Tuesday, October 6, 2009

I Didn't Mean to Bash America but She was Drunk and Out of Line.

The writing seems to be very clearly plastered across the wall, and the T-shirts, and the music videos, and the television news and adverts, and the newspapers, and the modes of official speech. You may have to search among lots of other distracting, useless information and messages, or have the proper spectacles on, to read the script. I'm talking about the non-roseate glasses worn by the somewhat rare, informed citizen of this country who is not a self-absorbed, teat-guzzling donkey wage-earner. To see the writing, you do not necessarily have to have access to the internet, but it's only there that you can exercise any amount of control over the data being entered into your hard drive, as opposed to letting data flow neatly, one-way, into your mind-drive from a dodgy TV screen which knows all the petty secrets of human thought and impulse, and sucks its life from them. If not for your pick-pocket fondling by the television that knows you so well and is there for you always, you might have no sex life, many of you. The TV and its disease-carrying alpha waves are destroying your humanity, what is left of it. The TV is an altar meant for child sacrifice.

(Our Lady of Gaga, pictured above, as below, demonstrating that one has to suffer, and even sacrifice themselves on live television, for their art. Interestingly, one of the earliest etymological origins of the word "celebrity" comes from the Old French, meaning "solemn rite or ceremony." And of course a "star" is a heavenly body. As below, Our Lady of Ritual Gibberish, hanging out inside a Zodiac Costume.)

If, if you feel pity and contempt at the same time for the imbeciles, for these other rose-tinted mind-cripples, wardens, executives, security analysts, lewd choreographers and wealthy pornographers surrounding you, pity and contempt for their drugged inability to see the obvious when they are being practically raped by it, then you shouldn't be ashamed. You can't be criticized. You can't be reasonably called "wild-eyed" just for having opened them, or when you are in fact squinting against the obscene, blinding glare which the awful blingbling state of things gives off.

("Jay-Hova's" esoteric Bling-bling pictured above; note the exacting position of his eye)

(More god-damned esoteric mind-controlling cuteness from Madonna's high-priestess Kabbala-spawn, below. She has eyes to see, you know, even if they seem empty.)

If you have a vague sense of an impending News-Real terror that will be encased in lies and spawned by the sick power-lust of Judaeo-Anglo-Saxon reaction, (and certainly not by any jihadist revolutionary sentiment) then a bloody hearty congratulations to you, indeed. You are not as fucking stupid as you should be...as it was intended that you be. You are more than your vanity and your need for a plastic peace of mind. If you smell something foul in the formula we are plugged into and which has been slipped into our nippled bottles, and that a war with Iran or mass swine flu vaccinations are not the wisest or most humane courses for America, then you should pat yourself on the back and become a diplomat, or a medical doctor. But do not marry or have children or love anyone deeply because these weaknesses will eventually be used against you. If you do embark on a mission of righteousness and truth-telling, remember to declare openly and often that you would never commit suicide, so that when you are murdered, the newspapers can't as effectively lie about your demise. Above all, should you ever rise to a position of real influence and yet still choose to publicly attack or contradict the official state version of events, then you must avoid flying in any sort of airplane, no matter what.

I tend to feel there are no "Muslim extremists" alive today who are not either fake or merely reacting, as they are the target or pawns of extremely belligerent and mostly indescribable evils being practiced by the Occult extremists of the West, by the godless Capitalist Radicals in their Mystery Schools: Those same inbred sociopaths that put all that alchemical nonsense of eyes, pyramids, numerology and bizarre talismanic images of the Towers collapsing on your money as if it were a folding Tarot card, and who are methodically devaluing that money, and who would like nothing better than to abduct and rape your children because it is for them such a pleasant pastime, when they are not planning invasions and fake terror attacks. The same spooky devils who use the MTV Video Music Awards and the Super Bowl half-time "shows" as staging grounds for not very well-concealed high-Occult ceremonies and magic rituals, with mock blood sacrifices and the baring of so many bejeweled pop-star titties as to make the mind reel over the concept of "malfunction," if not coincidence. There never was an Islam-o-fascist as frightening as the devil worshippers, neo-nazis, Kabbalists and wet-mouthed sadists that we call our celebrities, elected representatives, and clergy, whom we heed and obey like so many lobotomized serfs or redrobed acolytes. Even now I obey their orders, committing my objectionable opinions to their permanent, clever trap, the internet.

