Saturday, July 30, 2011

the accidental shooting, or, the Sexual Chronicles of Dr. X

....dave's neighbor has a seemingly shady occupation. as in, he is low-key, and keeps to himself, and owns a voracious Bull of the Pit that would like to disallow or consume even visitors to Dave's house, next door. it barks and barks savagely from across the fence and each time i taunt him through the links nice and quiet with a smirk. this is a purple pitbull, as they say, and so i respect Him as Royalty.


I once bedded a wild and theatrical neurotic from Alaska named "redhead" for now and we met in Memphis. she had red hair, kind of coarse, like her character. Memphis, Tennessee is a city known for satanic and freemasonic underpinnings and a deep racial discord, and i tend to dislike whitey, too. Once i had a stopover there on a Greyhound trip. i ventured several blocks from the station with a joint, or cigarette, of marijuana which i had eagerly packed away for the journey. i intended to smoke it with any eligible strangers. At a bus stop i sat among only black people, and i am white, by skin color. this was a four to one ratio, more or lesser. as i somehow courtly-like introduced my joint into these citizens' lives, and only one man, to my recollection, shared in its pleasures, i grew aware of some tension. perhaps in repayment, this man who shared my illegal schedule 1 drugs told me that maybe this thing i was doing was not safe. he was like, yea, some guys around here would bust your head and take your possessions for being all silly and naive like this, but he said this in a sensitive way, a veiled sort of way as he hit the J. but that is for another time, the telling. The opera thrills me and i can't understand why more girls don't like me on an automatic basis.

as i say, the wild Alaskan neurotic with red hair: i still think about her fondly, and with a hint of having escaped some planned murder of me. She was just pursuing love, though, like myself. She at least had the dignity and sensitivity to banish Herself to Alaska, and she was from Washington state. She knew her psychosis could manage itself reasonably well off in the barrenness of Alaska, with few neighbors. It is a fact recognized by all royal scientific societies that Black and Latina women kiss better than white women. Redhair was so fruity that she sometimes visited her small local bar along with her blow-up sex-doll. She lugged the rubber O-mouthed bitch down to the pub and it sat with her sucking air as she drank and scribbled in a notebook, amusing the locals beyond any telling. People tolerated her astonishing weirdness, although or maybe because she taught schoolchildren of the fifth or so grade.

so then she and I, we met in Memphis, a city considered unimportant by the superficial, coastal classes of America. By virtue of the fact that it supports many of the closely-descended of slaves as its citizens, Memphis is a great city. By vice of the fact that the city contains within it like a necromantic sigil the related class of pedophiliac evil Ruling whites, Memphis is a necropolis of hate and warped human hearts. But the evils of Memphis on the American Nile are only of minor significance, in the gargantuan scheme of things. We are interested mainly in positive things and developments, here. Through the honorable forum of My space we met, Ginger and i.

if you have not heard the music of Jimmy Smith then you're a terrorist slurping the blood of America and worse, a terrorist traitor to the god-fearing decency of America's Brand and your life is forfeit under constitutional law.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

i knew a man in college

Who claimed he was saving himself. We need not elaborate but we shall anyway. He said that he would remain a virgin, a man of his own religious cloth, and would not enter the flesh of a woman, except with his tongue and fingers. He reserved exceptions, noble and thoughtful ones. But somehow the literal act of coitus rankled him, if undertaken without necessarily experiencing what he variously described as the "true spirit of Love" or "honorable passion." Obviously these phrases can be expected to baffle the average college student.

The Numerous Suggestions

if you are a man,
read the poetry of a woman.
if you are a housecat, don't shit in the slippers
of the father of the house.
if you understand symbols,
teach this skill to others,
for they are dumber than you, most likely.
if you are tall, dunk that shit.
if you are a woman,
look kindly on a man,
and pet him.
soothe his whining, neurotic madness,
make him less an animal.
if you are pavement, rise up.
if you are oceanic, reveal your depths to the divers.
Among us.



if you have courage, lead the pack,
but love them.
if you are weak, it doesn't fucking matter.
if you have money, give it up and spend, it is nothing
but hatred and envy scribbled onto paper.
if you are short, run past them.
if you possess a thing, love it.
feed it and look upon it with care and generosity it is yours, so you say.
if you have a gun, i can't help you.
if you have life,love death
and keep it beside you and in you like
the quick and happy promise
of something new.


kiss everybody and make them welcome.

above all,
never swear
or take the motherfuckingname of the lord in vane.

