There were once these
two warring tribes of men,
whose bodies were
composed of burning flame.
And they feuded over
a tiny patch of dust,
their minds consumed
with figments of the past.
 
Flying flags of fire,
singing hymns of war,
they went marching forth,
as their fathers had before.
To slay and to ravage,
to torture and maim,
for the Burning God,
praised be his name…

They had many children,
these men of the fiery sword,
but their babies were always
born of flesh and blood.
And their little hearts were
filled with joy and laughter,
for the Burning God
was not as yet their master.

But as they grew,
they were told of
the ways of war,
that were written down
so many years before,
and collected in the
Book of the Yellow Fist,
then preached at temple
by the Fire Priests.
 
Where they taught
the children to fear
and loathe their foe,
to be hard and cruel,
and skilled with
sword and bow.
To seek after death,
and to delight in pain,
because the Burning God
did so ordain.
 
And by the end of their youth,
their full flame had been gained,
coursing through their blood
and hearts and brains.
The children were now
of the flaming kind.
Their love and joy
were forever left behind.

Then swords and bows
were placed in their
young hands,
and within their spirits
burned a savage lust:
to battle over
a tiny patch of dust,
in homage to the
glories of the past.

Flying flags of fire,
singing hymns of war,
they went marching forth,
as their fathers had before.
To slay and to ravage,
to torture and maim,
for the Burning God,
praised be his name…

And the men of
the outside world,
they took great care
to never set foot
in the places where
the tribes of flaming men
brawled and clashed,
over a poor land that had
long since turned to ash.

The Flaming Men

I often will dream
about this wonderful place:
a lovely little town,
full of charm and grace,
where elegant people
treat each other with kindness,
and everything is glowing
with this aura of rightness.

It’s just wishful thinking,
and when I open my eyes
I want to be living
in these beautiful lies,
but all the visions are gone
without a single trace,
and I’m still right here
in my unhappy place.

I deserve that life,
but I wasn’t born lucky…
Not in the right time,
nor in the right country.
Everyday I see things
which fill me with dread, 
and then I wanna go back
to my comfortable bed.

Because I need to keep dreaming
these silly, beautiful lies…
Yeah, it’s just wishful thinking,
and when I open my eyes
all the visions are gone
without a single trace,
and I’m still right here
in my unhappy place.

They tell me it’s possible to get out of here,
if I’ll be a slave for the rest of my days,
but I’m much too afraid to change up my ways,
because all things considered,
I’m doing okay.

I guess I’ll just keep dreaming.
Yeah, I’ll just keep on dreaming.
I’m gonna have to keep dreaming.

Wishful Thinking

I guess tyranny is back in style,
it’s here to stay for quite a while.
They indoctrinated people’s brains,
and made them proudly stupid and insane.

Whose fault it was it’s plain to see:
it was the failure of democracy
to protect itself from criminals
who promise idiots miracles.

Fascism’s back in full effect,
our Leader keeps us all in check:
he fixed the courts and the police,
his fist is hard, his palms are greased.

Fascism’s back with all its goons,
the racist schmucks, the pious loons,
the tale plays out like once before,
get ready for the next world war.     

The liberals are spineless jerks
who never do the dirty work.
They’re not saavy about the lower class,
or brave enough to kick their ass.

The tyrants sell a nifty line:
let’s all return to better times,
when things were in a state of grace,
and certain people knew their place.

Fascism’s back so suck it, nerds.
We don’t need facts or fancy words.
We’ve got our Leader and our God,
so kiss the ring or taste the rod.

Fascism’s back to shock and awe:
to burn the books, to bend the law,
to build a brave new world today,
according to the Leader’s say.
 
Fascism’s back on track,
your golden age is here.
Fascism’s back to smack,
the loyal need not fear.
Fascism’s back in black,
we wear the scary suits.
Fascism’s back like the mack,
so kneel and kiss our boots!

Politicians and diapers
have one thing in common:
they should both be changed frequently…
and for the same reason.

Taste the Rod

Long past the days of your prime,
worn by the passage of time,
your memories fading like stains,
yet some of you still remains.

But your decline washes backward,
and it’s so painful to behold,
how the new is disappearing,
leaving residues of old.

Devoured by decay,
your mind is astray,
with eyes that don’t gleam,
stuck in a bad dream.

My faltering shade,
confused and afraid,
can you even perceive
that you’re being unmade?

My sad little ghost,
every day it gets worse.
Each day is a blessing,
each day is a curse.