With America's noted taste for tradition and ritual, we now acknowledge the 70 year anniversary of the day we tested some technology on Japan, a terrific weapon of mass destruction which has guided our noble destiny since that day of Primal Shock and Awe, or primal "Shekinah," if you prefer.

On August 6, 1945, we fucked up Japan terrible bad, for generations, and it was more a kind of controlled experiment than a military act. In our mighty flying craft, we flew over the old island autocracy, a land full of suffering serfs, and dropped these brand-new market products and wonders of science on it. According to the court history of the incident(s), we did this because we were at war with the Japanese People, an involvement we are told arose from the devious yellow devils' decision to entangle us in another undesired world war, when they stabbed our broad, honorable back in Hawaii, our beautiful lily pad to the Orient, wrested rightfully from the Spanish, another grasping race of religious fanatics who also once surprised us with a surprise back-stabbing in foreign harbors, back in 1898. There was no democratic vote in 1945: it was the Executive Branch that carried out the mass execution of children, Taoist priests, Allied POW's, and every breathing house-pet within range of a poisoned atmosphere, but our Western-Civ and American history texts do indicate that each of these seal-clubbing vermin deserved it, because they were definitely sleazy back-stabbing fanatics with slanted eyes suggestive, reminiscent, and provocative of evil. Then, as now, our military intelligence was simply not competent enough to prevent massive surprise attacks, whether delivered by entire, disappearing Japanese Navies or by a small gang of homicidal Muslims from South Florida armed with box-cutters and a remarkably clunky plan that reeked of Hollywood. It is that fundamental, institutional incompetence, we have therefore perhaps reluctantly learned, that forces us in the end to resort to more brutish and proactive means of defending our way of life, etc.---Means such as atomic bombs, bio-weapons, continuous wars of aggression, and the various methods we have of turning recognizably human beings into creatures like this...

And didn't we teach them, didn't we spread democracy and not terror by melting and poisoning and wiping out in an instant 140,000 mostly non-combatant types, and then doing it again three days later, on a slightly more modest scale? Wasn't the sacrifice worth the immeasurable prosperity we and our professional sports leagues have enjoyed since ww2? What right do any protesting god-damn Nuns have to object to an act of courage and valor and calculated life-saving which brought an end to a tragic, unloved world war? These thankless virgins could not protest without F-16s even now shooting the hell and the blasphemy out of foreign dictatorships, without having themselves been nourished by the blood of the fanatics of Falluja and Nagasaki, and Jonestown, Guyana. It's true. And yet the crazy nuns protested once again when the military was called upon to soak the lands of Vietnam and Laos and Cambodia with fancy toxins and napalm and millions of bombs and scores of redneck CIA assassins, and more innocent blood than can ever be washed away or remembered.

Undesirable carnage is demanded by the struggles for Democracy and the primacy of our Occult Mystery Religions. We have seen this from the movie, "300," and from the nakedly self-evident successes of our ongoing holy war against countries with no military force whatsoever. One can't very well savor something as diffuse and ethereal as Kabbalistic/Western individual liberty without getting concrete and dirty by chopping off the fanatical monotheist arms and hands of the barbarian, which are regularly trying to assassinate our liberties and our access to fuel. Remember that these are the same vile extremists who do not want your wife, lover, or girlfriend to wear pants, or receive diplomas, or give blowjobs without being commanded, or admire Lady Gaga as she seizures around the award stage, shrieking and covered in blood, or, as in her videos, she copulates with some man beneath a mounted goat's head, before murdering him.

It is for this reason, the sheer difficulty of securing religious freedom and democracy in a world of sooty, backwards zealots and dark, hairy despots who despise our goodcleanfun popular culture, that we must steel ourselves and employ every weapon in the Republic's arsenal. No matter how wicked or reminiscent of terrorism. We must flavor the beard of every Mohammedan with our liberal monthly discharge. We must water-board all enemies of the wight-manse free market and of the objectives of the coy astrological paganism of our ruling class, until the enemies are no longer thirsty, until they are bloated with the need to tell us everything about their next surprise and unactionable attack. Those who do not prostrate themselves before the goat skull and the petrodollar will be made to do so, and their comfort will not be considered butt sadistically. The clever use of anthrax is not off-limits, even in the homeland, nor the alchemical power of occult insignia and mega-rituals, sprinkled over the money and throughout the entertainment. Accept that depleted uranium-stuffed munitions are just the thing for the cause, as they have proven deadly to fanatical terrorists in the womb. Eat these stuffed shells, they are magic: they're so filling that your grand-children may never know hunger... It can perhaps be relied on that the embryos hatched by in-theater American soldiers are more durable and resistant to the cancers caused by these powerful weapons, as the embryos' parents have better diets, and are extremely well-vaccinated. We can only hope with our singular united statist optimism that our obedient boys on the battlefields do not succumb to the poisons we're using on them, just as we can only hope that the sorcery bubbling over on our televisions doesn't make too many Crowleys and Bush's, too many Jay-Hova's and Michael Aquino's of our somewhat attentive children. But the odds suggest that we have disfigured many of our future generations already. Hopelessly and in a host of ways, in part because we have turned much of the world into a mass-grave and a toxic dump.