Monday, July 18, 2011

homeland defense!

i want to be recognized for bravery,
i want to go down with the ship.
shave my head, break me down, feed me MRE's,
cuzzaye shoot straight from the hip.


you will give me the medal of honor,
and the extended clip,
you'll have to track my heart with sonar,
but i'll die with Titaned grip.

i intend to expire for my homeland,
while fighting the deathless other,
you can drape my coffin in that garish flag,
but i went there for me, my brother.

Friday, May 13, 2011

The Final Burp.

someday, in the wake of my death,
a number of people will gather at my
gayly-anticipated funeral,
and all together vomit into
my statutorily dug grave.
then all together they will partly disrobe
and shake and wiggle,
and flap and wag their dearly beloved genitals
around the rim of my hole,
and perform the actions fit for them, my friends
and relatives.

and i, from way on high,
in the crook of the muscular arm of Jesus,
above the prophets subordinate to him,
will peer down upon these dead observers
and moan for the hellish waybelow
i avoided with ease,
but which surely
awaits them,
for they have been so foul,
and cannot dance,
and forgot my plea and desire to be burned dead.

Some people

some people have heavy cracked claws in place of hands, and
they are generally lords and businessmen and holders of Office.
some people believe in God.
some people believe in the Golden Guillotine of State.
some people are incorrigibly mean and stupid.
some people believe in giving a second chance.
some people say what they mean, incessantly, and have no idea what they're saying.
some people will decapitate the goat just as it climaxes inside their wife, for the best results.

yes, some people believe in being on time, in timeliness.

some people don't know when to quit.
some people quit as soon as the going gets gnarly, as soon as an abrupt noise is heard.
some people prefer cats.
some people are dogs.
some people eat swine and this makes them cannibals.
some people didn't deserve It, but it's not clear why.
some people deserve an eternity of every form of pain, clearly.
some men have man-servants.

some men have feelings.
some women have a sense of style that is not haughty, or petty, or vain.
some people torture and lobotomize for a paycheck.
some people have been tortured and lobotomized by them, gratis.
some people never learn.
some people can't navigate a sidewalk too well because their eyes are fixed on the pavement and their whole bodies are bent towards the earth by a dark, heavenly shit-blizzard of Woe.
their numbers are growing.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Lair of the Coprophagics

we will eat it with a smile,
scarf it down without guile,
we don't mind the funky smell...
if it's unhealthy, we can't tell.
it's the staple of our land,
from your colon to your hand,
food of winners.

in america,
what's for dinner, is what was for dinner.

it has magical effect,
to consume what you reject,
as when we self-debate,
our own opinions highly rate,
and when serenading one's own ears,
it's easier to fashion tears,
here's a peace for sinners.

in america
what's for dinner, is what's your dinner.

in prison camps of the mind,
it gets cold but you will find
that your ass serves as more than just a cook-pot.
Filled with your head it gets quite hot
and comfy, and then there's this, of course,
you save energy eating directly from the source,
yet you're still thinner.

in america,
what's for dinner is what's more dinner.

and when we can't produce our own,
because we're then just skin and bones,
the State will gladly give us shit,
no, we'll never starve for it.
we may have to wait in line,
but well-trained dogs rarely whine,
a whiner's not a winner,
and should die.

in america,
what's for dinner is last night's dinner.

in your jowls, the fruit of bowels,
trapped in your gut your sad soul howls,
we are creatures of the flesh and nothing more,
gobbling up what's down in store.

An empirical list of proofs for what we call "Satanism" in America (in which we do not bend to the black magic dictate to intone the unholy numbers).


