Puzzle Cipher Hexes \\ Blood Curse Hanging Heavy. // Strawmanned Again. \\ 4-In-1.

Almost to a point of nausea.
AD NAUSEAM.
Metaphors abound;
None will find all the secret riddles,
Puzzle ciphers:
Allusions woven into flowery speech.
References nobody but me,
Or the most clever of clever will get.
Yet this dry retching stuns me,
A round.
No matter –
How many shadowbox punches,
I throw,
Just another feeble Human,
Trying my best to be better than I was,
Yesterday.
White witches!
If only my black heart could still beat.
Part of me knows already –
It’ll never beat again.
That’ll do.
Growing cold –
Until my revilers saw up my body,
To use as a scarecrow:
Strawmanned again.
Do I virtue signal?
Pluck my white hairs from my beard?
To burn as accursed incense?
But perhaps using my real name,
Angers them somehow.
How dare she think herself above us?!?
As if I ever thought the same way,
As them,
To begin with.
Striving despite these grievous scars,
Inside & out.
To be kind.
As much as humble.
When others are so brimming with pride,
Or ego,
That they interpret confidence,
Incorrectly,
& neurodiversity,
As evil.
This ain’t no epic,
Nor a dirge.
Never lied about rougher roots,
Cedars weaving staircases down towards the water across the granite.
Hick.
Redneck.
Skid.
Worse.
I’ve heard,
Been called lots,
Over years.
But at least I can think of Socrates;
Drinking Hemlock,
Or such translations from ancient greek,
& smile.
Would my idols be proud?
Carlin?
Tesla?
Turing?
Rogers?
Trying to save the world?
Or other such impossible goals?
Ego Death.
My vaunted nirvana,
As if such a thing existed!
Outside notion.
Smiles,
Jokes,
Clever adaptations –
To hostile environments.
Know Ego Death Very Well,
Via The Infinite Deconstruction Of The Self.
My secular practices;
Of parallels to Buddhism.
Masking in Theatre,
& social norms.
Learning to code switch:
To a point you were barely tolerated.
I’m used to fighting for even just that.
So perhaps this once,
My fatigued pacifism can finally wane,
Into rest.
Channeling angry beat poets –
Of the 60s!
So.
No…
Not Epic.
Nor Dirge.
This?
A fucking CURSE.
Magic so black,
Dark,
Foul,
It stains your soul –
Corrupting thy rotten karma,
Until you finally wither to dust.
FUCK YOU.
Stop it.
Shut the fuck up.
Fueled by nausea,
Dragging the blackest of viscous tar,
Fresh glistening black,
From my veins.
If you speak my name,
Or even insinuate me with your breath,
Bearing any iota of bad faith?
Your ugly jaundiced eyes,
Will find needles.
For every manipulation,
Or twisting of truth?
Organs will fail.
Woven inside.
Out.
With every Magic,
Hex,
Curse,
Damnation,
One can muster with mere Lexicon!
Rotting you slowly,
With every ugly hint of hatred,
In thy trembling voice.
For every straw upon the wicker man,
You use to make it in my image,
Then burn?
Every single Metaphor,
Or Simile,
You bear.
Against me,
Or my loved ones?
Litre of blood spilled.
Freak accidents will find you.
Maybe not you.
But real close.
I’ll be far away,
Long gone,
Likely already dead myself.
I’ll have nothing to do with it,
Or you,
I hope,
By then.
A BLOOD CURSE EQUAL,
TO THE WEIGHT OF THE PERSON,
WHO THREATENED TO GLITTER BOMB ME,
WITH THEIR OWN ASHES,
FOR YEARS.
OTHERS,
SCRATCHED OUT EVERY STICKER,
IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD,
EVEN ON MY TRUCK.
THEY WHO THREATENED TO STAB ME,
OVER CARD GAMES,
HALF A DOZEN TIMES.
Who gaslit me,
Abused me,
For decades.
Who sent anonymous hate emails,
About my books,
Thousands of words long.
Who left anonymous hate-filled messages –
Claiming idea theft.
Who told me to quit,
Again,
& again.
Who tried to get me fired,
Followed by more hate crimes from middle school MAGA counselors nonetheless!
Who scowled at me,
For daring to have painted black nails,
With a beard.
Who screeched the brakes,
To honk at me,
Laugh,
Peel off.
Who…
Are endless.
I’m just so tired.
Of the hate.
Vitriol.
So here’s the crux,
Of this eternal curse.
Already memetic:
Placed upon anyone stupid enough:
To read this poem:
Fake Magic:
Mere lexical Metaphor:
As ever:
It means nothing:
Everything:
A compressed ball of my weight,
Of my will of my way.
Experiences.
Said Weight:
Decades of abuse.
At-hundred-different-hands.
So this curse,
To haunt my Homeworld Terra?
Sol,
That we orbit?
Any Human,
That ever lives on from it,
For the rest of all time?
Until The Last Black Hole Dies?
For thy ugly words,
Or actions,
My,
Mine,
Merest thoughts,
Involving?
Invoking?
Imbibing?
Even in dark rooms,
In whispered words ‘twixt lovers.
That ugly will return,
Thousand-fold.
a meaningless curse,
As A Pacifist.