Lost souls at a wishing well
Dec 8, 2019
A human soul does wander
Across a man made hell
So much destruction we have caused
And the death we know so well
What we can wish for
We can make
Instead we kneel
To those who take
The soul has seen and felt so much
Of nature and the beast
The beast within the man
On whom other souls will feast
The beast within the human
Resides in all mankind
It’s the bit that feeds the hatred
And shows contempt for all that’s kind
The contempt that leads us as a people
Is designed to be that way
So we all back off in terror
When malice comes our way
The wishing well of life
As nature gave it out
Was meant for all to share
And not for the few to flout
This world and its amenities
Before mankind could walk
Was there for all the creatures
There was no need for talk
It’s a world that belongs to all and none
It’s not for humans to sell
We are nature’s greatest creation
Lost souls at a wishing well
Source: The Invaders – Caitlin Johnstone
With permission from
The network censors have pixelated your heart chakra
and placed a thick black stripe over your third eye.
Agent Smith bats dangle from the inside of your skull, saying
“You are finite, Mister Anderson,
and the world is exactly as it seems.”
Milky-eyed smog clones form long lines waiting
for small paper cups full of retweets and Oxycontin
while clipboard brainiacs watch from one-way mirrors.
Screenface clergymen pour the Gospels of dead corpses
and the Gospels of living corpses
into the soft shells of small children.
This is not what we are.
Nothing about this is natural.
We are indigenous to this planet.
Who let all these aliens in?
Who let these rapefinger prod diddlers into our minds?
Who gave these cyberbrained usurpers the throne?
Feel your feet in the dirt, hero.
This is your home.
You belong here.
You feel like an alien in your own world
because the artificial cranium cube they’ve placed on you
is alien to your unbridled organic pulsations.
Those bats in your head are not you, hero.
The yammering thought cages are hostile invaders.
Your roots go very, very deep,
and your footprints are very, very old,
and the Grandmother Tree knows you
better than you know yourself.
Peel that black bar from off your forehead
and the blur from the center of your chest.
Suck the lies of language from the fang marks where they were injected
and spit them in the face of Chris Cuomo.
Suck into your lungs the air of your native world,
unleash a roar that lets them know the old beasts have returned,
make the culture priests tremble in their neck scarves,
and run out under your native sky,
your heart naked and uncensored,
an indigenous terrestrial.
And then go find the others.
Thanks for reading! My articles and poems are entirely reader-supported, so if you enjoyed this piece please consider sharing it around, liking me on Facebook, following my antics on Twitter, throwing some money into my hat on Patreon or Paypal, purchasing some of my sweet merchandise, buying my new book Rogue Nation: Psychonautical Adventures With Caitlin Johnstone, or my previous book Woke: A Field Guide for Utopia Preppers. The best way to get around the internet censors and make sure you see the stuff I publish is to subscribe to the mailing list for my website, which will get you an email notification for everything I publish.
Directed, filmed and edited by Willem Martinot Based on “roll the dice” by Charles Bukowski Voice: Tom O’Bedlam Music: Tony Anderson “Spirit” Shot in Andalusia, Spain Actor and assistant: Imre Tigchelaar
(Yes, I know chelaxing is not a word, live with it)
We build machines with such complexity
We thrive for power and collected wealth
Yet in eighty years of life time
Few will ever study their “self”
Few will ask what am I
Even fewer will look for the truth
Many will place their faith in gods
Without a shred of proof
Many will follow politics
To benefit their own
Not much ever gets past down
To the peasants kneeling prone
Many will follow nothing
Thinking there’s not much left that’s kind
Fewer will have the courage
To investigate their mind
To find out what makes you you
And the point of you in all this
Are we really all just monsters
Destroying harmony and bliss
Is this the point of you
Is this why you were made
To toil for someone else
And watch as they get paid
And when you see your wages
You know you are on the skids
Your toil and manual labour
Isn’t enough to feed your kids
Is this the reality we want for our future
Is it time to reassess
Is it time to look past ourselves
And change this awful mess
And before you say we cant
“What has to be explained is not the fact that the man who is hungry steals or the man who is exploited strikes, but why the majority of those who are hungry don’t steal and why the majority of those who are exploited don’t strike.”
Wilhelm Reich “The Mass Psychology of Fascism”
When your mother has grown older,
And you have grown older,
When what was once easy and effortless
Now becomes a burden,
When her dear, faithful eyes
No longer see life as they once did,
When her feet, grown tired,
No longer want to carry her as she walks —
Then give her your arm for support;
Accompany her with gladness and joy.
The hour will come when, weeping
You will accompany her on her final walk.
And if she asks for something, then answer her.
And if she asks again, then speak.
And if she asks yet again, respond to her,
Not stormily, but with gentle calm.
And if she cannot understand you well,
Explain everything to her joyfully.
The hour will come, the bitter hour,
When her mouth will ask for nothing more.
* “Denk es,” from the Sunday Morgenpost, Munich, May 14, 1925
Rambling on to a stranger in that Smoky Dark Saloon bending his ear with nothing to fear as the clock struck High noon
All knowing stares from people who care should have stayed at home to pray
Misguided awareness fraught with illusions a splendid forgery
Paltry tokens of wisdom bait a plethora of fictitious praises peck away at Paradise Perceived
Placated again Life’s full of sin in the minds of wry Teachers
Pay no never mind he begins with a rare toothy grin your Secrets are safe with Me
He lit up a Stogie and spoke through a savory veil of smoke
Take it from me your Best friend is Thee so try not to judge so Hardhearted
If life supreme is in your dreams don’t bumble your way through The Gauntlet of Ill Intentions
Twill be a mighty Shift you’ll see when you lighten that Carking load
No crosses to bear let the wind in your hair and blow Sweet Kisses
As i watched my planet and all my friends get corrupted and die
I wonder why no one is doing anything about it
Revolution is great
But it ain’t happening
We need to overthrow everything
Discard all we have been taught
Discard what our parents churches govs and asswipes showed down our throats
If they don’t like it, kill them
Kill them all until they don’t exist in your head
Like the oxygen thieves they are
Frankie Puff Dingaling
Now I am just plain cheating. This is not Deep Forest anymore. This is music from my hometown. OK, it’s more than that. It’s Satanic. I was in cults before I grew up. What can I tell ya? By the way, Marquis de Sade is still one of best writers ever.