There is one thing about our collective and massive failure to read the writing on the walls and screens and death notices, that gives me reason to be less disgusted. It is the nearly unavoidable state of our blindness. We are esteemed by our masters to be stabled plow-beasts, or laboratory subjects only, and it's for good reason. It's a refined and well-controlled operation. We are subjected to a persistent, organized program of blinkering and eye-gouging, all very scientific. Our diets in everything are finely limited to the things which delight and enervate us, or that can only give us the brief and meaningless enthusiasms of cocaine and speed addicts.

How are we to make sense of anything with Gaga and Jay-Z and the Bush clan and Rupert Murdoch and Rudy Giuliani exerting an influence on the collective mind and heart? When the whole of academia, media, and the intellectual classes insist that 9-11 was an authentic terror attack launched by Muslims and has "changed everything forever," and that we had better toe these absurd, fatally murderous lines if we know what is good for us? When now, because of these treasonous mass murders of 2001, our armies are slaughtering and encouraging the slaughter of innocent people every day in the name of an evil hallucination? There is most certainly an end game strategy at play here, but it is definable, visible only to those with sufficiently focused or interested vision, with "eyes to see." It is never treated in bold-face, in any headline: the occultic end game is only described as if by the microscopic and morbid cautionary script on potent pharmaceuticals that the state mandates some sad anxious child must take, and which script is never intended to be read. The semi-secret blood-Rules of the game are written into an invisible but no less real contract that exists between slave and Master. It is all very much between the lines, while we are taught to take all things literally. One result appears to be that we become schizophrenic, with a bizarre, sublimated taste for the flesh and suffering of our neighbors, which used to be called "cannibalism," and "sadism," but is now merely living in what is called a "free market system." Truly, the market has freedom, and we have mystery diseases, and wars.

Blindness is merely living, getting on with it, in this slave and bordello system. And so we accept having been blinded, warped, pimped and rendered to a very sloppy state of semi-awareness; but to the extent that we were always an unsophisticated species dependent on the dull, reliable satisfactions of herd life, maybe, after all, we can't really be blamed for this compliance, or even for relishing our diet of gruel-thin propaganda and ninety-nine scent bloodburger sandwiches. All we seem to want is consistency---but a thin consistency---and more calories and possessions than we need or deserve. All we seem to want are these things, and for the milk maid to come and relieve all the pressure in our tits and bellies. Then to leave us alone and let us go on chewing and fucking and rubbing ourselves, inside the golden pen.

(Hey, Kids! Can you spot the Baphomet in your favorite Rhianna, Lady Gaga, or Omarion video? Is that what you don't think it is? Could they all just be simple goat-herders?)

...For further illuminating (if glossary) reading on the subject of the arcane and wicked-smelling world of Kabbalistic/Mystical American show business:


and here.

SPECIAL AND IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: Of course, none of this mess about the Kabbalist/esoteric agenda within modern popular entertainment may mean a thing. It could all exist simply to keep us confused and afraid and paranoid, as a kind of fear-based psychological operation, a la the mass murders of 9-11. There is always that possibility, but we are left to judge it all quietly as individuals. The crowd might stone you to death, after all, if you pipe up.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Dear Mr. Lebron James

Dear Mr. LeBron James,

With all due reverence, sir, this is not a fan letter. You are a fine basketball player, true, and world-renowned. Your physical talents are wondrous. But such fame and wondrous ability mean nothing if you continue this way, meek and quiet about politics as you have been, when the people of the United States are in need of a moral savior from the sports world.

It is clear that we can’t count on moral leadership from our politicians. We could literally have an all-star game right now between only those Congressmen who have been ousted from office for gross corruption, thievery, kickbacks, refrigerator-banking, fornication with prostitutes and members of the same sex while claiming heterosexuality, etc. Those who cleverly remain or have not yet been nabbed for buggery and bribery are right now making a great show of a meaningless debate on precisely which way the federal government will gorge itself and its moneyed industrial constituents on the criminally inefficient health care resources of the country, while calling the feast, once again, good for the working classes whom they have wavered between neglecting and poisoning for the past thirty years. They may be doing this only to seem humane or reasonable in advance of the next (surprise!) cooked-up ridiculous reason---this time offered by the Hope and Change Administration---to begin bombing select countries of petrochemical value, who knows? (I don't know, because I am left to figure nearly everything out for myself. One can scarcely trust the collected news media, after all, and without the press in a democracy, we are like so many ignorant, land-bound serfs, you might agree. As some smart carper once said, "the challenge for American newspapers is not to stay in business, it is to stay in journalism.") Or they may be pandering to our health care concerns to show us what a very humane Nanny State looks like, before the implementation of the ulterior Draconian Fascist State they have been patiently planning for generations as we tilled the fields, drove the trucks, served and consumed the meaningless filth of capitalism, and generally wiped our asses with everything good and virtuous. Have you noticed, Mr. James, that in America, under every rock is a magic serpent, coiled within...and coiled about with...the lobes of the symbolic, fetishized, human hybrid brain, and spinal column, and topped by its sacred pineal gland? The caduceus of the master medical priesthood? Yes, me too! We have similar predilections. And we both surely agree that we are lower on the great pole of societal being than anyone who wears an institutional robe. Let's get back to temporal business, though.

Bank and finance reform are not on any of our horizons, Mr. James, nor a reconsideration of the militarist and unconstitutional Bush policy doctrines still in effect, nor some gesture towards reducing the 10-25% unemployment rate, our needlessly huge prison population which is the shame of the world, or even the disgraceful murder rates of south central Los Angeles and other of our blighted cities. You and I have been treated immorally, Mr. James, like fools or blind geriatrics, since well before we were born. We have been scammed continuously by professionals whose great-grandparents were great grifters, themselves.

It is also clear that never before have professional athletes held so much influence over the American mind. We actually subsidize you and your stadiums and facilities from middle school through the pros. We see you everywhere and are saturated with news coverage of your silliest private antics. You relentlessly haunt our culture from dusk till dawn, from winter until fall. And it is worth pointing out that our multitude of officials desperately want us to be distracted from their misdeeds and their growing acquisition and abuse of power, which makes you athletes very useful, indeed. You are one of the highest-paid employees of the Department of Bread and Circuses, Mr. James. But your relationship with our government and your handsomely purchased silence are just symbolic. There is nothing in your current contract that forbids you from speaking out when your government is, say, guilty of devious crimes to include coups and bogus terror attacks, or unspeakably cynical negligence in the face of natural disasters, at least, or complicity in the murder of high level political actors judged too anti-establishment. I am inclined to think JFK, MLK and Leo Ryan were not the last politicians to die under awfully questionable circumstances, in America.

Two NBA players did murmur out against the second heat of the 9-11 Wars for Revenge and Expansion: Misters Foyle of the Warriors and Nash of the Suns, some years ago. In the distant past, athletes were sometimes known to pipe up without an undignified and unmanly fear of losing endorsements that could only make them marginally more obscenely wealthy, but it is possible that these political athletes of old spoke out precisely because they weren’t paid much, and had lots less to lose. Still, Olympic medals are quite valuable at any time, and such symbols were once famously exchanged by black American athletes for the right to make necessary, radical political statements in a time of unjust slaughter-war and domestic repression, just as the Heavyweight Title of the world was once given up in protest. That may be why your own generation of disc-hurlers and bladder-bouncers and flingers is paid such extravagant salaries, by comparison: you appear to be the beneficiary of an astronomical hush-money scheme, so valuable are your services.

There’s a comfortably sitting belief here that sometimes wars are good for economies. Well we are already waging two, at least, and the economy is in the sewer, with a chance of near-collapse. But we both know that some specific, highly-connected sectors of our economy do extremely well in times of war. So at best we are sending soldiers abroad to play deadly dodge ball in support of a hallucination; the worst is almost unprintable.

I’m writing to you because I know how much power you have over my strange country, and because I am one of those people who is completely luke-warm when it comes to Obama and his quaint platform of Hope and Change and Bad-mouthing poor Kanye West, recognizing as I do that our government has continued apace with its elitist, toxic policies and war crimes, even though we are supposed to have left all that behind with the dreadful orator and zero, G. W. Bush, and his mercenary, red-handed handlers. I respect your proven skills at the 3 and 4 over Obama's skillful posturing at the 1 and 2.

