A Chinese Dynasty Built On GOLD

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The Power of Gold ??

From the rivers of Lydia, bright metal was born,
A sun trapped in earth, a god’s breath reborn.
Pharaohs were wrapped in its glittering hue,
They thought it eternal — but empires withdrew.

Oh, gold — you gleam, you gleam through time,
Crowned in glory, drowned in crime.
Kings rise to kiss you, then crumble to dust,
For every empire built on gold, turns to rust.

Rome paved its triumphs with hammered delight,
But barbarians came in the dark of the night.
The Aztec and Inca heard thunder from ships,
Gold for their blood — on conquistador’s lips.

Venice, Britannia, the dollar’s bright glow,
Each held your promise — each watched it go.
From temples to banks, from vaults to the skies,
Gold never dies — but belief, it dies.

Oh, gold — you gleam, you gleam through time,
Crowned in glory, drowned in crime.
Kings rise to kiss you, then crumble to dust,
For every empire built on gold, turns to rust.

Now dragon banners rise in the East,
AI for prophets, data for priests.
They hoard your weight while the West looks away,
A silent new empire is being born today.

Circuits and bullion — the code and the coin,
History whispers, *“Their fates shall join.”*
For gold is a mirror that blinds the wise,
And AI is the hand that closes the eyes.

Oh, gold — still gleam, still gleam through time,
From Babel’s stones to the blockchain line.
You’ve crowned the proud, and betrayed their trust,
For every empire built on gold — turns to dust.

So let them build with silicon dreams,
And bind the world in golden schemes.
But the stars care not for empire or throne —
Gold melts. Time wins. All empires are bone.

{Copyright © Peter Moring  2025}

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The Power of Gold: Empires, Illusions, and the New Digital Throne

 

For as long as humanity has dreamt of power, one element has cast its glow across every age — gold. From the tombs of pharaohs to the vaults of Wall Street, gold has been the ultimate symbol of wealth, permanence, and divine authority. It is beautiful, incorruptible, and — ironically — corrupting.

The poem “The Power of Gold”  explores this paradox through history’s echo chamber, tracing the rise and fall of empires that once believed gold could secure their immortality. It begins in ancient Lydia, where the first coins were minted, before passing through Egypt’s golden gods, Rome’s spoils, and the blood-stained treasures of the New World. Each stanza is a reflection of the same tragic truth: that empires mistake gold’s glitter for greatness, forgetting that the metal endures — but the hands that hold it do not.

Gold’s magic lies in illusion. It does not rust, it does not fade, and so it whispers of eternity. Yet every empire that sought to rule through it eventually collapsed. Rome was sacked. – Spain squandered its Incan plunder. – Britain’s golden sovereign gave way to the dollar. – And even the American empire — underpinned by “paper gold” and fiat faith — now finds itself trembling before a new kind of power.

That new force rises in the East. China, long patient in its strategy, is quietly amassing gold reserves while advancing an entirely different form of supremacy: technological and algorithmic control. In an age where data flows more freely than bullion, Beijing’s combination of physical wealth and digital intelligence forms the foundation of a modern empire.

The poem’s bridge warns of this fusion:

“Circuits and bullion — the code and the coin,
History whispers, ‘Their fates shall join.’ ”

It is a chilling prophecy. Gold once powered divine right and colonial conquest; now, artificial intelligence fuels digital dominion. One glitters in vaults, the other hums in servers. Both promise control over human destiny.

Yet, as the poem concludes, the same fate awaits all who worship these false suns/Idols:

“Gold melts. Time wins. All empires are bone.”

No matter how advanced our algorithms or how deep our reserves, the pattern remains unchanged. Civilizations fall not from lack of resources, but from moral erosion and over-reliance on their own illusions of permanence.

Gold, like power, is a mirror — and what we see in it depends on what we are. The empires of the past saw divinity and conquest. The empire of today sees data and dominance. But beneath the digital sheen, the same ancient hunger endures.

The lesson of “The Power of Gold” is clear: Every age believes it has mastered permanence, yet every age becomes a cautionary tale.

Gold endures, but empire never does.

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Control Through Consequences

Control Through Fear! – In A Modern Society

“A Poetic Reflection On Hidden State Powers”

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Consequences …

Through centuries of fear we’ve grown,
A leash of rules to guide, to own.
Civilization, they softly claim,
A shield of order, a noble name.

No pillage, no rampant fire,
No lust, no theft, no savage desire.
A world of morals we’re told to keep,
Or consequences rise from deep.

Yet behind the curtain, shadows steer,
The Few who whisper, bend, coerce,
Their end game waits, control complete,
Where freedom bends beneath their feet.

We’re shaped as drones, our hours sold,
Our spirit drained, our fire cold.
They harvest energy, thought, and breath,
And bind our will in chains of flesh.

Each rule imposed, each petty line,
Dulls the spark that once was mine.
We’re fed illusions, endless streams,
False foes designed within our dreams.

The films, the games, the flashing screen,
A theatre vast, yet never clean.
Billboards shout, the ads confide,
All to keep us pacified.

Sweeteners gifted, toys of light,
To veil the darkness of their night.
Like children set with games to play,
While parents turn their eyes away.

Big Brother’s house, a cage of glass,
Where baited souls perform and pass.
We cheer, we laugh, we take the test,
Yet miss the chains upon our chest.

The net, their web, both trap and key,
A mirror vast of you and me.
And all the while, the lesson clear:
Consequences—control through fear.


Catch Ya Later …….

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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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Did SATAN Fund Only-Fans

“The Devil’s Whisper: A Poem on Lust, Technology, and the Fall of Love”

A dark poetic reflection on lust, technology, and the devil’s subtle plan to unravel love, family, and society from within.

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I whispered soft in mortal ears, a sly, seductive plan,
To twist the ways of love and birth, and slowly cull out Man.
Not poison’s cup, nor bombs in flight, would serve this wicked art,
But subtler snares of lust and fame would play the greater part.

The youth grow wise to war’s old game, they question every fight,
So I must weave a clever net, concealed beneath the night.
I tried to blur the lines of flesh, with tricks of form and name,
But fleeting was that masquerade—it fizzled into shame.

I’ve long abused both love and lust to get things as I please,
Since Seventies’ sweet, swirling days, I’ve brought you to your knees.
Why fix what’s never broken down, why mend a perfect snare?
I’ll twist the bond of hearts and vows, till none are left to care.

I’ll make your unions sour and cold, your partnerships a chore,
So breeding halts not by decree, but choice you can’t ignore.
Then came the net, my gift to you, and social scrolls divine,
I mixed the two, a wicked brew, a trap by my design.

A stage was built where youth could sell their charms to eager eyes,
“OnlyFans,” I whispered sweet, “where dreams and dollars rise!”
And millions came, with painted lips, to dance before the screen,
Their beauty turned to currency, their virtue wiped clean.

And men—oh men!—what will they shun, when choosing for a bride?
A “loose” delight, a fleeting night—they’ll turn and step aside.
Thus love decays, the cradle’s cold, the birth rate starts to fall,
While I, in shadows, laugh and watch the ruin of it all.

You handed me the keys yourselves, to lock away your fate,
With lust as bait, you sealed the door, your end you helped create.
No battles raged, no poison spread, just hunger and a screen,
The oldest trade reborn anew—oh, devilishly keen.

So when you pose, or when you pay, to sate your fleeting flame,
Remember who first lit the match, who whispered you the game.
It’s I—yes, Satan—grinning wide, as mankind slowly wanes,
For pleasure bought with empty hearts will shatter all your chains.

SO! – Did ‘I’ Fund ‘Only Fans’?

 

Did I fund ‘Only Fans’? Well I certainly put the idea into the head of one of my many disciples.
You see, I needed to slow down the birth rate of Humanity, so that over the long term, only the Evil Humans would be left on Earth. Then all I had to do was ‘light the flame’ and They would simply ‘increase’ the number of their Own kind than they do right NOW!

SO! How do I manage this without Poison or even More! Wars! Because the younger Generations are getting ‘Sussed’ on the purpose of wars and could shut them down completely by the time the next generation become young adults. So what’s to be done?