Not waking up would be a mercy,
a sweet release from your grief.
Most of your days are uneasy,
as lucid times become brief.

It’s such a slow, sad farewell,
and we have both become tired
of holding down this frail fort,
long past all hope and desire.

When do I draw the line?
What more is there to lose?
I cannot know your thoughts,
so how am I to choose?

Devoured by decay,
your mind is astray,
with eyes that don’t gleam,
stuck in a bad dream.

My faltering shade,
confused and afraid,
can you even perceive
that you’re being unmade?

My sad little ghost,
every day it gets worse.
Each day is a blessing,
each day is a curse.

Please, let it be done,
before all your mind’s gone.
Lest emptiness shall dwell
within your suffering shell.

May it be peaceful,
may it be bland,
not by my choice,
not by my hand.

A soft departure
on a cloud of sleep,
one final memory
for me to keep.

My Faltering Shade

This is my personal blueprint
for the best boogie…
so check it out.

Don’t play me any songs
that are eight minutes long,
or soft little ditties
that are boringly pretty,
I want somethin’ with sass,
and a funky bop,
to interface with my ass
and make me hop.

Gimme dat groove…
yeah, baby.

Dat groove gonna get me
to open the door,
and wiggle my body
on that crowded dance floor.
Dat groove gonna make me
forget all my troubles,
so turn up that dope shit
and do it on the double.

A nice little tune will put
a smile on your face,
even if your life is
an utter disgrace,
because music is the
cosmic language of joy,
so shake what momma gave you,
there’s no need to be coy.

Gimme dat groove…
yeah, baby.

Dat groove gonna get me
to open the door,
and wiggle my body
on that crowded dance floor.
Dat groove gonna make me
forget all my troubles,
so turn up that dope shit
and do it on the double.

Look at all of them people
gettin’ down with the beat,
you bet yo ass they ain’t
swingin’ to progressive shit.
Nobody gives a flying fuck
about fancy composition,
a tight, steady beat should
be your only ambition.

Hey… funky people,
I’m gonna take ya to funky town.
Hey… lovely people,
shake it up and get down.
Hey… party people,
it’s high time we bust a move,
You know exactly
what I’m about,
why don’t you go ahead
and say it now…

Gimme dat groove…
Yeah, baby.
Gimme dat groove…
That’s all that I want,
that’s all that I need.
Give me that groove…
Turn me loose, full o’ juice,
like the mighty James Brown,
pure rythm.
Give me that groove… yeah!

Shoobidoo bop bop,
doobi doo wop wop,
oh baby…
Skibbidi skoobidi skoobidi whoopi
dee doo dee doo dee doo…
Hubba hubba hubba,
keep steady on them dancin’ feet,
sweet momma…
Ooh bee doo bee doo bee,
ooh bee doo bee doo bee
dooooo…

Gimme dat groove,
and don’t mess about,
gimme dat groove,
go on, let it out,
gimme dat groove,
y’all move your feet,
gimme dat groove,
in time with the beat,
gimme dat groove,
that four to the floor,
gimme dat groove,
I want me some more!

Gimme Dat Groove

He was born middle class,
but he became a czar.
He runs six social apps
and a webinar.
He’s got twenty-five wives
and a thousand cars.
He owns a chain of hotels
and a shitload of bars.

His moral fiber is so very sparse:
He killed all his rivals
and some guy named Lars.
He thinks that democracy
is just a big farce.
He’s gonna be the first
billionaire on Mars.

He is spending big money;
he is blowing his wad
on a gargantuan rocket
with a pair of huge pods.
But the tests flights run badly,
and his rocket goes boom;
So he fires some people,
then he rants and he fumes.

He enjoys vintage wines
and rare caviars.
He keeps Kopi Luwak
in Baccarat jars.
He collects fine art
and iconic guitars.
He jams with Paul McCartney
and Ringo Starr.

He’ll try out any vice,
no matter how bizarre.
He chills in the Maldives
and parties in Qatar.
He sits in Swiss banks
smoking Cuban cigars.
He’s gonna be the first
billionaire on Mars.

He reaches out to his friends
for funds and solutions
from people in governments
and research institutions.
He gives a passionate speech
full of fancy explanations
to the General Assembly
of the United Nations.

His godhood is near,
and his vision is far.
He’ll helm a huge starship,
like Captain Picard.
He’s the king of the world,
and now he thirsts for the stars.
He’s gonna be the first
billionaire on Mars.