Mr. James: Take a stand and join the 9-11 Truth movement or something insanely brave and meaninglessly symbolic like that. From your towering platform tell people about shadow government or, say, the proven and seemingly ineradicable link between the legitimate economy and the black and narco-economies, between intelligence agencies and international drug dealing. Start there. Because these issues are wonderful heuristic devices, and they contain answers and questions that necessarily cover all the political issues and themes under the sun and its worshipers. Wear a black wrist band and throw that hand up after every dunk. If you were to get yourself disappeared, even, imagine the galvanizing effect it would have on the sleepy political will of the American people. At the very least, please make a public declaration that the Global War on Terror is a terrorist fraud and that we should be suspicious of rulership, and not one another and foreigners, so much.

***Editorial Update, July 8, 2010, free-agency season.***

The basketball player known alternately as "King James," "LBJ," and "The Chosen One," has just completed his amusing round of fat-headed playfulness with the NBA fans and GM's of the universe, by choosing to go play for some expansion team on the dirty prong of clubbery and cocaine-huffing known as Florida. As we all understand, Florida and especially Miami, that trans-shipment point of most of the CIA's incoming cocaine, is a filthy place without a shred of virtue or value beyond its vast drug profits. In opting to go play for one of this narco-kingdom's miserable NBA upstarts, Mssr. James has chosen the lowest road possible. It is surely the quickest route to a Scurvy reputation. Americans are supposed to be unanimously opposed to predatory capitalism and unseemly excesses. But for some reason they have not yet voted to eliminate Florida from the union. So now, considering how we worship sporting events and their never-ending seasons, it will be quite unthinkable to eradicate the seeping member of Florida from the American body at large; we adore our celebrities far more than we abhor our filthy grasping dynasties, one learns from reading newspapers. There are a great many Pro ballers in Florida, just as there are a great many strippers.

So it is proper and meet that the author of the above letter to Mssr. James rescinds all the sentiments detailed. If the man from Akron wants to become King of Weaseldom, to conserve his niggling NBA salary wealth within Florida's undemocratic tax system and reject the chance to join one of several reputable teams that might require him to play the game with a spine, then it should be accepted as true that he will never care one tiny whit about ethical political matters. Whosoever shall go play for Riley with those other All-stars cannot have a moral viewpoint, and shouldn't be expected to ever raise his voice beyond anything other than a meek whisper for more endorsements and the advice of Warren Buffet.

***Hot-headed Addendum, June 9, 2010***

This letter from Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert is a fine case study of the insane degree to which America takes its sports fetish.


It is the kind of childish and spiteful venom rarely seen outside of Congress, and Mr. Gilbert will live to regret his ego-driven, mass public indulgence in hasty pudding, just as Warren Buffet's little buddy will regret his own unseemly public feast. Because there is simply nothing wrong with the South Bitch leaving his "hometown" Cleveland team after seven years and repeated failures. In and of itself the move is just business. But the manner of LeBum's announcement and the fact of his choosing "To take his talents to South Beach" are what really do stink, and surely are what drove the Cavs owner to this petulant madness.

But anyway you slice it, LeBum the South Bitch sneered at the soul of basketball for an extended marathon of several weeks, pretending uncertainty, as happy as a dog rolling in shit who has just gobbled the chickens in the coop without anyone the wiser.

You see, the soul of basketball exists in New York City, and nowhere else. The city itself is sheer madness and her people accordingly insane, but one does not piss on the soul of basketball, for anything. The fertile female Mother-soul of New York City, (the world's greatest and arguably most aggrieved city) even the Big Bitch in the harbor herself, prepared the matrimonial bed for you beginning last summer. It was done with ritual and undisguised care. She lay waiting for you, totally in surrender, and you chose to go have a ten-year orgy in Miami with some mindless club tramps with huge butts. You may be a big fool, a typical modern American to whom winning and dominance and gross sensualism is everything, but you are not so stupid that you will fail to realize what you did and how shabbily you pulled it off. You may think just like a good market-raping capitalist, like your friends Jay-Hovah and Mr. Buffet, but the majority do not. We dislike narcissism, uneven fields, and cowardice. It will eventually sink into your fat pirate's skull that you have done something deeply metaphysically wrong, and that your reputation will now drag behind you like a diseased carcass for the rest of your days, despite your excellent genes and titles.