I tried the Trans, biological sex trick, but that didn’t last too long, I was found wanting fairly quickly on that one, so I had to think HARD yet again. Now I know you’ve read about how I like to abuse Sex and Love to get My own way, and it’s been super-successful since the 1970’s. So why not use it Yet again? After all, why FIX what ain’t BROKE! EH?

That’s when I realised the safest way to get RID of all you ‘Good people’ out there is to stunt your birth-rate – Permanently! – What better way than to make marriage or partnerships SO distasteful that You would all just voluntarily STOP! Breeding? … Excellent Plan – I’m sure You’ll all agree.

Now previously I told You how I gave You the internet and My Saviour – ‘Social Media’ – So I thought I’d combine the two to give you the perfect ‘divider’ – ‘Only Fans’ .. Where mainly young Girls/Ladies could go and earn some REAL MONEY to fund the Lifestyle-Of-Their-DREAMS! – And SO They Did! – Millions of them 🙂 🙂 🙂

And What! Do the Blokes/Lads/Fella’s NEVER want to marry, or form a lasting relationship with? – Yep! – ‘A Loose Woman’ … So You See! SEX! Does it AGAIN! It’s just SO! Predictable and Easy! You good folk just handed Me the keys to Oblivion – My Natural Habitat! – Where I shall go and Live – Forever More! – After Your Birth Rates have become unsustainable on the back of one of the Simplest Ideas Ever – The Glorified ‘Oldest Trade’ in the book – And all of You Frustrated, sex-hungry blokes are PAYING to rid Yourself! – Of Yourselves.

When You next Preen & Pose for ‘Only Fans’
Or you Login to get Your Daily/Hourly FIX!
Think Of ME! SATAN!! … Love Ya Baby 🙂 🙂 🙂

Copyright © Peter Moring  2025

SEE! .. ‘If I Were SATAN’ .. Here! ..

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The Whispers Of The Dark Angels

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Angels are painted in colors so bright,
Wings made of wonder, of beauty, of light.
But shadows are cast where the dark angels tread,
Harbingers walking the halls of the dead.

Not robed in gold, nor faces fair,
But cloaked in darkness, cold as the air.
Symbols of midnight, of sorrow and gloom,
They enter unbidden, they visit the room.

Skeleton figures with eyes like coal,
Summoning silence, reclaiming the soul.
No friendly embrace, no gentle cheer,
Their presence brings shivers, whispers of fear.

The “Grim Reaper” name is often bestowed,
On angels of death where shadows have flowed.
Cultures may differ, beliefs are not one,
Some fear their coming, some say it’s begun.

For some it’s transition, a step that’s required,
For others, a terror profoundly inspired.
For death is the end that all must face,
No status or fortune can alter that place.

We fear what we lose, the love torn away,
When angels of death bring night from the day.
Unready to part, we cry and we plead,
Feeling time stolen by their ghostly speed.

Yet comfort may dwell in their solemn embrace,
When illness has wearied a once-smiling face.
For then these dark angels are said to ascend,
To carry the spirit where sufferings end.

With wisdom and age comes a quiet accord,
A sense that their presence might offer reward.
In art and in stories, in games and in lore,
Their figures emerge through eternity’s door.

On screens they are demons who drag souls away,
In blackness and horror, in shadows they stay.
But whether as terror or solace they gleam,
Death angels still walk through humanity’s dream.

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Find Out MORE! About ‘The Dark Angels’  >> Here!

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The Fabian Society Objective View

 

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In eighteen eighty-four, a vision was born,
A gentle flame in socialism’s dawn.
The Fabian Society, steady, not fast,
Believed in change that would last and last.

Not through revolt, not sudden might,
But gradual progress, steady and right.
A think-tank formed with pen and mind,
Seeking reforms for all mankind.

They write and publish, advise and train,
Through reports, debates, their ideas gain.
Health and education, work and skill,
Policy shaped by reason and will.

Linked to Labour, yet not the state,
Their influence comes through intellect, not fate.
Ministers, MPs, some in their fold,
Carry their ideas, gentle yet bold.

Events and seminars, networks grown,
Young Fabians learning seeds once sown.
A whisper of guidance, a shaping hand,
Ideas ripple through the land.