1. the numerology of Non-11, the date. historic echoes, augury, interstice repetition in subsequent attacks.

2. addition-based numerology of Non-11 attack plane serial numbers, flights 11-14.

3. talismanic/magical federal reserve notes depicting masonic ritual of Non-11. Aspects of the origins and basic iconography of the American national seal.

4. architectural layout of nation's capital.

5. basic occult nature of twin towers, and pentagon, and washington monument, and the Millenium Hilton as it stands sentinel over the mass sacrifice, and now still, over the Pit.

6. Jack Parsons/OTO/scientology/Kabbalah/Manson and Henry Lee Lucas/the State.

7. Kubrick and his death

8. The entirety of the pop music industry and its inimical effects on the soul of humanity and its children, especially.

9. the Bush hegemon/clan/brood of devil-worshippers

10. Skull and Bones.

11. The Bohemian Club and their Bohemian Grove.

12. The Franklin Cover-up.

13. aspects of american "serial murder" phenomenon suggestive of programmatic state control. See reason number 6.

14. another reason, so that we do not conclude with the number thirteen. Perhaps the importance of the number 13 in the rabidly secular history of the United States. Or perhaps the fact of the ultimate breaking of the story of the diabolical Catholic Church's pederasty doctrines, here in America. Or perhaps the numerologies of Waco or OKC bombing, or the blatant State evil of the happenings in Jonestown, Guyana. Or maybe Albert Pike and his reverend statue and tomb in D.C. Possibly even the bizarre occultic dualism of Non-11/May-Day!-bin-laden-"death," (which imaginary killing is in a sense a rebirth, a favored concept or ritual in esoteric traditions) and Obama killing Osama, whose name was for a long time, perhaps unimportantly, spelled with a "U."

(postscript: in a fascinating twist of synchronicity, i kind of randomly chose the cartoon image at top. After posting this, i realized that there may be symbolism in the fact of the devil standing in clouds and surrounded by light rays. Lucifer is the so-called "Light Bringer," and in certain murky terms is a revered godhead of the Freemasons, and this is undisputed, if little known, and murky. And it's that less than comfortable gray-area i referred to when saying "what we call Satanism." Kind of totally strange, this coincidence.)

(amusing and lewd post-post-script: the devil in the above image also seems to be led by an occluded and energetic phallus. Oh man, the symbolism of that on two different levels. One, the occluded nature of this symbol---think metaphorically---and two, the symbols' obvious relation to ancient religious systems and their preoccupations with the regenerative organs, an obsession still positively alive and well in America. And to completely certify that the cartoonist was familiar with occult symbology, the comic Lucifer is giving the Horus/Lady Gaga ocular salute.)

Monday, May 2, 2011

Death to the murdering dead.

On the day we killed
bin Laden,
I stubbed my little toe,
a bank was robbed in India,
and a pimp beat down his ho.

Now despite not having photos
to prove my tumid toes,
or evidence that swollen banks
should not be looted,
I'm taught that pimps will beat their ho's
and superheroes defeat their foes,
and democracy's soldiers will be recruited.

On the day we killed Osama,
Obama got a rash,
for he had to hash some soaring speech
from trumpery and trash.

There was to be no body
as proof the devil was cut down,
but Allahdamn if the Potus
didn't make me proud,
so manly was his frown.

Now we'll exult in his ocean of blood,
and roll like jackals in his phantom corpse,
the tide has turned for the forces of Good,
and de free world now got Herpes,
I mean Hopes.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

the day i met a strange little helmeted fellow in the Ozark mountains.

who made me feel stupid beneath and beyond my years.
he stared
and swung on a junglegymnasium rope
hung from the ceiling,
which along with the football helmet
he wore quite casually,
was a logical sink
for the demoniac,
super-brained energy of this approximately
six-year old gremlin
who, some time within the next few seasons
of torture for his wild hillbilly parents and the community,
managed to climb into the family auto
and engage its kinetic potential,
so that it went flying down the mountainside.
The sort of untamable action
which necessitated helmet and gymnasium-home rope.

at one point
we were alone and i tried
talking to him and
he looked at me with
an impossible un-six-year-old disdain and amusement,
so that it coated me with self-contempt
and to this day
a persistent sense of my own mediocrity,
an exchange of which he surely has no memory at all,
if he is still alive,
the doomed, sick little mega-mind.