I had a dream of you pissing on Ground Zero in Manhattan last night, but you were squatting as you did this, and you were accompanied by the Queen of England, and you were begging her to piss on you. And there you were, guzzling the royal piss of monarchy as the shrieking mob gathered at the rim of the pit.

*****Disinterested update, today: Lebron James is now entering his second season of Rebirth....in playing for his Hometown Cleveland Cavaliers, a team named in theory after a class of steel-encased aristocrat inbreeders who practiced the tradition of raping the virgin brides of their land-tilling male serfs on the very night of their lowly wedding ceremonies. It was good enough for Charleton Heston and it's good enough for Lebron James.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Magick Scroll

O sweet, filmy banknote,
Whored out, loved, fingered
and sweat for
by 3,512 other souls, on the average,
in your grubby wayfaring span,

O pernicious little exchange symbol,
I worship thee, and the slobber comes.
I genuflect, press ye to my loins,
and pray that you will be mine forever and ever,
with interest.

Sweet gleaming coin!
Where are my coins, gleaming
in the shadows of my soul,
to help me forget that i am a shuffling
zombie, soon to expire in
misery and unaccomplishment,
the weight of a sensory existence made at least neurotic
by the weight of
a well-developed brain,
which itself was acutely responsible for
the conceiving,
developing and legitimizing,
the stamping printing and cutting
of you,
Moneymoneymoney, fiat or backed,
My endlessly reproducing, fuck-mad mother Mammon,
thou vicious munificent Godling,
where are you?
i have searched the couches,
the gutters, the garter belts, with
no luck at all.

You sprang from the mind of man and you have returned to it,
assuredly, for centuries on end, to feed.
you see a good, fat, slow meal in that mind,
and you inhabit it like a spider laying eggs in something freshly murdered.
on account of you, we are worthless.

"..if 416 is not going to eat his sausages, then you can give me the blankets and sleep on the bare mattresses..or you can keep ur blankets, and 416 can stay in the hole another day and try to learn how to eat dirty sausages from the floor when commanded..."

Lucre and specie drive left-wing college students to
participate in humiliating autocratic psychological studies;
and clinical drug trials that
might possibly kill them,
but will certainly increase some vile corporation's profits.

Money has turned many good human beings into lawyers,
politicians, and lobbyists.

The human need for Money will cause a scruffy actor
to take part in a fascist police-training drill,
to willingly play the creepy role
of "an American citizen" who whines,
in his best internment tone,
"I have my rights. I'm an amurrican citizen! Give me water!"
in order to offer the most realistic semblance
of abused common folk to the soldier
that must be trained against his instincts
to round up and persecute his countrymen.

The human lust for money drives liberal actors to accept roles on
TV shows just like "24"

The power of money
to confuse and make rabid animals of men
is evident in the Rap Video.
(you might think there is a perfectly designed infinity machine somewhere
that churns out these Mammon-hugging black men. Well there is: it's located on Madison Avenue and it runs on the limitless american fuel of negroid poverty, neurosis, pride and loneliness.)
flashing, spreading in fan-form, and otherwise
making a kind of aggressive, disdainful love to
dollars is a way of showing
that you have finally cast off slavery and own the
means that lead to power.
But it was the worship of money,
you poor, deluded, motherleaving bastard,
that allowed European men to murder their own souls, capture your ancestors, and
send them by the diseased shipload to their
centuries of shame, agony and debasement.
It was money that gave men the blubbery eloquence and free time
to write pretty sentences
justifying slavery,
so, No, Cuzzin: you have not escaped bondage
until you find something more durable to worship and flaunt

There is strong transformative Magick in the
green talisman.

You want lessons in materialism
and the equal opportunity ravages of money-sickness?
go to the strip club and watch the negro patrons.

Look at you, black man, as you strut around the club,
teaching these sick white rednecks your
backwards black manners:
I see that, except for the craven paleface mimics,
you are the only ones that stand
at the stage and sneeringly fling federal reserve notes
onto the writhing bodies,
insulting them with this direct
gesture that describes
how you feel they can be bought so impersonally, and
how little they are worth.
I have noticed that you and your white lackeys are the only
low-budget Capos
flinging green down with contempt on the dancers,
...As if you were at a slave auction maybe,
or desperate to prove how worthless life is to you.

White men worked very hard to make your ancestors into dogs and you
have worked hard to finish the job
with little acts of macho perversion
such as that.
If you keep this shit up
Black women will eventually find White men attractive, even poor ones.

