of course, in humans,

pressure also creates

pain,

frustration

and murderous retorts.

Think, American shooting rampages,

broken families,

and dead Romanovs.

Pressure.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Some people seem to like

the constant struggle

of life in this world.

The ceaseless battle

motivates and stimulates,

providing willpower

to get up each morning.

Other people

are repulsed

and sucked dry

by such futility.

They know they’ll never win

in this corrupt system.

For them,

deep thinkers

and bottom feeders,

life is a kind of death.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat