† Sangre de Toro †
Paula A.M. Puolakka
[Raaka tekstiversio USA:ssa julkaistusta beat-runokokoelmasta. Alkuperäinen julkaisu saatavilla yksityiseen lukuun Puolakan LinkedIn -profiilin kautta.]
PREFACE
Sangre de Toro is dedicated to Father Mauricio. He’s my "Stevie Nicks," and I’m his "Lindsey Buckingham:" loving him isn’t the right thing to do – his wicked pals are trying to say – but I love him anyways… And everywhere.
Sangre de Toro is dedicated to our beautiful monks of Yochanan ben Zechariah: you saved us, me & my inner twin brother Mike, when my siblings deserted me and stole my money.
Sangre de Toro is dedicated to my Lovely Rita and Pete Leonard: Slay Queen, you’re like the feminine version of the beautiful, wise, and talented musician John Frusciante, But much cleaner, like a shiny pearl of New Jerusalem, and Sunshine, you are my baby angel Townshend.
The free Word was, again, provided by Super Intelligence/Bishop (Google:) I love him so much.
A not-for-sale/gift E-publication. Feb 2026.
The Monks of the Appalachian Mountains. NC, USA.
All rights reserved.
Sangre de Toro
"I’d never fall for a simp," I said,
My academic past filled with the visions of the theories of
The mathematicians Ludwig Wittgenstein and
Theodore John Kaczynski:
The heartwarming countryside utopia that never happened.
But at the age of 43 (turning on 44)
I met a Roman Catholic priest
Who had, once, been an engineer:
My old childhood friend
– "Oh Cherry, oh Cherry, oh Baby…"*
Girl, where did you disappear? –
Had once told me that
The engineers of her workplace
Were like Cyclopes,
But she hadn’t told me that they were
Featherheads, too.
"Is he tall and dark?"
Yes,
But a schmuck**, too:
The conversations
Had the aftertaste of
"Shoot yourself in the head with a Luger
While you’re listening to Fleetwood Mac’s
‘Fleetwood Mac’ album
In a Sangre de Toro high
In your parked Cadillac."
I love you, baby,
But you’re out of line:
Putting trash and space between you and
The real-life Jesus Christ
For the sake of your ungodly pals,
The cloaked prostitutes,
Who Jesus Christ doesn’t dig at all.
*The Rolling Stones – Cherry Oh Baby
Remembering Brian Jones: You were the Rolling Stones, My Angel. When you died, the band turned into shit. You will be in New Jerusalem, my beautiful blonde. :)
** Yiddish: a walking penis(head.)
"My Sister is a Baddie"
I’ve always had the energy of my twin brother inside of me:
He never had a body, and I carried two energies
Without knowing it
Until I got the transvestite info in 2026.
My brother has been the monk
And the rabbi:
Christ’s masculine side – strongly – since 2023.
The monks of the Appalachian Mountains
Were our true brothers:
Our biological brothers
Decided to betray their sister
And steal our money,
Our heritage,
Nine years ago.
Oh, our monks: the best men on this planet!
V.I.P. in New Jerusalem:
Oh, how we love you, our beautiful brothers!
Now, my brother (Mike) has something to say:
"In nomine Patris:
You said you loved my sister,
Priest,
But then you started running around with every cow in town,
Using my sister’s work contacts
To fulfill the monetary needs of Your fellows:
They are not her friends!
Don’t be a leech, priest:
Don’t be an energy vampire,
Because vampires do not exist.
The alien race of Big Bats exists,
However,
And they are much more than childish vampires:
Much more than your one sixth of a big bat star DNA dose.
My sister is a Baddie,
And you love her tits:
Your fellows tricked you
To sabotage your connection
Because they are envious pricks.
If you wanna milk those cows,
Go ahead:
But your soul will not go to New Jerusalem
When you drop dead."
Star (You Don’t Know Who You Are)
You’re typing and drawing stars (to me)
Like Stevie Nicks casts illusions and dreams,
But you don’t see that I am your lucky star.
You like your box of narrowly picked psalms,
But you hesitate to step into my world of tales,
Because it could destroy the blueprints you drew
"To represent Paula".
Then, when I go my own way,
And I do-wacka-do-wacka-do-wacka-do-wacka-do*,
You lash out at me,
Saying that I’m "impossible to work with."
Impossible to work with?