Friday, April 15, 2011

The Raisins of Annoyance .

what scams these are,
how elaborate these dirty skulking schemes.

we are accruing interest on debts owed to those who
would rather see us dead than pay.
we are tricked like country yokels at the fair,
duped into drinking demon-piss,
told it is a tonic for good health.

our insides coated with serpent oil of every sort,
we have extremely fluid bowel movements.
none of the slop we consume troubles us,
it flows greasily through our gizzard
and out the other end without a whiff of trouble
or doubt.

we are paying our murderers for the privilege of being murdered
under cover of hollywood
and madison avenue tinsel,
murdered to the sound of singing children,
singing because they will be branded and beaten
and dropped from a helicopter in a sack,
if they don't sing.

we pay the homicides so they will go easy on us, and do it slowly,
to murder our souls first and foremost, and eventually our
sluggish, unquestioning bodies.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Marching Madness

They're going down tonight,
they're in for a big fight,
your team consists of softies, stiffs and fools,

Don't matter we're at war (Again!?)
and nobody knows the score (Libya!?)
we'll simulate aggression by the rules, Yee-ha!!

chorus: My team's Bet-ter than Yours/ (Ninnies!)
Oh-h, my team's bet-ter than yours/ (Milquetoast Mama's Boys!)
I'll take the white, you take the black,
we're all part of the savage pack,
Still my team's better than yours!

Let's get into our mammoth cars,
go to the arena and worship Mars,
as the bombs and missiles fly
and Mammon rapes us,

You chant your chant and I'll spit on you,
without our games what would we do,
we lovethat blood-n-rules-n-girls,
and we are blame-less,

chant it! My team's bet-ter than yours/ (Pansies!)
Oh-h My team's way better'n yours/ (Faggots!)
we'll kill your sons and break the seals,
and subsidize huge playing fields
all we need's a year-long brawl and we're content!

Hoo-ah!

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

3 reasons i hate people

1. They stink like the stinking foods they eat and the rancid thoughts that occupy them.

2. When awake, they are dangerous.

3. Such a dull tendency they have toward being predictable in most ways. Otherwise, they are dangerous, unpredictable.

4. Monotheism.

5. Pantheism.

6. When the shambling tailored monkeys are small and young and weak, we in this civilized time and place are not allowed to beat them, just when the beating might be effective.

7. Always they seem to skulk about in the shadows of their own petty fears, mental issues and spiritual handicaps.

8. Obviously, what satisfies them most is drinking one anothers' blood and having orgasms.

9. The fact that they are covered with thin greasy hairs that expose the skin, unlike animals who have full, beautiful coats of fur and do not wear clothes. Humans are ugly.

10. We are as easily programmed as any lab rat, plugged full with cathodes, drugs, and sensors.

11. Their unreasonable tolerance for pop music in all its forms, wherever one goes around the world.

12. Patriarchy.

13. Women are fickle and insane.

14. Living among people is a filthy, filthy business that will make a man paranoid and unsociable.

15. They are social animals.

16. Because they are so different from me, and so much the same. Out of some wild stroke of blind chance, I once tripped upon a small fragment of an enduring truth about the species, and it will come out of this colon: There is no religion but Man and the Woman that brought him forth. Every single system of faith that defines us even when we are scurvy godless Americans, is a system devoted to the worship of the image of Man, of our more brawny selves. It may be a solid and sublime vision, or a murky, devilish one. It may be thoroughly approachable, or it can go through the barricades and pedophile gauntlets of such programs as the Catholic Church or Kabbalah, or through the misguided and self-murdering Slavocracy-doctrines of capitalism and communism. We may dress up this mirror image in a big goat's head, or the head of a Jackal or a Hawk or a determined philosopher. Often we give it robes to hide its obesity and its throbbing penis or vagina; one time we whipped and stripped it and draped it lovingly over a Roman cross, and said, "now there's a model for Living." But it's all about us. Finding a permanent justification for our grimy futility and our strange magic, maybe. We are the animal that needs more than just food and a fuck, and an expensive raincoat.
So that it follows with iron-clad and nano-enhanced necessity that we have only one purpose: since we are such confused and egotistical creatures, we should be trying to better ourselves, considering our saving grace is a big, reflective, and hopefully objective and imaginative brain, to begin with. That the brain can earnestly debate the soul's existence is likely what is called a "miracle."
Ipso facto, we should be good to one another, and this is the most obvious thing in the world. What, then, has gone wrong...

17. Politicians and Rule by force of arms.

18....

Monday, February 14, 2011

you stab my back, i'll stab yours

valentine's day is a perfect day
for shattering the crazed imbecility
of True Love.
For smacking around
its childish guilelessness,
its hysterical vanities,
self-deceptions and monomania,
for blinding
its musing, mackerel-faced sentimentality,
and its starry-eyed worship of the
dull possibility of great things.
Both the full-blown condition, and
its less diseased forms,
can meet their deaths gloriously,
on February 14th,
day of darts
and perforated, ruptured hearts.

i've looked in many of the movies
and some of the
greeting and playing cards,
but only in a few dismal
poems and novels
do they have anything to say about
the dark and yawning flip void,
which we sample again and again if
we are either lucky or tricked or fatally flawed,
while searching for
perfect happiness in the loving arms and thoughts
of some
other being's
ephemeral states.
loving is just another crazy word in the vocabulary
of a sick and dangerous animal
that shouldn't bother
trying to
vocalize its madness.
All it can produce is
horrible wet and screechy sounds.
On the annual holiday for celebrating
this sublime, irresistible union
between two sexually compatible monkeys
whose soul purpose is commonly said to be
the pursuit and fruits of love,
called martyred Saint Valentinus' Day,
one can truly lift their hands to the sky
and denounce all of this sad,
destructive foolishness,
and do it
with some glad,
ironic,
sweet candygobbling
finality.

Because enduring, romantic love is not meant to be,
it should not have a crass little holiday.
but it does, if it must, provide the chance
to sever the cord
from this great human swindle,
baby Cupid's weeping dream,
the silver-clouded earthly afterlife
of nibbling at one's sweetheart's earlobes forever,
and hearing here
in the moonlight and there in the sunshine and
the inclement weather
her coos of delight
always in return.
you will feel the shock and honesty
of that callow, flinty strumpet's
eventual distaste for you
on this holiday
in the ass of winter,
and because as a race we know
the value of Delusion and Profit,
and subjection to the churchly calendar,
we intend to celebrate these happy
realizations of the heart
each and every year!

If-you-want-ta-know-about
Romantic Love, lalala,
then ask a blind person what they know
about the new Honda Prius XLE 5010.
they might describe its general shape
and that it has four wheels,
and farts around emitting toxic but
comparatively benign gasses,
and one of them can transport and be the untimely death
of at least one fool at a time,
but beyond that it is all mystery
because it can't be seen
or controlled,
and so is no better
or more worthy than patriotism,
or arbitrary calendar systems
that dwell on human sacrifice
and astrology.

i might prefer a handful of melted chocolate
to the heart of another human being
like me, and the ones I've known.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

your silly damn notions of fun

you've been
carrying on about it
in this way for years.
dont tell me about your fun
because i'm not interested.
your idea of fun is a lame thing
and a selfish thing,
and i prefer it if
you don't issue proclamations about
this or that activity being
"fun," or "sounding like fun,"
when i suggest or mention them.

because what you are
really doing,
you dull, dyspeptic bastard,
is implying that you have judged
the matter, with presumed
authority and discernment,
and that there is a distinct chance
that my ideas and suggestions are boring,
commonplace,
or tedious,
maybe even deadly
to the great breadth
of your legendary happiness.
but i know
your tragedy is that you
can't easily locate a single ounce of joy
in the universe,
because of the bitter squabbling
war against peace that is waged
every day
in your angry mind,
a place where
everything bad has been bronzed
and put up on a mantle.

so quit it with the fun.
let it be understood
all throughout this land of neurotics
and depressives
and citizen-jackals
locked in jealous competition,
that
fun is a thing that should be had
and not mentioned.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Sus scrofa democratica:

The 3-Year Deafening Silence of The Electorate's Complacency in the Interim Between Executive Branch Hustle Seasons, or, How to Have a Sound Moral Opinion on Voting for a US President

"I live 6 flights up..
Oooh how that man loves to climb."
~~from, The Blues

"I voted."
~~ Imbecilic bumper sticker proudly held aloft before face of self-congratulating peasant in their New Facebook Profile Pic, probably because they are newly hot with the heat of feeling the Bern.



It may be that voting in the current American system is complete fatuity and swinish arrogance. We call it fatuous because it's the perfect word for the act, one committed very often without question or understanding. And we say "swinish" because we go to the booths like pigs, to the trough of our own fattening conceits, all massed up and comforted by nearness to so many other needy, self-devouring ungulates. It's a multi-layered anthropomorphic metaphor, see. (So keep in mind that pigs, though clever, are herd beasts mostly found with husbands of a stronger species. The subject here is not the actually free, lean-bellied ancestral pig who still roams the forests, with tusks, frightening more dominant species, no.)

But also we say "swinish" because it is understood and accepted, when wanting to denigrate human behavior, to compare it to that of pigs, because pigs are filthy animals, and live in their own shit, and like it, whereas human beings prize themselves clean and virtuous animals, advanced long past the era of monkeying around in poop and darkness.This means, in part, that we have become masters of deception in all its forms, and are content to lie about the fact that we are wallowing in shit, blood, and collective infamy.

The voting species of swine is rightly called arrogant because they perform their election ritual with such an airy sense of accomplishment and ceremony. It might be an accomplishment if something was affected. As a herd, we are not clever enough to see the full, grandiose scam of the voting scheme, though we are clever enough to have produced a Goldman or a Twain who then said, "if voting changed the system it wouldn't be legal." (The provenance of this quote is unclear perhaps because we have all had the same thought.) As opposed to more local forms of government, this is decidedly more true of the larger, federal-sized governments, which happen to wield tremendous power and in securing their interests often slaughter millions of citizens of every sort of country by military force and remote aerial bombing, and other unmentionable methods that even better define the true nature of Power.

Now right here I am compelled to attempt a clean diagnosis of the electing disorder, morally speaking. I'll try to phrase the problem, as I see it, in as crystallized and clinically abstracted, philosophical a way as I can. For years, dimly, and eventually, clearly, I perceived the essential moral problem with voting in its average practice as being the following: When one votes, they are typically voting from the place we call the "ego" or the vanity cortex. All other communal or nuanced or philosophically unselfish considerations are murdered when you willingly lurch forward from your poll position at the elementary school or courthouse and ally your own moral stance and nature with that of a single other human being. Let alone these horrifying motherfuckers before us in 2015-16. What I mean is that these creatures are in some sense nothing more than a reflection of your own positive and favorable self-image. In micro-moments of honesty, anyone will tell you that they vote for this or that figure because they imagine that figure to be in agreement with their own private value system and political philosophy, and this is a simple, academic relationship. It's very basic psychological self-identification, which in theory wouldn't appear to be able to produce, on the whole, a sound democracy. You may even be voting for that simpering oval-faced cracker simply because he, like you, feels that Count Chocula breakfast cereal is the very best, above all other cereals, snacks, and pacifiers. Maybe that female would-be senator from Crackerton shares with you the only political position worth having: that evil niggers like Willie Horton oughtn't be raping white women. Maybe taxation is your most fiery obsession and about all other social issues you are satisfied not giving fucks or fondles. In so many cases of voting I sense that the primary issue is a kind of barely concealed, self-adoring self-reflexivity, an elevating of one's fetishes and myopias to an imagined, grander visionary scale. Indeed, I sense something so dirty and seamy in the theoretical act of voting in modern systems, that I struggle even privately to articulate it, or describe its smell. But I know certainly that the stink comes from inveterate, almost biochemical pettiness in the hearts and minds of human beings. Tradition, jealousy, materialism, various psychic and sexual insecurities, and the interior narrative of power relations writ every size, etc. And perhaps far deep down, the pathetic and craven simian need for leaders, for chieftains, for physical bad-asses to protect the village and the water source and the imaginary harem of genetic right-of-way. How about a monsterful breakfast for the rest of your days. I am the candy-date that will give it to you and keep immigration and race-mixing to a reasonable limit.

But in the Clemens tradition, I won't allow myself to be more than briefly side-tracked with precision philosophy or nuance: we are talking about a very influential, space-age monkey species and we wish to be bound to the territory of generalities and broad historical conjecture, which is larded with proofs of how systems of Homo Sapiens governance are an elegant sham that have worked brilliantly to trick the governed into being shit-caked animals with a fat and bloated opinion of their so-called civilization, and their tinkering little role in its upkeep. This is certainly the specific case with the form of government in the United States of America, which is at the tip of the world hegemonic spear and reportedly the top of the heap of something. Now, it is reasonably well-proven that throughout its existence our species has enjoyed periods of actual, free self-rule and harmony among and between various herds and clans. People speak well of old Athens and the principles of some pre-colonial peoples the globe over, and the principles of political egalitarianism that have led to some of the modern republics with their highly mulled over and credentialed constitutions, and their generously recorded histories. Violent outbreaks of popular revolt against oppressive systems occur still and all through time in small, out-of-the-way pockets of empire, and some youths of the offending ruling class even support these struggles, in theory, from within their class rooms, and dance festivals, their drug-inflamed sex orgies, and term papers. Then there are the assorted smaller cadres of Europeans and aesthetic radicals who attempted to realize different utopian and socialist visions. But we are not in times of real "democracy" and active, utopian self-determination right now, when it comes down to It, which is just where we're at, and which state has caused the stench that disturbed you and caused you to recoil in your dreams and vague moments, if not when you were wide awake.

We have one very fresh and steamy example of the larcenous futility of the American political system and voting in it. We can be frank here, and hairy, and state it plainly: The younger Bush did not win the important presidential election of 2000, and perhaps even more clearly, lost his second assault on the Republic in 2004. These contests were manifest frauds, almost too wicked and insulting to consider without laughter or a deep, crippling disgust. Depending on one's views of the authenticity of the official Non-11 narrative, these election frauds may take on an even more troubling and ominous color. But every credible measure that has ever been made of these castor oil referendums ("You'll take it and not like it!") proves very simply that Bush was installed, or selected.

Put another way, the whole game was rigged, and we the participants were simply pulling levers that were attached to nothing, for proponents and opponents that are little fake front men for the more authentic and powerful players that have always lurked in the stygian backdrop of it all. In spite of the sounds from the onanist echo chamber of media and mainstream punditry, "W" was not even a credible contestant, or intended to be. No amount of make-up or historical revision will clean up that imp's stinking low character or erase the stain of his blotched, madness-stricken face from the national lineage of Important Guys. A murderer of frogs and a crasher of bicycles, the blank-minded puppet priest chosen to preside haplessly over the satanic/dark masonic mega-ritual of Nein-11 he was, and nothing more. He is, for all time in his archetypal way, The Cipher and puppet executive, and unworthy of further remark here, where we are serious, except to say that his outright vileness and ineptitude was a cute additional insult above the weird piratical farce of those long-winded millennium rituals. The game was rigged. A cackling elf may as well have been perched inside the shambolic voting apparata and behind the corrupted touchscreen computers in your local demo-cracy zone, eating or wiping his ass with your ballots and digital selections. We all lined up to be summarily shot with silliness and trumpery, and were impatient when the line moved too slowly. We snorted and stamped and enjoyed our harsh divisions, but everyone knows how astonished we really were when the offensive idiot from the somewhat provenu CIA and banking dynasty scampered away for a second time with the presidency, and a victory over an obvious, fraternal patsy who now heads the state department and looks barely human because of ghastly plastic surgeries. If any of us recalls, the 2000 matter was ultimately settled by the Supremest Court in the Land. Their decision is infamous and it tells only a small part of the story. The dark alliance of Bribery and Coercion probably tells the rest. Indeed, some competent, informed researchers say money from the bottomless coffers of the Coca Cola Empire (a corporation well-known to be connected to the Central Intelligence Agency in the same way that Air America and The National Endowment for Democracy and USAID are) went towards this barrister-buying. The one dissenting opinion whispers volumes, if one were to read it, in a safe place.

