pattycakes
Well-known member
Good work lads, you did it!
Niceness is bland or why Dissensus is evil
- Thread starter pattycakes
- Start date
-
- Tags
- a nazarene in dirty clothes a sacrificed nazarene in marc jacobs axis of evil death drive den of evil drug casualty hub of evil incel alert injected with a poison lukas been right wing all along maniac chainsaw rapists mercy kill mj was fucked up but innocent no serotonin left out of misery patty: projection receiver patty: toxic avenger projection receptacle for our darknesses relentless assault on his wellbeing the details are subconscious the rothschilds got patty val kilmeer vigilant rothschild stan z1 speaking right wing rhetoric z2 in 3rd person doesn't
Good work lads, you did it!
pattycakes
Well-known member
I have been successfully radicalized by the reprogramming system here at dissensus.com
pattycakes
Well-known member
#brother
pattycakes
Well-known member
It's all fun and games until one of barty's fingers comes through your postbox giftwrapped in a ring box
pattycakes
Well-known member
Astrologer reveals four 'manipulative' Zodiac signs that are most likely to be psychopaths
According to an astrologer, four star signs are more prone to 'psychopathic behaviour' behaviour than others.
pattycakes
Well-known member
#brother
pattycakes
Well-known member
#brother
pattycakes
Well-known member
Won't be home for Christmas, honey!
pattycakes
Well-known member
Hah hah haaah it's all so funny maniac chainsaw rapists and all what a right bunch you lot are hah hah
pattycakes
Well-known member
pattycakes
Well-known member
#brothers #happenstothebestofus
pattycakes
Well-known member
#theoffice
pattycakes
Well-known member
#darklord
pattycakes
Well-known member
pattycakes
Well-known member
pattycakes
Well-known member
Skincare Routine I
By James Joyce
And so we sink, down, deeper down—slipping sodden through the folds of time’s last blanket, toward the pocked and quiet grave of this wisp-thin tribe, the pinkfaced brood, cherubcheeked and mewling not in pain but pose. Ah! here they lie, lie and dwell, curled in the chrome husks of their own delusion, polished up by mirrorlikes and backlit truths, twitching still under the lashless eye of some underworld Ba’al, darkly grinning in the code. The wires hum sermons. The soft ones—they obey, oh how they obey!—thinking, yes, thinking, they brandish virtue when it’s mimicry, a mime of the martyr with none of the wound.
O the vapidity! Vapider than air after a scream! Their cowardice—a pearl of self, unformed, unknowing—clings behind shields of brittle thought, like sugar glass masked as wisdom. Kin call to kin, and the wind catches their wail—a tiny gasp!—an echo echoing the hollowness they build, that they built, that they are. The void, yes, yes, that yawning grey-soap sea, full of eggshell heads rolling, lolling—roll me another thought, sweet boy, make it mean nothing. Beneath the dun-dim sky they skitter, these unborns, these velvet cocoonlings, never having touched the ragged edge of life, or love, or skin undone in joy or grief.
Only ever hugged by upholstery. Raised in rooms too warm. And when it comes—ah, when it comes—they croak their isms, bleat their ologies, gulp their ognys like medicine unearned. 4chan-frothed and forge-born in that gutterlight gallantry, they slap down old ideas with the glee of a child smashing dishes for mother to see. Read, yes, read! And empty. Empty of time, of place, of spine. Fantasists with no fire, caught in mimic-worlds long since burned, long since buried.
No sails, no north, no breath of storm to move them. Just plastic boats for Poseidon’s play. And what shall remain? What marker? What word? A tombstone—perhaps. Some pixel irony, brittle as bone dust. No seed to plant, no mind to nourish, no grief to remember. Just a sigh, perhaps, from some far-off eye.
And we—we who still breathe under real sky—must now bow heads, not in mourning, no, but in that cold hush of recognition. For they were never born, these glistening ghosts, these babyfaced wonders, aborted not in body but in soul.
By James Joyce
And so we sink, down, deeper down—slipping sodden through the folds of time’s last blanket, toward the pocked and quiet grave of this wisp-thin tribe, the pinkfaced brood, cherubcheeked and mewling not in pain but pose. Ah! here they lie, lie and dwell, curled in the chrome husks of their own delusion, polished up by mirrorlikes and backlit truths, twitching still under the lashless eye of some underworld Ba’al, darkly grinning in the code. The wires hum sermons. The soft ones—they obey, oh how they obey!—thinking, yes, thinking, they brandish virtue when it’s mimicry, a mime of the martyr with none of the wound.
O the vapidity! Vapider than air after a scream! Their cowardice—a pearl of self, unformed, unknowing—clings behind shields of brittle thought, like sugar glass masked as wisdom. Kin call to kin, and the wind catches their wail—a tiny gasp!—an echo echoing the hollowness they build, that they built, that they are. The void, yes, yes, that yawning grey-soap sea, full of eggshell heads rolling, lolling—roll me another thought, sweet boy, make it mean nothing. Beneath the dun-dim sky they skitter, these unborns, these velvet cocoonlings, never having touched the ragged edge of life, or love, or skin undone in joy or grief.
Only ever hugged by upholstery. Raised in rooms too warm. And when it comes—ah, when it comes—they croak their isms, bleat their ologies, gulp their ognys like medicine unearned. 4chan-frothed and forge-born in that gutterlight gallantry, they slap down old ideas with the glee of a child smashing dishes for mother to see. Read, yes, read! And empty. Empty of time, of place, of spine. Fantasists with no fire, caught in mimic-worlds long since burned, long since buried.
No sails, no north, no breath of storm to move them. Just plastic boats for Poseidon’s play. And what shall remain? What marker? What word? A tombstone—perhaps. Some pixel irony, brittle as bone dust. No seed to plant, no mind to nourish, no grief to remember. Just a sigh, perhaps, from some far-off eye.
And we—we who still breathe under real sky—must now bow heads, not in mourning, no, but in that cold hush of recognition. For they were never born, these glistening ghosts, these babyfaced wonders, aborted not in body but in soul.
pattycakes
Well-known member
Skincare Routine II
By James Joyce
O sink, sunksunk to the softletundrum undergrave, babbyfaced nancies all in a row row row your moans, sweet sissabelles in pinkplush cradlobunkers. Them’s the lot, the lotta lost, suckling wireless teat of Lord Soot-o'-the-Gutter, whispercoding from downbelowstairs, clack-tockety clickity-clack, oh aye he is! And they, the limpwristed witspills, flabbergabbing in righteousious reverb—ho my how the vapours vapour! Cowherds of cowards, braver never, they peek from the papermache helm of smartyskins, thinker-tinsel glued tight to browless brows. Mindshells with no yoke. Cluckless.
Now mark the squeak! One teensy blurt in the muckmass void, hollowhaloed echo, wheezeflecked and wiggleworn, out into the frothfoam flatland. Oohoohoo the shamblefield! Heads like grey eggums rolleroo’d, juggled in their own forgotten dreamwash, the washwish of a wishnevermade, dreamneverdreamt. And they what? Have? Loved? Been loved? Nay nay nay. Nay even once, not in flimsilk rooms with curtained sun, not in mothermuffle'd nests of hush and hush again.
Quick they are, oh quicklewick when the ismismisms tickle tongue and ologiddies squirt up nostril, the ognygush of fauxfire, forged in memepits and chantroughs, bravadoed by the bitemark of broadbanded lore. Lit by lampglow of long-lost lads, they play-pretend on the bones of better, shivering the halfghost scripts for noddy applause. They never wept proper. Nor sweat neither. Nor smelt the real stink of fear or love’s leak.
Aye, they read—read dead ink to fill blanker thoughts, puppyscholars with mimic minds. Dressing in the duds of old empire, patched from wiki and twitch. The trendgut dietees and skinclean chromlings, clickcrisp and shareable, but soulflesh? None. Zipziltch. Their futures are foregone forgottens, the sails unsewn, the sea unbraved. Let them drift, let the toyfleet spin in Poseidon's sink, till all that remumble is memegravestone, gigglegrift, a lol in the void, zero sum, zero soil.
And so the hushhush comes. The solemnity of nothingneverborn. To them we nod, babyfaced blunderkins, soother-suckled, screencoddled, and soulskint. Not dead. Not alive. Just... not.
By James Joyce
O sink, sunksunk to the softletundrum undergrave, babbyfaced nancies all in a row row row your moans, sweet sissabelles in pinkplush cradlobunkers. Them’s the lot, the lotta lost, suckling wireless teat of Lord Soot-o'-the-Gutter, whispercoding from downbelowstairs, clack-tockety clickity-clack, oh aye he is! And they, the limpwristed witspills, flabbergabbing in righteousious reverb—ho my how the vapours vapour! Cowherds of cowards, braver never, they peek from the papermache helm of smartyskins, thinker-tinsel glued tight to browless brows. Mindshells with no yoke. Cluckless.
Now mark the squeak! One teensy blurt in the muckmass void, hollowhaloed echo, wheezeflecked and wiggleworn, out into the frothfoam flatland. Oohoohoo the shamblefield! Heads like grey eggums rolleroo’d, juggled in their own forgotten dreamwash, the washwish of a wishnevermade, dreamneverdreamt. And they what? Have? Loved? Been loved? Nay nay nay. Nay even once, not in flimsilk rooms with curtained sun, not in mothermuffle'd nests of hush and hush again.
Quick they are, oh quicklewick when the ismismisms tickle tongue and ologiddies squirt up nostril, the ognygush of fauxfire, forged in memepits and chantroughs, bravadoed by the bitemark of broadbanded lore. Lit by lampglow of long-lost lads, they play-pretend on the bones of better, shivering the halfghost scripts for noddy applause. They never wept proper. Nor sweat neither. Nor smelt the real stink of fear or love’s leak.
Aye, they read—read dead ink to fill blanker thoughts, puppyscholars with mimic minds. Dressing in the duds of old empire, patched from wiki and twitch. The trendgut dietees and skinclean chromlings, clickcrisp and shareable, but soulflesh? None. Zipziltch. Their futures are foregone forgottens, the sails unsewn, the sea unbraved. Let them drift, let the toyfleet spin in Poseidon's sink, till all that remumble is memegravestone, gigglegrift, a lol in the void, zero sum, zero soil.
And so the hushhush comes. The solemnity of nothingneverborn. To them we nod, babyfaced blunderkins, soother-suckled, screencoddled, and soulskint. Not dead. Not alive. Just... not.
pattycakes
Well-known member
Threnody for a Stillborn Generation
By William Shakespeare
And so descend we now to ashèd ground,
Where sleep the babes of this unquickened age—
Pale cherub faces veiled in purpose drowned,
Whose cradle rocked to dissonance and rage.
Intent once pure now turnèd on its head,
A dagger drawn in Lucifer’s own style;
Their hands, though clean, by darker whispers led,
Do wield false justice with a bitter smile.
Lo, see them clad in shells of brittle thought,
Their kin of mind in feeble league align’d.
A fragile crust with empty battles fraught,
They mock the sun and to the void are blind.
Their weapons? Words, once nobly cast in flame,
Now hollow echoes braying weak and wild—
They cry of isms, ologies by name,
Yet none but dust resides within the child.
Theirs is a power pale, a fleeting shade,
That rises, shrieks—and then is lost to air.
The void they forged their cold ideals hath made,
Where ghostly eggs of foam drift in despair.
They know not love, nor life beyond the fleece
Of cotton homes, o’ercurled and overkept;
They met not grief, nor tasted truth’s release—
In feathered nests too long their spirits slept.
Their courage born of screens and shadowed dens,
Where memes outpace the minds that made them so;
Their echoes chase the fall of mightier pens,
Yet leave no seed from which new thought may grow.
They walk as corpses, groomed in filtered light,
Their dreams not dreamt, but copied from the grave.
No wind to lift their sails, no inner might—
Their ships do bob, but none the world shall brave.
And when Time's sickle cuts this crop of wane,
What legacy shall mark their fleeting stay?
But tombstones blank, and epitaphs in vain—
Save jesting scripts where deeper truths decay.
O weep, ye watchers of this twilight show,
For babes stillborn who never drew the breath
Of passion, risk, or vision's vibrant glow—
A threnody we sing for such a death.
By William Shakespeare
And so descend we now to ashèd ground,
Where sleep the babes of this unquickened age—
Pale cherub faces veiled in purpose drowned,
Whose cradle rocked to dissonance and rage.