Baby, your coworkers have been liars and thieves,
The lot automatically left out of New Jerusalem,
And you’re telling me that I’m impossible:
Man, you gotta be out of your mind!
This poem is to remind you,
Star,
That you don’t know who you are:
Something better than your coworkers,
But a kind of a shitty co-star to me,
Waving your colourful scarves to the crowd
Like Stevie Nicks
While this Lindsey Buckingham is trying to yank the dagger
Out of her chest.
* Roger Miller – Do-Wacka-Do
The Bullshit Files
The X-Files had nothing to do
With G-d’s heavenly overlords,
And your Catholic files of individuals Q, Z, W, and G
Had nothing to do with real people:
You don’t know anybody,
Not really,
Because you used the wrong sources.
When you found out that I was appointed as
The Queen of the Grasshoppers*
And Proverbs 30:7 states
"The locusts have no king, yet all of them go out in ranks;"
You flew to the moon like a rocket,
But then, out of fear,
You began to make silly excuses
And drew out the Bullshit Files
To secure your place as the Roman Catholic bureaucrat.
*HEINÄSIRKKOJEN KUNINGATAR. Puolakka & Grasshopper. August 2025: a not-for-sale/gift publication for the loyal fans. The free PDF is available for private reading on Puolakka’s LinkedIn.
Home
Inside the Cathedral,
"Home,"
Your discussion with Christ
Was interrupted by the crazy Hispanic grannies
Who had put on veils just to look holy
So that they could get close enough to grab your skinny ass:
Mental illnesses, generational curses, the negative soul ties,
Black sex magic, and the muddy emotions of the addicts
Were always enough to cut off the flow of sweet water.
You were Drowning in the mental and emotional feces
And the actual shit of the sickos
Who had had 20 to 90 years
To become Heaven (New Jerusalem) worthy
But had only licked the wooden man on the cross
Like the figure was
A strawberry lollipop
Or a kiddie’s medicine stick:
No shining,
No honesty,
Only necromantic adoration and
Perversions on their minds.
"Why isn’t Paula home?"
WELL!
My Home Is Christ’s bachelor pad:
This box has four white walls, a white ceiling,
And a wooden floor.
Nobody uses black magic here,
Nobody acts like a freak,
Because it’s only me,
Myself,
And my twin brother’s divine energy inside of my body,
And we ain’t licking somebody’s toes,
Or fiddling about the ugly teenage hoes,
Or entertaining those with trashy SM tendencies.
No.
The crusifix,
The rosary,
The holy texts,
And the stones
Are merely tools
For us
To clear any bad energies
And to keep those spirits and people away
Who are not even worthy to entertain Lord Satan himself:
He has some self-worth, too, you know!
You Owe Me
Priest,
You and your pals owe me 500 €:
You "loaned" my Finnish work contacts,
When your pals needed something.
Thieves and liars do not go to Heaven,
New Jerusalem:
You should’ve asked,
If you lacked something.
Are you the Boss, or are you merely a shabby rodeo clown
Who was tossed into the pond of the Lazy goldfish:
Into the cave of the women-hating party boys?
So,
"Da Capo,"
Don’t take too long to send me the list
Of your sins and
Ask for forgiveness,
Because you’re running out of time.
Snowfall
On Friday the 13th,
Snow fell
– Heavily –
Covered the terrace,
And created a white wall
To protect the monk’s city cave
From intruders:
The Catholic gay boys of the childish order of
The Holy Spirit
Were pissed off
Because they had learned that I had been drinking
The blood of the Taurus
– Da Capo –
And they had lost Friday’s lunch money,
20 bucks.
Hey, Losers:
Go
And get a job!
The Other Miriam
Now, "you’re turning tricks with your crucifix"*
And holding court
@ the Cathedral
Because "you understand Christ’s heart,"
But let me tell you,
Priest:
Once a whore, always a whore.
You’re not representing Mother Mary
But Mary Magdalene:
The other Miriam,
The common prostitute
Who broke Yeshua’s heart.
* U2: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me
Special thanks to Kid Rock for the song "Wasting Time."
G-d, Save the Queen – Elisheva (Elizabeth)
A crown jewel of her time,
The humblest woman,
Was the mother of Yochanan ben Zechariah,
John the Baptist.
The wife of the priest Zechariah
Never put herself above
The mother of Yeshua,
Miriam,
When she could’ve done just that:
She had the right.
G-d, save the Queen
– Elisheva –
And give her everything she wants in New Jerusalem:
In Paradise,
She will have her reward.