America is a cage arena built for the express
purpose of allowing Golden Idols
a venue for publicly whipping the shit out of the Most High,
in a land where it could be guaranteed that Mammon
and Vice would supply a swollen, loud, and supportive audience
to goad the murder of god on.

It is in this land that money is privately owned and printed,
and yet the herd still believes money is
under its Treasury department;
it's in america where dollars are secretly Reserve Notes,
where the currency of the kingdom can be decorated with magick
symbols whose ominous portent no citizen understands
or is expected to:
symbols that well reveal the profound, sometimes silent strength money
has had over this land's destiny.

We specifically design our Temples for

If I see another black man
fanning the golden manacles,
those empty bankrupted
federal reserve notes
and ritual occult talismans,
philosophically pissing on the mass graves
of his raped and robbed ancestors,
I'll mutter an impolite curse,
and join Zero Population Growth.

Christian Supplication List, Volume 2

Jesus Christ,
something is rotten in the state of America.
help us to root it out and dispose of it.

i've read of satanic adventures
and young mr. Potter--
but nothing so evil and craven as the
story of our modern national life
has crossed my eyes;
may Christmas pass the land
of Land Rovers over and leave
a smear of shit on her electric gate.
She will get hers without my help, for sure,
the vile, grease-painted hussy;
the crazed, grease-painted hussy!

"My country's Vill-ai-ny,
It's plane for me to seee,
But still i stay..."
there are angles here impossible to measure,
Owls and pentacles,
Pentagons inside of Pentagrams
destined to be damaged through
the dedication of dollars
called reserve notes
that illustrate a prophecy
laying silent in your pockets, niggers all of us together---
drunken, depressed, debased
load-bearers of guilt and evil talismans,
soon to be out of work and purpose, even as vessels,
even as porters.
A nation of overworked weasels
who never knew one moment
without rabies or fear.

a hurricane of blood-soaked shit and murder that
began at the millenium's dawn
and has continued unabated since,
seems like only a troubling breeze
from a distant outhouse
to the lotus-eating zombies
that shuffle across America,
and pewl over her,
and who still cry for revenge against terrorists,
one supposes,
between mouthfuls of brain and milkshake.

Each horrid security and intelligence "failure"...

....and simultaneous right-wing advance,
one upon the other,
is merely a coincidence.
no connections can be made.

the zombies hear an ugly noise
and en masse jerk their heads in the direction of a
great loudspeaker...
some people have managed to hole themselves up in
a great library with broadband,
and have begun broadcasting:
"your government, it may be hard to believe,
is a brotherhood of vampires.
if the real Light of Truth were
ever to shine over the sacred pagan district of
those two venerated white supremacists,
George and Christopher,
all one would see was a throng of outraged, twitching devils,
momentarily blinded,
their game of playing drunken cricket or polo
with a child's battered head, interrupted.
you have been made to consume the filth
of these evil sportsmen,"
says the voice,
"To eat and drink their lies
all your unpitying lives.
You are now almost totally satisfied
with your unwholesome diet of lies, brains,
and dirty sweets.
You do not want to eat each other
but you are told it is in the spirit of competition.
It is parallel to the ethic of the Big "C" herself,
Capitalism, vanquisher of all womanish scruples.
But maybe it is not too late,
even for we selfish, sluggish ghouls and
flesh-eating child-herders
of the united states,
to turn from our fat cannibalism...
If the worm of change is very tiny,
then just allow it to nibble,
just nibble at you,
there is much to eat!!"

O Whitest Hebe!
guard me against
the poisonous sanctimonies
and powerlust of the
deranged Zionists,
the gibbering occultists of State,
and their many decadent cronies.
steel me versus the thousand diseased temptations
of the good life they sell.
deflect their laser sights
and their night vision
if they get to me.
Let their children feel the
shock of the Tazer, again and again,
if they manage to succeed;
let me die peacefully
and not in one of their camps,
playing basketball or tennis on Soma,
or enslaved in their army,
fighting the deathless suicide bombers.

Let the
bleeding imbeciles who read this, develop
weeping lesions where their thighs meet,
and their lower intestines boil with
hot stinking crude
if they snigger at me or think me
less than serious or informed.
When rationed,
i will want only enough
water to spit, whereas they will beg for the piss of their captors.