They do not govern, do not command,
No secret cabal rules the strand.
Power resides in votes and law,
Not in think-tank halls or what they draw.

Yet myths arise of hidden might,
Of shadows steering day and night.
History fuels such tales untamed,
Because their influence is widely framed.

But influence is not the same as reign,
It’s thought, not force, that spreads their gain.
Ideas take root, some ministers see,
How Fabian vision may help set policy free.

So subtle yet real, their role unfolds,
Through intellect’s touch, not iron holds.
A society old, still shaping debate,
Not running Britain, but helping create.

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Catch Ya Later ….

This is the ‘Official’ Objective View – Make of it what You will.

With ‘Hope Not Hate’ Influencing  the Curriculum in the UK Education Systems
… AKA; ‘Woke Indoctrination Hubs’
…. The Future Of Great Britain is now looking very bleak!

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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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The Few ….

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The Few conspire in shadows deep,
With whispered vows they vow to keep.
Their schemes are hidden, sharp, refined,
To fracture families, hearts, and minds.

Divide and conquer—ancient art,
To prize the world and tear apart.
They’ve gained a tool, both vast and strange,
A DNA Bank to rearrange.

With codes of blood, the secrets lie,
Of lineage traced, of truth or lie.
A costly search, yet some will pay,
For proof to show, for love’s decay.

A child may seek the father’s name,
To test the bond, to shift the blame.
Yet fatherhood is more than seed,
It blooms in care, in daily deed.

A cruel show once, on TV aired,
Where human pain was cheaply shared.
A banker smiled while families broke,
Each test a lash, each word a yoke.

And spiteful youth, with money near,
May buy the truths they should not hear.
A parent shamed, a home undone,
A war within, that few have won.

But worse, the rogues with hearts of coal,
Could blackmail life, could damn the soul.
A secret loosed, a weapon made,
A trust betrayed, a love decayed.

TheFew will dress this gift as kind,
A cure for sickness, peace of mind.
They claim it heals, they claim it saves,
Yet dig instead a field of graves.

For who can guard the strands we keep,
When Few awake and rest still sleep?
Their baby steps, their creeping plan,
To bind the beast, to cage the clan.

So question what they sell as sweet,
Beware the prize that tastes of deceit.
For none so blind as those who say,
The Few are gone, or lost their way.

Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025
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How ‘TheFew’ Work Their Long-Term Plan To Enslave Us All Into Subservience! As ‘Universal Soldiers’ …

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Please Comment Below – And Check Out The Other Posts & Pages On This Blog – Thank You …

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A Dry-Rot World??

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Has the world caught dry-rot’s breath?
Most definitely, the signs foretell death.
Both instinct and common sense conspire,
To whisper truth through creeping fire.

We think of fungus gnawing wood,
A worm that hollows what once stood.
At first a weakness, soft, unseen,
Then dust and nothing where strength had been.

Returned to soil, to who-knows-what,
Experts define the tale we’re taught.
Their truths are filtered, tightly spun,
Decided by “The Few” for everyone.

So what have we done in all these years?
Mined the earth through sweat and tears.
Diamonds stolen, rubies bled,
Gold and silver torn from bed.

Aluminium, plutonium, rare ores,
Coal and gas from ancient stores.
Billions of tons in hungry hand,
We feed our greed, we scar the land.

A fungus feeding, that’s what we are,
Predators circling a fading star.
This Blue-Moon home, once bright, once kind,
Now choked by rot of human mind.

Drive a road in Britain small,
Imagine fuel in tanks of all.
Unfathomable, a daily drain,
And worldwide, the numbers chain.

Are we the rot? The answer’s near,
The echo whispers—yes, my dear.
Subterranean halls are made,
For Elites to hide when debts are paid.

Fracking blasts the earth’s own veins,
Poisoned water, fractured plains.
Where is wisdom? Lost, betrayed,
Life for The Few is all that’s weighed.

Climate’s mask hides deeper lies,
Media chants, the truth denies.
Wake your senses, raise your sight,
We are the rot, the endless blight.

A cancer burrowing through the blue,
But is this world still ours
or theirs, or you?