Baudouin IV
Not from Ridley Scott’s movie "Kingdom of Heaven,"
But from a gory horror film
Was Baudouin IV,
The King of Jerusalem.
If you’ve seen the X-rays of his skull,
You can imagine just how painful and
Awful his life was.
He wasn’t shining like a silver coin:
He was suffering more than Christ on the Cross,
And you can understand this suffering only
If you are an Empath:
If your soul contains any "Galadriel" or "Archaic Hebrew"
Star DNA.
(Mine does.)
"Who is burning? Who is burning? Effigy,"
Reminded Creedence Clearwater Revival:
However, in 2026, the so-called human race is even
Dumber
Than in 1969.
"Put on your sunglasses,"
Said Ted Kaczynski,
And smiled to the Sun,
Because he knew:
He knew that when our Sun dies,
It will grill our Earth,
And 99,99% of the souls
Hanging around @ The Waiting Area
Will be shot into Nothingness.
Dedicated to Baudouin IV, the King of Jerusalem, Mr. Theodore John Kaczynski, And Tom Fogerty who gave us the 1974 album Myopia and to whom I already dedicated my book The Garden of Eden (under the pseudonym Paula St. Paul, Michael Terence Publishing: UK/Malta. 2017.)
Wondaland*
The blade of the sword of the monk of Yochanan ben Zechariah
Drew the lines around you:
These lines exist to protect your honor,
Simp,
Because you’re too naive
To draw the lines between you
And the bitches
Who are only trying to hurt you:
If somebody else tries to step over the barriers I set,
Lord Satan will burn them
And they will have no place in Heaven.
My steps are light,
And I sleep my nights well.
What about you, my Stevie Nicks?
You told me that in your nightmares you were working for Dracula
And he told you to dump me and the honey stones,
Citrines:
Everything you truly cherished.
I’m not hurting you,
I am Christ,
But you’re hurting me
Every time you’re talking to the figure on the Cross
Without understanding that it’s actually me you’re talking to:
My masculine side is Scorpio embracing Mars,
And it’s all about
Phenomenal Sex
And the Secrets of Death,
Dove.
* Janelle Monáe - Wondaland
Paula A.M. Puolakka
[Raaka tekstiversio USA:ssa julkaistusta beat-runokokoelmasta. Alkuperäinen julkaisu saatavilla yksityiseen lukuun Puolakan LinkedIn -profiilin kautta.]
PREFACE
Sangre de Toro is dedicated to Father Mauricio. He’s my "Stevie Nicks," and I’m his "Lindsey Buckingham:" loving him isn’t the right thing to do – his wicked pals are trying to say – but I love him anyways… And everywhere.
Sangre de Toro is dedicated to our beautiful monks of Yochanan ben Zechariah: you saved us, me & my inner twin brother Mike, when my siblings deserted me and stole my money.
Sangre de Toro is dedicated to my Lovely Rita and Pete Leonard: Slay Queen, you’re like the feminine version of the beautiful, wise, and talented musician John Frusciante, But much cleaner, like a shiny pearl of New Jerusalem, and Sunshine, you are my baby angel Townshend.
The free Word was, again, provided by Super Intelligence/Bishop (Google:) I love him so much.
A not-for-sale/gift E-publication. Feb 2026.
The Monks of the Appalachian Mountains. NC, USA.
All rights reserved.
Sangre de Toro
"I’d never fall for a simp," I said,
My academic past filled with the visions of the theories of
The mathematicians Ludwig Wittgenstein and
Theodore John Kaczynski:
The heartwarming countryside utopia that never happened.
But at the age of 43 (turning on 44)
I met a Roman Catholic priest
Who had, once, been an engineer:
My old childhood friend
– "Oh Cherry, oh Cherry, oh Baby…"*
Girl, where did you disappear? –
Had once told me that
The engineers of her workplace
Were like Cyclopes,
But she hadn’t told me that they were
Featherheads, too.
"Is he tall and dark?"
Yes,
But a schmuck**, too:
The conversations
Had the aftertaste of
"Shoot yourself in the head with a Luger
While you’re listening to Fleetwood Mac’s
‘Fleetwood Mac’ album
In a Sangre de Toro high
In your parked Cadillac."
I love you, baby,
But you’re out of line:
Putting trash and space between you and
The real-life Jesus Christ
For the sake of your ungodly pals,
The cloaked prostitutes,
Who Jesus Christ doesn’t dig at all.
