iMedDi@5
Neon Law
As swiftly as law
writes its will in the world—
so too does doubt
creep in,
whispering:
equal,
or does not equal?
Truth flickers
between logic gates—
and, or, not—
imaginary numbers
dancing in the circuits,
where certainty dissolves
in a bath of neon.
The gods of our age
are wired,
buzzing in their glass temples,
electro-techno deities
casting colored shadows
on the faces of believers
and skeptics alike.
Yet meaning itself
is always in translation—
plus or minus
the hand of H. C. Chou,
who offers new words
for old mysteries,
and leaves us wondering
if the answer
is law,
or its negation,
or the bright, humming space
in between.
**Hex Liturgy for a Broken Oracle**
**The Non-Equal Circus**
**BEGIN / UNTIL / yes**
**Payload in False Logic**
**Digital Circus, Analogue Curse**
**The Klaxon Was Never the Apocalypse**
**Loop of the Unamazed Machine**
**C&A ≠ CIA ≠ SUBTLE**
**Burn Protocol in Hexadecimal**
**The Hamra Cipher**
1/4世紀バン／THEAYへ接続！
\
四分の一世紀の衝撃／THEAYに接続せよ！
Rising Sun: 1/4 Century Bang
Quarter Century Shock / Connect to the Cipher
MU: The Forgery Protocol
The Tokyo Charlatan Cycle
Echoes of a Counterfeit Isle
Capsaicin Enema for the Empire
Imperial Mockery: A 25-Year Farce
Honking Shadows on the Isle of MU
Disconnect: A Century’s Puerile Masquerade
The Vatican’s Behemoth Rides Again
Sacha Baron Cohen the twat down at Oxford.
[Not reading. Obviously.]
as charming little lad!
Anna Barron and co., NTU, Singapore
Josephine Teo and co., various ministries, parliament, etc., Singapore
Gianluca Esposito in his authentic imago.
Purpose, Unmasked
Strip away the comfort
of the housecat’s sunbeam,
let intention stare
into its own reflection—
no purring distractions,
just the ticking of a handheld watch
counting down
the moments left to mean something.
What is left?
A prayer, unanchored—
words rising,
untethered by gravity,
lost in the empty sky.
The record spins,
the voice repeats,
but the masks have fallen,
persona erased,
and what multiplies
is not fulfillment,
but the echo of what might have been
if only purpose had found its home.
Foul winds stir
where sincerity once knelt,
and all that remains
is the trace of a voice—
honest,
unflinching,
unfinished.
Warren Tenhouten racist nonsense-wielder of the bisected corpus callosum.
Also, toad or Seth fornicator.
Subra Suresh of the many-pronged thieving BS
Richard Dawkins, self-negating nuggest of nonsense.
Seth, piece of feces imaginary god of security organizations, the Vatican, secret societies, and the majority of Earth's population, babbling nonsense as usual.
**Guarded Creation**
Prometheus lights the threshold,
casting shadows on the door—
home secured by clever hands,
watchful eyes,
and fire brought from the gods.
Inside, patience carves the wood—
whittlin’ shapes from old branches,
each curl falling
like a memory to the floor,
crafting comfort
from the ordinary.
Yet, in the corner,
the swivel chair stands still—
meant to turn,
but locked in place,
circling frustration
with no escape.
Outside,
the plum tree is gone—
no blossoming shade,
no fruit to sweeten
the afternoon air.
What is innovation,
what is creation,
without nature’s root
to anchor the home?
Even the cleverest hands
can find themselves stuck
when the plum tree’s promise
is subtracted
from the sum of vigilance
and patience.
**Bridges and Boundaries**
A bear hugs the night—
transitional object clutched
beneath wavering light,
the flickering lamp
casting uncertain shadows
on walls painted
with childhood fears.
Catnip calls,
a sweet distraction,
tempting paws to dance
in the soft glow,
but all pleasure is measured
by the watchful eye
of Seth as daddy—
authority shaping
what joy is allowed.
Across the equation,
a baseball bat waits—
promise of action,
of striking out against
what confines.
Yet the cat-flap is sealed—
escape denied,
freedom subtracted
from the sum.
A cage rises,
bars cold and sure,
holding back the urge
to roam.
All is filtered
through Seth as sonny—
youth learning limits,
testing boundaries,
finding that play
and restraint
are lessons written
in the light,
in the cage,
in the lap
of generational hands.
颚厉 鲎鈤尼 他立 篚历 诽込袴历 ¬
Aswang Daddy
**Shock and Cleanse**
Under the flickering light,
a ritual is drawn—
voodoo whispers
curling with the hum
of a tazer’s bite.
Magic meets voltage,
old power and current,
conspiring to shudder
the stains from memory.
But this is no gentle washing—
the stain remover works
without the cool touch
of cucumber,
without the soft green
of healing.
Here, the past is shocked
from fabric—
marks erased
with force,
not with mercy,
leaving a trace
of ozone and old magic
in the air.
HIGH INTENSITY VARIANT PINK
Unfiltered Wilderness
The blind spider
spins her web by feel,
dancing in darkness,
every thread a guess—
her world a trembling mesh
of touch and hope.
A crocodile tumbles in,
whacky, wild,
snapping jokes and jaws alike—
danger with a painted grin.
But there is no fear here—
no shiver in the night,
just instinct and absurdity
colliding in the wild.
Then the deluge comes:
an elephant,
massive and heedless,
showers the world
(and the narrator)
with its indifferent rain—
a baptism of humiliation,
unstoppable,
all-consuming.
Nearby, a lion roars—
scorched by Syang,
mane singed, pride in ashes,
yet power undiminished,
rage distilled.
And decency?
It’s gone with the river,
washed away by elephantine floods
and baked dry
by the lion’s heat.