Mother Nature Cared Since Birth
This Blue Moon that We Call Earth.
We ALL act on Her Command,
We are caretakers of Our Land.

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Catch Ya Later ……
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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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** The Pub With No Beer **

 ‘The Pub With No Beer’ is a Socialist Goal – Socialism sounds like a political ideology that would cherish the idea of a ‘Social Community/Society’ But it’s not! – The truth is the Exact! Opposite! – ‘Divide & Conquer’ is their aim, and where better than the good old traditional pub! where many of us would put the world to rights, have a good laugh and meet our future partners, all over a few bevvies with a group of strangers and friends?

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“Socialist” sounds like fists in the air,
For social rights, for voices to share.
But being “social” is stamped as a crime,
By those who profit from wasting our time.

The Uni-Party whispers, “Keep them apart,
No chatter, no laughter, no meeting of heart”.

Divide and conquer, their favourite song,
A pint with your mates?
No, that feels wrong.

The pub, the club, the youth club too,
Places for bonding, all fading from view.
Nights out of joy, smoke curling the air,
A basket of chips, no burdens to bear.

But then came the Foodie craze on the screen,
Shiny cuisine where chatter’d once been.
Ads and shows pounding night and day,
Teaching us ‘gluttony’ pays the way.

An unhealthy crowd, more pills to sell,
Big Pharma grins—OH! – isn’t that swell?
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And MP’s clutch their pharma shares,
As pubs transform to ‘foodie lairs’.

No talk with strangers, no hearty cheer,
Just menus bloated, conversations can’t hear.

Conglomerates feast, – landlords bleed,
Debt upon debt, – no end – no need.
The shutters fall, the pub is gone,
The property’s sold, the cycle goes on.

The Government smiles, the owners too,
But where does that leave me and you?
Joe Public drifts to the neon glow,
Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, that’s where to go.
Or huddled at home with a takeaway meal,

Addictive, convenient,
stripping the real.

They call it “social,”
but we know it’s not,
Connection erased,
community shot.

And somewhere above,
they toast with delight,
The Uni-Party’s plan
Is working just RIGHT!
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Catch Ya Later ………….

 

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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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The Ballad Of The GB MP

 

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You Silly-Billy … ….
You KNOW! how this works.
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You Become an MP.
You’re a Gofer for Dark Angels.
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You Become the PM.
You Become! – A – DarkAngel
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You Go’fer TheFew
You’re Now Subservient there too.
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You WILL Do! & Say!
What! You’re TOLD!
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If You Don’t!
Well God Knows
You’ll never grow old!
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But do as They Say!
Do as You’re Told.
As a sitting MP
Your Finances are FREED!
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No More worries,
Where Money’s concerned.
You can collect the tab,
The ‘Security’ You’ve Earned.

The Run-To-The-Hills Society
Set up for YOU!
Reward! – From The FEW!
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Surely You KNEW!?
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Catch Ya Later

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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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The Streets of Shame

 

At eight the boys take up their guard,
At each end standing, watching hard.
A whistle calls, a signal clear,
For every car that dares draw near.

The street they claim as bed-sit land,
A place the police let slip from hand.
Once dubbed the worst this nation knew,
The truth was harsh, yet spoken true.

By day the blinds are closed, asleep,
By night the shadows crawl and creep.
A lawless brood, with fearless eyes,
Where innocence and mercy dies.

A drunk returns, his steps unsure,
The blows descend, the screams endure.
Bloodied bodies left to rot,
Or dragged inside, their torment wrought.

The women meet a subtler snare,
A punctured tyre, despair laid bare.
A kindly voice, a guiding hand,
A trap too cruel to understand.

A sudden crack, a body still,
The van awaits to take its fill.
Another car will take its place,
Another victim’s fleeting grace.

The neighbours watch yet dare not speak,
The gangs ensure their silence bleak.
Three basements burnt in grim display,
A warning none would disobey.

Reporters shrugged, the stories died,
The gangs grew rich, the law stood by.
Till rising rents forced them to flee,
Their evil spread elsewhere, set free.

But streets like these still hide their scars,
Behind the pubs, beneath the stars.
Where law is blind and greed holds reign,
The streets of shame are born again.

……….. Catch You Later ………..

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