Marilyn Monroe / Monarch Program Poetry

The Surgeon Story is a text written in poem form by Monroe where she describes being cut open by Lee Strasberg and her psychiatrist Margaret Hohenberg. While some describe this story as Marilyn’s recollection of a nightmare, other researchers claim that it is actually a description of a mind control session.

Best finest surgeon—Strasberg
to cut me open which I don’t mind since Dr. H
has prepared me—given me anaesthetic
and has also diagnosed the case and
agrees with what has to be done—
an operation—to bring myself back to
life and to cure me of this terrible dis-ease
whatever the hell it is—(…)

Strasberg cuts me open after Dr. H gives me
anesthesia and tries in a medical way to comfort me  –
everything in the room is WHITE in fact I can’t even see anyone just white objects –

they cut me open – Strasberg with Hohenberg’s ass.
and there is absolutely nothing there—
Strasberg is
deeply disappointed but more even—
academically amazed
that he had made such a mistake. He
thought there was going
to be so much—more than he had ever
dreamed possible …
instead there was absolutely nothing—
devoid of
every human living feeling thing—
the only thing
that came out was so finely cut sawdust—like out of a raggedy ann doll—and the sawdust
spills
all over the floor & table and Dr. H is
puzzled
because suddenly she realizes that this is a
new type case. The patient … existing
of complete emptiness
Strasberg’s dreams & hopes for theater
are fallen.
Dr. H’s dreams and hopes for a permanent
psychiatric cure
is given up—Arthur is disappointed—
let down.

In this odd and disturbing story, Monroe describes being drugged and cut open by her psychiatrists. She writes that she “didn’t mind the operation” because she was “prepared”. Was she dissociating? There is also mention of her seeing “only white” which might refer to sensory deprivation – a method used in MK Ultra programming.

Once cut open, the doctors only found “finely cut sawdust” inside of her “like out of a raggedy ann doll”. These are the typical words of an MK slave who have completely lost touch with their true core personality. Marilyn perceives herself as an “empty” doll.

According to Jason Kennedy, a member of Marilyn’s family, the Surgeon’s Story describes Mind Control techniques such as sensory deprivation and the administration of dissociative anesthetic drugs.

From: https://hollywoodsubliminals.wordpress.com/project-monarch/sex-kitten

When Abuse Is a Child’s Normal

**trigger warning: abuse description**

If there had been a safe place for me as a child, what would I have said? I didn’t know sexual abuse was wrong. I only knew it caused me physical pain and made me want to hide away. It sent me far from this earth place, to other dimensions, so I could endure it.

I didn’t know being beaten was wrong. It was my normal. I had to be stripped of my sin. I was a bad child. All children were born bad. If only I could learn to be good, then maybe the beatings would stop.

I didn’t know demons weren’t real. They lurked in shadows waiting to jump into me and make me do horrible things kids do, like laugh or play, cry and want their mother and make me loud, even though I was deaf. If I sat through enough demon casting out sessions, endure the fistfuls of hair pulling, face slapping, pinching and screaming, maybe the demons would leave me alone.

When torture is a child’s normal, what do they view as worse than that? What is there to tell someone; if there even is someone to tell?

I would one day find out that demons are real. The only difference is… They’re human.

S.C.

Death Is Not Permanent 

Are you afraid?” Someone asked me today. “People die for the truth, yanno.”

Death. If this is the only thing to fear then, no, I am not afraid.  For me, death is never permanent. 

There are little echoes of programming that come in as subtle, cynical whispers.

No one really… Gives a shit.”

and so the argument begins

Programming: “You’re crazy.”

Me: “Fuck off.

Programming:!”No one gives a shit.”

Me: “Fuck off.

And I tell those little doubt programs that come alive to try and stifle our truth or create nervousness or any negative energy that the handlers can feed off of to Fuck Off.

Some will say, “Just love them.”

Not I. I’m a warrior. I take out a verbal pistol and blast them to so many pieces they can’t regain their voice.

I love myself through a lot. Programming isn’t to be loved into non-existence. It’s to be shattered with the same severity with which it split me into a million tiny pieces they could pick up at will.