What remains
is the self,
stripped and howling,
caught in the tangled threads
of instinct and chaos—
a creature
in the wilderness,
raw and unashamed.
Ricky Gervais, twat, esquire.
**Bread and Brows**
She sashays—
not just for show,
but with the swagger
of one who’s earned
her place,
her rhythm
in the world.
Work and want,
labor and lust,
intertwine
on her path—
no shame,
only the frankness
of effort and appetite
unveiled.
She breaks bread—
but it comes
with tattooed eyebrows,
each slice marked
by artifice,
by the bold line
drawn above the eye
of survival.
Yet nothing escapes
the assessment cannula—
evaluation’s cold touch
piercing the surface,
measuring what is real
against what is adorned.
In the end,
sustenance and style
pass through the tube,
filtered,
distilled—
and what nourishes
is what remains
when scrutiny
is done.
Coming in fisting near you also.
Mohammad Serour Abdelhabal Othman, better and more correctly known as Ozoz Pipsqueak, as himself deafeating his enemy which is his own self lah! Fire from mouth or stinking hairy anus, all same to clever little Ozoz, Pharoah and enemy of Pharoah all at once lah!
**The Denominator**
One God enters the temple
carrying infinite power.
Doctrine gives that power a name;
followers give it offices,
robes, rules, and locked doors.
Soon one throne becomes many—
small gods of rank and reputation,
each claiming a fragment
of the original light.
Then a child is harmed,
and arithmetic becomes obscenity:
no crowd can divide the injury,
no institution can round it down,
no prayer can replace justice.
If faith is to mean anything,
the doors must open,
the child must be believed,
and power must answer
for what it permitted.
**When Words Fail**
I said what everyone knew,
and still the room looked away.
The heart misfired;
suspicion multiplied each beat
until truth could no longer
hold its simple shape.
Someone offered a phrase
wide enough to hide inside:
*It is what it is.*
But I had no words of my own,
so I opened a book.
There, other voices carried
what mine could not—
grief given grammar,
doubt given margins,
silence given weight.
The obvious remained obvious,
but now it had a language
strong enough
to be heard.
**The Taming of Mystery**
God entered the clearing
beside impossible animals—
horned, feathered, many-eyed—
their tails dragging old myths
through the dust.
We feared them at first.
Then we drew them smaller,
gave them bright colors,
a smiling face,
and a name for the crowd
to chant.
Mystery became a mascot.
Nearby, religion filled the cup,
and the drinkers raised it
toward heaven—
spirit calling to spirit
until devotion and escape
shared the same blurred outline.
By morning,
the beasts had lost their terror,
the symbol had lost its depth,
and God remained somewhere
beyond the costume,
untamed and unnamed.
**Unfastened**
The ties were loosened—
not broken,
only easy to untie.
The bells stopped calling,
the altar gathered dust,
and no commandment followed us home.
So we built with measurable things:
wages, rooms,
keys bright in the hand.
But absence was not hatred.
Silence was not war.
Once resentment was subtracted,
what remained was freedom—
and the difficult question
of what wealth is for
when it no longer answers
to heaven.
**The Missing Variable**
Adults gather beneath chosen names,
their desires neither sermon
nor recruitment.
But the screen begins to multiply bodies,
turning flesh into pixels
and attention into currency.
A coercive circle calls itself truth,
teaching obedience
where choice should stand.
Then youth is sexualized,
and metaphor must stop:
a child cannot authorize exploitation,
and no doctrine can make abuse sacred.
Subtract volition
and the entire equation changes.
What remains is not liberation
but control—
while dignity begins
where adults choose freely
and children are protected.
**The Arithmetic of Battle**
Victory entered wearing a crown,
but beneath it slept
a wish not to return.
That wish was divided
by a lotus caught in ice
and by the tireless bee,
whose small wings multiplied
through the dragonfly’s
compound metamorphosis.
Across the field stood defeat,
subtracting every promise
too large for the speaker
who had made it.
Then muscle raised itself
to the power of a bloody demon—
strength upon strength,
violence multiplying violence—
until the warrior grew enormous
and the human being disappeared.
At last, the equation balanced:
victory was not survival,
defeat was not surrender,
and power without purpose
was only another way
to lose.
\[
\frac{\text{kippah}\times\text{butterfly}}{\text{foolish last words}}
=
\frac{\text{vortex}\times\text{Kwang}\times\text{freefall}}
{(\text{middle-finger appeal})^{\text{swap cats}}}
\]
Reassembly
The spirit keeps fighting
while the head seeks the body—
will returning to reason.
Death holds up the light
until every hidden thing
becomes transparent.
To live is to reconnect.
To face the end
is to become clear.
Measure
Time crossed space
beneath an ancient command,
and a fern unfolded
its green arithmetic.
Distance multiplied power,
but a hand placed in God
steadied the sum.
Then the knife was taken away—
the urge to divide,
the promise of harm.
What remained
was strength without cutting,
faith without conquest,
and life quietly opening
one frond at a time.
Sean is the light.
Stone is the weight.
Two halves,
one name.
Leap the puddle
even when the road is dry.
Rest your thumbs upon the wheel
and choose a direction.
Happiness catches the sunlight;
the people begin to shine.
Nothing profound happens—
except that everyone moves.
Reality boarded a ship
and learned to travel.
The author waited at the shore,
hands open,
no blow required.
Experience became a story—
not through force,
but by giving truth
somewhere to go.
The head negotiated with destiny;
the soul listened to fate.
A jaw appeared in heavy oil,
saffron burning along its edges,
ready to speak or bite.
Then the false beard fell away,
along with the sneer at learning.
What remained
was a mind with direction,
a soul under mystery,
and a mouth bright enough
to tell the difference.