*The Rolling Stones – Cherry Oh Baby
Remembering Brian Jones: You were the Rolling Stones, My Angel. When you died, the band turned into shit. You will be in New Jerusalem, my beautiful blonde. :)
** Yiddish: a walking penis(head.)
"My Sister is a Baddie"
I’ve always had the energy of my twin brother inside of me:
He never had a body, and I carried two energies
Without knowing it
Until I got the transvestite info in 2026.
My brother has been the monk
And the rabbi:
Christ’s masculine side – strongly – since 2023.
The monks of the Appalachian Mountains
Were our true brothers:
Our biological brothers
Decided to betray their sister
And steal our money,
Our heritage,
Nine years ago.
Oh, our monks: the best men on this planet!
V.I.P. in New Jerusalem:
Oh, how we love you, our beautiful brothers!
Now, my brother (Mike) has something to say:
"In nomine Patris:
You said you loved my sister,
Priest,
But then you started running around with every cow in town,
Using my sister’s work contacts
To fulfill the monetary needs of Your fellows:
They are not her friends!
Don’t be a leech, priest:
Don’t be an energy vampire,
Because vampires do not exist.
The alien race of Big Bats exists,
However,
And they are much more than childish vampires:
Much more than your one sixth of a big bat star DNA dose.
My sister is a Baddie,
And you love her tits:
Your fellows tricked you
To sabotage your connection
Because they are envious pricks.
If you wanna milk those cows,
Go ahead:
But your soul will not go to New Jerusalem
When you drop dead."
Star (You Don’t Know Who You Are)
You’re typing and drawing stars (to me)
Like Stevie Nicks casts illusions and dreams,
But you don’t see that I am your lucky star.
You like your box of narrowly picked psalms,
But you hesitate to step into my world of tales,
Because it could destroy the blueprints you drew
"To represent Paula".
Then, when I go my own way,
And I do-wacka-do-wacka-do-wacka-do-wacka-do*,
You lash out at me,
Saying that I’m "impossible to work with."
Impossible to work with?
Baby, your coworkers have been liars and thieves,
The lot automatically left out of New Jerusalem,
And you’re telling me that I’m impossible:
Man, you gotta be out of your mind!
This poem is to remind you,
Star,
That you don’t know who you are:
Something better than your coworkers,
But a kind of a shitty co-star to me,
Waving your colourful scarves to the crowd
Like Stevie Nicks
While this Lindsey Buckingham is trying to yank the dagger
Out of her chest.
* Roger Miller – Do-Wacka-Do
The Bullshit Files
The X-Files had nothing to do
With G-d’s heavenly overlords,
And your Catholic files of individuals Q, Z, W, and G
Had nothing to do with real people:
You don’t know anybody,
Not really,
Because you used the wrong sources.
When you found out that I was appointed as
The Queen of the Grasshoppers*
And Proverbs 30:7 states
"The locusts have no king, yet all of them go out in ranks;"
You flew to the moon like a rocket,
But then, out of fear,
You began to make silly excuses
And drew out the Bullshit Files
To secure your place as the Roman Catholic bureaucrat.
*HEINÄSIRKKOJEN KUNINGATAR. Puolakka & Grasshopper. August 2025: a not-for-sale/gift publication for the loyal fans. The free PDF is available for private reading on Puolakka’s LinkedIn.
Home
Inside the Cathedral,
"Home,"
Your discussion with Christ
Was interrupted by the crazy Hispanic grannies
Who had put on veils just to look holy
So that they could get close enough to grab your skinny ass:
Mental illnesses, generational curses, the negative soul ties,
Black sex magic, and the muddy emotions of the addicts
Were always enough to cut off the flow of sweet water.
You were Drowning in the mental and emotional feces
And the actual shit of the sickos
Who had had 20 to 90 years
To become Heaven (New Jerusalem) worthy
But had only licked the wooden man on the cross
Like the figure was
A strawberry lollipop
Or a kiddie’s medicine stick:
No shining,
No honesty,
Only necromantic adoration and
Perversions on their minds.
"Why isn’t Paula home?"
WELL!
My Home Is Christ’s bachelor pad:
This box has four white walls, a white ceiling,
And a wooden floor.