Except they never can figure out how to completely exterminate some of us. We simply are too strong. They certainly never conceived that so many of us would gather our own shards and make beautiful art of ourselves. 

I am strong. I am a warrior for the unveiling of truths. While sleepers watch the tube, like zombies, I’m preparing for phase two.

A friend said its ended. We are ascending no matter what, and I agree. It’s World War III, and everyone says it’s the Illuminati.

I say it’s you and me. It’s every individual who wakes up and sees. That’s the true battle. Not bombs in the Middle East and staged genocides to keep the sleepers being fear food for the Kabal. No. It is inside of every single human. That’s where the war is as we fight to stay alive long enough to shake a few more awake.

So the answer is no. I’m not afraid. I am ready. I know my truth. I don’t care if it scares you or even if you believe me. The ones who do. They matter. My critics are the non-factors.

We are the calm before the storm. We are rising into our new home.

The Solitary Empath

You might be a tsunami or you could be the raft to safety. There are phrases, trigger situations that make her step back. She finds balance with the sea and forest. Rarely with other humans. So often taken personally, she is sometimes shy and many times wary. She knows what she carries; what she protects. One wrong step, and she is quietly observing again.

She doesn’t follow leaders. She is her own guru. She is a solitary yearning of scribing while others are trying to find answers they don’t believe they already know. You will rarely truly understand her. You will create your own perception of her, and it will become your view; your truth of her.

She has almost reached exceptions of exceptional aloneness. Shift change. She walks the road one foot at a time. From her perch, hovering above this planet, she listens. One sentence can change her elation to disappointment; hoping to expanded realization of situations. She now feels distant and suddenly in a spiraling reverse. It’s all in the language. Words say everything. She swiftly re-stabilizes her skies.

Humans with the need to believe in anything, follow something, be part of a sect, outside of the truth of who they are; some forever from the gray; when doing good comes with accolades instead of silent appreciation. It’s a sad state of a nation; planetary devastation, and she feels each heart caving.

I am here holding hers. Reminding her of home where there are no religions or rituals, no groups separating one from another or elevating egos; no clashing perspectives; just being in a space so pure, assessment is not needed.

So she keeps her eyes on the color, to swim in the gel like liquid again, each stroke a whisper against her skin. She is reminded that she chose this and is so close to finishing it. She breathes deeply, exhaling her humanness.

Weary a bit, we see in her eyes when they leak water to seep, ejecting the pain and programming. There are volumes held in boxes. Some are scrawled. Some are typed. They may get thrown in a trash pile when she dies. But she’s leaving them behind, in a hidden conclave of trees. Where maps must be followed to find them. There will be laughter, even in death.

Then you will know. You will discover the life of the Otherkin, earthly hybrid, walking among the human ones, unnoticed and undetected save the green reflected in her emotional eyes.

~K~

The Queen of Nothing 

I cannot recall softness on my face, tender mother hands, holding eye contact with me as she said, “You are a Princess”.

I grew up to be the Queen of Nothing.

Oh, you may say, what a horrible scene. I do agree. You see, I was always told I was Nothing. I was seen and not heard. I was hurt. I was torn. I was ripped. I was split and split and split. I was never a laughing little princess with butterfly wings catching wind behind me. No. I do not know being that free.

Once, I thought maybe I’d be worthy enough of white picket fences and faraway fairy tales, being adored and protected, but instead I was infected. I was left abused, my life confused; bruises on my neck; threatened; time to run again.

There are pieces of me retrieved. I have glued them together into nothing. I have painted canvases and filled paper binders with the words of my absence. I have tried the best I could and found out it is not enough.

They named me Nothing; invisible to all but the demons, and they praised their Nothing to show their evilness as their voices rose in chorus.

And I, grew into more Nothingness.

I have been spat on, faced clawed with the worst of words. I have watched my own flesh and blood turn love into fire, burning down the castles I had wished to leave behind.

I grew up to be the Queen of Nothing for I am the Queen of Me.

I am Nothing. Nothing is Perfect. Therefore I am Perfect.

The Three Black Hats

I am on an air mattress.  It is covered in a cotton sheet.  I am stretched out on my back beneath a soft fleece blanket. I am in the end room of a double wide trailer.  The trailer is nestled in a quiet neighborhood which is dense with trees.  There are no traffic sounds.  I am falling into sleep slowly.  