The rust-red planet
will turn dollar-green
by company drones
sent to set up the scene.
The chosen few will arrive
to establish their claims,
while the rest of us losers
go up in flames.

He is the first; we’re kept for last.
He is the future; we are the past.
He is the first; too bad he’s the worst…
His world will be blessed
while ours remains cursed.

The First Yacht on Mars

“If you can actually count your money,
then you're not a rich man.”

He was born middle class,
but he became a czar.
He runs six social apps
and a webinar.
He’s got twenty-five wives
and a thousand cars.
He owns a chain of hotels
and a shitload of bars.

His moral fiber is so very sparse:
He killed all his rivals
and some guy named Lars.
He thinks that democracy
is just a big farce.
He’s gonna be the first
billionaire on Mars.

He is spending big money;
he is blowing his wad
on a gargantuan rocket
with a pair of pods.
But the tests run badly,
and his rocket goes boom;
So he fires some people,
then he rants and he fumes…
’Cause he wants to go to Mars.

He enjoys vintage wines
and rare caviars.
He keeps Kopi Luwak
in Baccarat jars.
He collects fine art
and iconic guitars.
He jams with Paul McCartney
and Ringo Starr.

He’ll try out any vice,
no matter how bizarre.
He chills in the Maldives
and parties in Qatar.
He sits in Swiss banks
smoking Cuban cigars.
He’s gonna be the first
billionaire on Mars.

He reaches out to his friends
for funds and solutions
from people in governments
and research institutions.
He gives a passionate speech
full of fancy explanations
to the General Assembly
of the United Nations.

“Earth provides enough
to satisfy every man's need,
but not every man's greed.”

His godhood is near,
and his vision is far.
He’ll helm a huge starship
like Captain Picard.
He’s the king of the world,
and now he thirsts for the stars.
He’s gonna be the first
billionaire on Mars.

The rust-red planet
will turn dollar-green
by company drones
sent to set up the scene.
The chosen few will colonize,
staking out their claims
while we, the poor masses,
will go up in flames.
What a bloody shame…
back to the dust
from whence we came…

“The best thing about money
is it gives you options in life.”

He is the first; we’re kept for last.
He is the future; we are the past.
He is the first, he’ll own the universe.
His world will be blessed
while ours remains cursed…
’Cause he simply is the worst.

The First Billionaire on Mars

I’m feeling like it’s time to quit,
to give up all this boring shit.
I guess I’ll sell the things I own,
and sail away to parts unknown.
Sure, it’s a reckless thing to do,
but I went ahead and thought it through.
I’m gonna move far out of reach,
the place is called Komodo Beach.

Komodo Beach, a place of peace,
an isle of joy, a bay of bliss.
The water’s pure, the air is sweet,
the weed is strong, the rum is neat.
Komodo Beach, the sky is clear,
the sand is pink, the sea is sheer.
The dragons bite, but they’re too slow.
Yeah, that is where I wanna go…
That is where I’m gonna go.

I sold my watches, and my flat,
I sold my car and all my tat.
It’s time to give my life the slip,
and find a place aboard a ship.
It’ll have to be a modest boat,
I saved up some, but I ain’t rich,
it’s just enough to keep afloat
while living in Komodo Beach.

Komodo Beach, where money keeps,
the rent is low and food is cheap.
Where you don’t need to work at all,
so take your time and have a ball.
Komodo Beach, the beer is cold,
the palms are green, the sun is gold.
The dragons stink, but that’s okay.
Yeah, that is where I’ll want to stay.

Yeah, I’m gonna ride the dragon!
No, it’s a perfectly rational thing to do.
I’m fine, I just had one spliff
and a couple of beers.
Okay, watch me do it…
Rrrrah!

Komodo Beach…
The perfect place to surf.
Komodo Beach…
A heaven here on earth.
Komodo Beach…
It’s like my dreams came true.
Komodo Beach…
Why don’t you come here too?

Sure, sure, come on over,
just don’t crowd me, don’t crowd me.
Yeah, you know, only the cool people,
ten, twelve at the most, no more.
And spread out, yeah?
So we can all ease into it.
Oh man, that dragon bite really does hurt!
I think I’ll just pour some rum on it.
Uh yeah, that feels great…
Life sure is good.

Komodo Beach

It’s a hot summer day
and I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on.
I think I’ll just sit on my porch,
and soak up the sun.
But I also feel like
having a nice treat…
Let’s think about things
which are good to eat.