Intent once pure now turnèd on its head,
A dagger drawn in Lucifer’s own style;
Their hands, though clean, by darker whispers led,
Do wield false justice with a bitter smile.
Lo, see them clad in shells of brittle thought,
Their kin of mind in feeble league align’d.
A fragile crust with empty battles fraught,
They mock the sun and to the void are blind.
Their weapons? Words, once nobly cast in flame,
Now hollow echoes braying weak and wild—
They cry of isms, ologies by name,
Yet none but dust resides within the child.
Theirs is a power pale, a fleeting shade,
That rises, shrieks—and then is lost to air.
The void they forged their cold ideals hath made,
Where ghostly eggs of foam drift in despair.
They know not love, nor life beyond the fleece
Of cotton homes, o’ercurled and overkept;
They met not grief, nor tasted truth’s release—
In feathered nests too long their spirits slept.
Their courage born of screens and shadowed dens,
Where memes outpace the minds that made them so;
Their echoes chase the fall of mightier pens,
Yet leave no seed from which new thought may grow.
They walk as corpses, groomed in filtered light,
Their dreams not dreamt, but copied from the grave.
No wind to lift their sails, no inner might—
Their ships do bob, but none the world shall brave.
And when Time's sickle cuts this crop of wane,
What legacy shall mark their fleeting stay?
But tombstones blank, and epitaphs in vain—
Save jesting scripts where deeper truths decay.
O weep, ye watchers of this twilight show,
For babes stillborn who never drew the breath
Of passion, risk, or vision's vibrant glow—
A threnody we sing for such a death.
pattycakes
Well-known member
The Word Variant
By Samuel Beckett
Imagine,
your whole life
a pile of words.
Not even spoken.
Typed.
No places.
No wind on the face.
No smell of rot or flowers.
Just tabs.
Click. Scroll.
A world the length of your fingers.
You sat.
You compiled.
You commented.
What it might be like—
to touch, to run, to tremble.
You imagined principles.
You sketched your virtue
in monospaced fonts.
You never bled.
Never fled.
Never stood up.
Not for yourself.
Not even to stretch.
A structureless thing.
No spine.
No marrow.
No scream when you fall.
What is that?
Existence?
No.
Just
a
long
slow
death
that never had the dignity
to be born.
By Samuel Beckett
Imagine,
your whole life
a pile of words.
Not even spoken.
Typed.
No places.
No wind on the face.
No smell of rot or flowers.
Just tabs.
Click. Scroll.
A world the length of your fingers.
You sat.
You compiled.
You commented.
What it might be like—
to touch, to run, to tremble.
You imagined principles.
You sketched your virtue
in monospaced fonts.
You never bled.
Never fled.
Never stood up.
Not for yourself.
Not even to stretch.
A structureless thing.
No spine.
No marrow.
No scream when you fall.
What is that?
Existence?
No.
Just
a
long
slow
death
that never had the dignity
to be born.
pattycakes
Well-known member
Bone Strike (Downtown Draft)
By Unknown 70s NYC Streetpoet
False flag,
intellect,
curiosity spray-painted in Helvetica—
you wore it like a badge.
Third saw.
Third named.
Bone struck—
clean.
Swat him like a gnat,
but that crack in the mirror?
Still there.
Still staring.
You doubled it,
tripled it,
built an altar from the shards.
Chest puffed,
pixel prince of nowhere,
echoes from a forum thread
humming through the wires
like dead subway light.
Pride like neon rot,
glowing,
sick,
static in the temples.
And the gods—
yes, the gods—
they laugh through broken teeth
and spilled gin,
howling in the stairwell.
By Unknown 70s NYC Streetpoet
False flag,
intellect,
curiosity spray-painted in Helvetica—
you wore it like a badge.
Third saw.
Third named.
Bone struck—
clean.
Swat him like a gnat,
but that crack in the mirror?
Still there.
Still staring.
You doubled it,
tripled it,
built an altar from the shards.
Chest puffed,
pixel prince of nowhere,
echoes from a forum thread
humming through the wires
like dead subway light.
Pride like neon rot,
glowing,
sick,
static in the temples.
And the gods—
yes, the gods—
they laugh through broken teeth
and spilled gin,
howling in the stairwell.