I may have passed time, into the REM and back out again because all I know is that I am lucidly awake.  I feel a prickling energy all over my body.  There is no pain.  It is electric.  Every hair on my skin is moving.  I can feel each folical.  There is a source pull.  It is coming from the large window on my left.  

I wanted to cover that window when I first arrived here, telling my nephew that it made me uncomfortable because it had only a sheer shell of a curtain. 

“Someone could stand out there and see me.”  I felt vulnerable. 

He assured me, attempting to comfort my cognition.

“It’s cool, Auntie.  No one around here will do that. Just don’t dance around nekkid.”
He did a hillbilly skip and we laughed, but I decided that this weekend I’m going to buy some thick curtains to cover this window. 

Now, on the same evening, I am here on this mattress feeling frozen with fear, having awakened in what seems to be the morning hours, two or three am.  I am wishing Inhad not waited.  I should have gone right then and bought curtains. 

 I know that I need to look at the window to be sure that I’m not just imagining things, but I am terrified to turn my head.  I am still, focused on my breathing.  I know someone is there.  I know it without a doubt.  Still, I have to see to be sure.  I finally move my head very, very slowly and just slightly enough to the left to give me an adequate view to see the window.  If there is someone there they shouldn’t be able to see through the darkness if I move slowly and just enough. 

Through the sheer of the curtains I see them.  Three men.  Side by side.  They are no more than five feet tall, each the exact same height.  They are dressed identical in dark suits and matching dark overcoats.  They have on button up shirts with maroon ties.  They wear black hats, like Hollisters, with maroon ribbons that match their ties.

Their hands are behind their backs.  I do not move. It crosses my mind that they may notice I am awake, but it seems insignificant.  They know already.  I slowly move my head back to the middle of the pillow. They are soulless.  They were not looking at me directly  but rather into the room as if awaiting orders from someone.  My heart is pounding rapidly, and I am dissociating.

I tell myself I am silly, but I am too terrified to glance again.  This will only confirm that I am not imagining all of this.  I am focused on going back to sleep.  I cannot be awake for what is going to happen next. 

“Go back to sleep.”  I urge myself. 

“Go back to sleep.” I say it over and over. 

I close my eyes. I think that I must go back to sleep so that I won’t feel what they are going to do to me.  I make myself laugh inside my head.  What a silly notion.  This shit’s not real.  Yet, beneath my attempts to convince myself, I know they have the ability to take one step and walk through that wall.  Then there will be no escaping.  They’ll be in the house.  

I tell myself that is also a ridiculous notion.  Because they’re reading my thoughts and know all of my plans.  So the best I can do for myself is to go back to sleep and get through it.  So I drift back down into the chasm of REM.

In the morning I will wonder if my memory was real or if it was really a dream.  I will wonder still. 

(Dreamt in 2010, Olympia, Wa)

The Death of Ms. Hagley

I thought I’d feel reprieve;
some kind of soul relief
to find out she died,
crucified by slow breaths;
a painful death,

almost as scarring as
the beatings she left
on my extremities,
days in school while
everyone stared at me.

What does this mean
that I feel anger
she got to leave
before she stood and
faced accountability?

They’re all escaping,
age taking them down
minute by minute,
ticking time bombs,
their lips pursed with
the silence they’ve rehearsed.

Want to make a confession
before you try to enter
your imaginary heaven?

Did no wrong so
you’ve held on
to the denial,
shame,
the victim blame with
wings transparent
if not invisible as
they don’t exist
when you are
birthed from evil.

Into the dark matter sink,
buried in the
absence of light.

You go become midnight,
thick and airless,
no lungs or blood cells;
nothingness;
that be your hell.

I try to feel some
kind of way but I’m
filled with memories,
flat and frayed.

I’ll leave behind
written manifestos
of what you all did and
never confessed to.

With my head held high,
I will always tell the truth.
Now I can speak your name.
So the world can truly know you.

This be my sadistic story;
the one I deserve to scream
while the blaming arrives asking
what about her family?

I reply
what about me?

v.k poetry