Ice cream is sweet,
but I haven’t got any,
and the lemon cake I had,
I gave it to Jenny.
Oh, hey, I know!
I’ve got fruit in my fridge!
A lovely fruit salad
would do in a pinch!

What a wonderful dish,
full of colors and flavor!
A juicy fruit salad is
something to savor.

Fun, fun, fun in the sun…
Yum, yum, yum in my tum…
Fruit salad is the best,
so tasty and full of zest!

So let’s see…
I’ve got apples and grapes
and peaches and plums,
I’ve got apricots and pears
and raisins with rum,
I’ve got cherries and bananas
and pineapple slices,
I think this fruit salad
is gonna be the nicest! 

I take my bunch of fruit
and I peel them all up,
then I get out the board
and I give them the chop,
and lastly,
I mix them in my favourite bowl.
It’s really not complicated at all!

What a wonderful dish,
full of colors and flavor!
A juicy fruit salad is
something to savor.

Fun, fun, fun in the sun…
Yum, yum, yum in my tum…
Fruit salad is the best,
so tasty and full of zest!

I’m now on my porch
with the bowl in my lap,
crunching and munching
and chewing it up.
The sun is so hot
and shiny in the sky…
Fruit salad’s a joy!
I urge you to try.

Fruit Salad

This world requires
all kinds of minds;
you think that I’m broken,
but I’m just fine.
I’m different, not flawed...
just a little bit odd,
and I won’t be involved
in emotional fraud.

Your exuberance is unrelenting,
but I choose to remain authentic;
instead of selling bogus passion,
maybe start working on compassion.

Unbalanced optimism
is your toxic notion,
too spineless to confront
your negative emotions;
it’s such a mindless method
to promote mental health:
if you want to be accepted,
just diminish yourself.

You keep telling me to lighten up
and get a bit more jolly;
I’d rather that you all wake up
and smell the melancholy.
Your vapid vigor is vain
and so viciously vile;
stop poisoning my brain
with your strychnine smiles.

These strychnine smiles...
Whoa oh…
Sick strychnine smiles...
Yeah yeah…
Stop hampering my heart,
stop messing up my mind
with your strychnine smiles...
Oh ooh whoa,
ooh whoa, ooh whoa whoa…

Your moronical expectations
are not my concern;
your emotional machinations
shall be thoroughly spurned.
If the crop doesn’t grow,
fix the soil, not the crop;
I won’t cancel my feelings
just to keep this damn job.

Neurodiversity’s like biodiversity—
it’s very crucial to the human race;
personal growth means facing adversity,
and walking the path at your own pace.

I keep my autonomy,
even in a crowd;
I hear my own melody,
even if you’re loud.
You think that it’s bad
to be angry or sad?
Well, I think it’s quite mad
to be perpetually glad.

That’s why I don’t need
your false reinforcements,
that’s why I don’t want
your spurious endorsements.
Your sunny gaslighting
is a cognitive prison,
and you’re criminalizing
people’s neuroticism.

The reign of positivity
directs the modern hive:
to never speak the truth
of what it's like to be alive.

Your conformity
is the jailer of freedom,
it’s the foe of the strange
and the killer of change.
Your mediocrity
is the bringer of boredom,
it’s the bane of the bright
and the death of delight.

Unbalanced optimism
is your toxic notion,
too spineless to confront
your negative emotions;
it’s such a mindless method
to promote mental health:
if you want to be accepted,
just diminish yourself.

You keep telling me to lighten up
and get a bit more jolly;
I’d rather that you all wake up
and smell the melancholy.
Your vapid vigor is vain
and so viciously vile;
stop poisoning my brain
with your strychnine smiles.

These strychnine smiles...
Whoa oh…
Sick strychnine smiles...
Yeah yeah…
Stop smothering my soul,
stop sullying my sight
with your strychnine smiles...
Oh ooh whoa,
ooh whoa, ooh whoa whoa…

Anger is vastly superior to shame;
sadness is so much better than guilt.
Tension is healthier than self-blame;
these are the things from which we are built.

You can't have hope without despair;
you can’t have grit without some wear.
You can’t have happiness without pain;
you can’t fake life and still be sane.

Strychnine Smiles

I am a graphic designer by trade
and a musician at heart.
All original lyrics and music concepts
were written and designed by me.
The production of the music
was realized using the Suno AI platform.
As a premium subscriber,
I retain all commercial and
intellectual rights to this work.

The Flaming Men

The Immaculate Glitch