Jesus let us
go forward together, in a bi-partisan way
on this day of giving,
blessing other countries with our scraps,
once America has had her
bountiful portion,

Christian Supplication List, Volume 1

In the Name of Our December 25

once again Jesus i have
stumbled into the pit
of an American Christmas.
the green gore and the red money,
the fake holly hector me,
leaving me singed and not toasty.
i would like to
enjoy these beatific holidays
but it is raining and these are
the End Times,
and i think i have a tumor behind my right eye.

there are also a number of other
small concerns that
keep me from rejoicing
in togetherness with the glad, hapless
race of cretins, consumptive cattle, and child molesters
that populate the land,
and whom you have
wisely placed all over the Earth
in positions of Power.
their gladness surely is attractive,
though i am equally sure they need alcohol to be pleasant,
and Cialis to rape their servants:

Of course you know
i sort of don't know if i'm waking or dreaming these days, Papa.
it may have taken me longer than others
to see that i am spinning through
time and space with no understanding,
pissing on myself like a puppy
in a state of mixed dread and happiness,
strangling on my own brain, my own tongue,
laughing atandwith others while
i struggle to love, gain approval,
and deceive us all in turn,
forced like a captive insurgent to observe
endless torture, sadism, rape and corruption,
this constant human mess-making.

it is not at all my fault
and you fucking well know it,
Omniscient One.
i resolve for the New Year to reject all blame,
all censure and criticism from
intellectuals, weaklings and club-footed moralists.
if i had achieved manhood
in 1955,
well before the scientific and existential revolutions that now
make a simple and decent life so preposterous,
then i should have no troubles
keeping track of things,
winking at problems, and carrying on,
like a good worker or manager.
but this is 2007, an age of
relentless lunacy, of violent silliness,
of pedophiliac buggery packaged as child care.

i have to wonder, then, why you don't share blame,
wherever you are,
if you hog all the credit and purpose,
fondling atoms and shit while
generally neglecting to relieve
even the slightest suffering
which your vast horde of cross-draggers
has sown throughout the world.

Jesus Christ, enough
with perspective, deliver us
from every person's particular slant on things.
Print life and make a mortal sin of cursive.

I'm tired of argument and stifling Egos
and the ideas of stupid people who
have been born lucky
and never outgrow the megalomania of infancy

lordy Christ
i see you forgot your shroud
when you beat it,
how forgetful.
you left us to fend off the Romans
and join in their many dirty circuses,
left us to depend on their debilitating, clean water,
their mindless Mammonism,
their inescapable phallic symbols and phallic logic,
and their deep-occult rituals,
which in our daftness
we no longer comprehend,
thank you ten thousand times,
Prince of Light and Truth.

will Ye please bless the vegetarians
this holiday,
for their refusal to join in the slaughter
of the ungulates and the fowl,
even the fish,
bless these holy soldiers
but smite them behind the ears,
for paying taxes and fealty to the Empire,
and worrying so much
about other species
when their own lacks
proper scrutiny and care.

Jesus will you pay a visit to Africa,
when you get a chance,
and help them smash the shackles of Anglo/Arab/Class/Tribal-hegemony,
will you send to them a scientist
brave and capable enough to prove
that man made AIDS, fausting away
in his laboratories for
the perfect depopulation mechanism
to use in that land
of precious minerals,
fuels and memories?
Jesus, have pity on the blacks for once.
People will begin to think
that, like so many other orthodox Jews,
you regard the negro
as an inferior, animal race,
and believe in the curse of Ham.

O Lord, will you call
upon your sea-monsters,
as in the old days,
and affix the largest and hungriest,
most terrifying
Serpent to the
mind of America,
bid it suck dry our stuffed,
nearly rusted-shut brains,
and make room in there for ethics and journalism,
and free enterprise guided by civics
and sober state planning?
I'm praying to you Lord.

Son of Man, will you add salt
to the cookies of the money-rich?
will you withhold from them
every cheap bauble that they pray for and covet
in their dementia,
and then rape their retirement plans
as they have raped ours;
will you play on them a dirty trick:
eternally rouse them from fatty, peaceful,
drugged slumber
with bloody phantom shrieks
that dissipate immediately like liberal guilt
and cause them a maddening, paranoid confusion...
looking about in terror
for the lower classes and their knives?
It is petty of me and mean
but it is all i ask...

i know, thou baffling, wiry old contrarian,
that you lack the fanbase, notoriety and weight
of Santa Klaus,
but see to it that i get some fucking
action figures this time around,
and the diamond bracelet
whose hints i have dropped
to my husband for the past two years,
on this fearful American christmas.