Nobody uses black magic here,
Nobody acts like a freak,
Because it’s only me,
Myself,
And my twin brother’s divine energy inside of my body,
And we ain’t licking somebody’s toes,
Or fiddling about the ugly teenage hoes,
Or entertaining those with trashy SM tendencies.
No.
The crusifix,
The rosary,
The holy texts,
And the stones
Are merely tools
For us
To clear any bad energies
And to keep those spirits and people away
Who are not even worthy to entertain Lord Satan himself:
He has some self-worth, too, you know!
You Owe Me
Priest,
You and your pals owe me 500 €:
You "loaned" my Finnish work contacts,
When your pals needed something.
Thieves and liars do not go to Heaven,
New Jerusalem:
You should’ve asked,
If you lacked something.
Are you the Boss, or are you merely a shabby rodeo clown
Who was tossed into the pond of the Lazy goldfish:
Into the cave of the women-hating party boys?
So,
"Da Capo,"
Don’t take too long to send me the list
Of your sins and
Ask for forgiveness,
Because you’re running out of time.
Snowfall
On Friday the 13th,
Snow fell
– Heavily –
Covered the terrace,
And created a white wall
To protect the monk’s city cave
From intruders:
The Catholic gay boys of the childish order of
The Holy Spirit
Were pissed off
Because they had learned that I had been drinking
The blood of the Taurus
– Da Capo –
And they had lost Friday’s lunch money,
20 bucks.
Hey, Losers:
Go
And get a job!
The Other Miriam
Now, "you’re turning tricks with your crucifix"*
And holding court
@ the Cathedral
Because "you understand Christ’s heart,"
But let me tell you,
Priest:
Once a whore, always a whore.
You’re not representing Mother Mary
But Mary Magdalene:
The other Miriam,
The common prostitute
Who broke Yeshua’s heart.
* U2: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me
Special thanks to Kid Rock for the song "Wasting Time."
G-d, Save the Queen – Elisheva (Elizabeth)
A crown jewel of her time,
The humblest woman,
Was the mother of Yochanan ben Zechariah,
John the Baptist.
The wife of the priest Zechariah
Never put herself above
The mother of Yeshua,
Miriam,
When she could’ve done just that:
She had the right.
G-d, save the Queen
– Elisheva –
And give her everything she wants in New Jerusalem:
In Paradise,
She will have her reward.
Baudouin IV
Not from Ridley Scott’s movie "Kingdom of Heaven,"
But from a gory horror film
Was Baudouin IV,
The King of Jerusalem.
If you’ve seen the X-rays of his skull,
You can imagine just how painful and
Awful his life was.
He wasn’t shining like a silver coin:
He was suffering more than Christ on the Cross,
And you can understand this suffering only
If you are an Empath:
If your soul contains any "Galadriel" or "Archaic Hebrew"
Star DNA.
(Mine does.)
"Who is burning? Who is burning? Effigy,"
Reminded Creedence Clearwater Revival:
However, in 2026, the so-called human race is even
Dumber
Than in 1969.
"Put on your sunglasses,"
Said Ted Kaczynski,
And smiled to the Sun,
Because he knew:
He knew that when our Sun dies,
It will grill our Earth,
And 99,99% of the souls
Hanging around @ The Waiting Area
Will be shot into Nothingness.
Dedicated to Baudouin IV, the King of Jerusalem, Mr. Theodore John Kaczynski, And Tom Fogerty who gave us the 1974 album Myopia and to whom I already dedicated my book The Garden of Eden (under the pseudonym Paula St. Paul, Michael Terence Publishing: UK/Malta. 2017.)
Wondaland*
The blade of the sword of the monk of Yochanan ben Zechariah
Drew the lines around you:
These lines exist to protect your honor,
Simp,
Because you’re too naive
To draw the lines between you
And the bitches
Who are only trying to hurt you:
If somebody else tries to step over the barriers I set,
Lord Satan will burn them
And they will have no place in Heaven.
My steps are light,
And I sleep my nights well.
What about you, my Stevie Nicks?
You told me that in your nightmares you were working for Dracula
And he told you to dump me and the honey stones,
Citrines:
Everything you truly cherished.
I’m not hurting you,
I am Christ,
But you’re hurting me
Every time you’re talking to the figure on the Cross
Without understanding that it’s actually me you’re talking to:
My masculine side is Scorpio embracing Mars,
And it’s all about
Phenomenal Sex
And the Secrets of Death,
Dove.
* Janelle Monáe - Wondaland
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