And so we touch on the minds and most importantly the frail memories of our species. If we had memories to serve us, and not televisions and pharmacologists, we would sense the repetitious Wrong of these patterns in the systems we consider so important. It's very clear that we are terminally forgetful, as a species; we have senile or child-like memories and deference to our superiors, which relation can replace the need for memories, learning, and knowledge. Servitude is always a form of helplessness, of complete dependence. But it is also swinishness and pathological egomania, in our case. We are now told that a new day has dawned and America swiftly redeemed itself from the Bush-League years by electing an Afro-American president. An actual negro in the white house, however diluted and brahminized the blackness might have been. So many good people leaped headlong into a blubbering fit of "liberal" optimism in 2008. And those who were dumb and bad, or at least dumb, howled bitterly and they cringed at the prospect of the ostensible tanned goodness of what appeared to be Obama, the near-complete reversal of Bush. Altogether, the land was seduced and prodded into a kind of skin-deep and monochrome monomania, content to make the whole contest a tussle of shallow identity values, without bothering to judge the charade at large. We don't have memories or we would recall that this kind of evil outrage of being tricked on a titanic scale is nothing new. Historically, we are a nation whose role seems to be that of a garrison state, under remote control. Our principal purpose seems to be to make war for various forms of profit on behalf of a more elite grade of human being that does not recognize similac notions like sovereignty, human rights, nationalism or justice. This arrangement requires massive trickery and scientific brainwashing. It requires in a pendular fashion the exigent need to pull a brownish nigger from a silk top hat at the perfectest and most cynical time, following a nightmare of rule-by-Bush-and Company, or even to produce a Clinton after a Bush, but only in a time before the internet and the basic forms of competent research that thing affords. We must all join hands and admit that this wiser age of the internet could only be seduced and trickified by a State-baked Brownie like Obama, if we had first been professionally brainwashed by the eternal flickering horror-show of Non-11, which, to gild the obvious, was a show produced by the same hollywood-type outfit that then debuted Obama after his short life of finishing and painting up and being yanked fully formed from the head of the devil, somewhere between Hawaii and Indonesia and Columbia University. And I will race-mix and confuse all the metaphors I please right here, because for a little while, you see, I am in actual control. Telling you as it is, and not as it appears to be. I won that basically competent moron's right by publishing newspaper columns which refute the child's fiction known as the Non-11 Tragic Events. And by then pointing out in the same space that Paul Wellstone was probably murdered, thereby assassinating my own career in journalism with such saucy but unselfish observations.

Yea, we should remember, like good little sanctimonious lever-yankers who might retain some fondness for the truth and objective history-keeping, that our democracy has lately suffered murderous pangs of self-betrayal again and again, and resembles a failure totally hollowed out by greed and evil. There are state-assassinated presidents, congressmen, and moral leaders littering our recent past. There is the constant sacrilegious warfare by every means against other countries. All along the way, lies, jingoism, distortion, corrupted news media. We don't comprehend that 100 years is absolutely meaningless as an historic period of time, but significant in our case for its strange, homicidal, even cultural viciousness. So much evil, and sanctimony to cover it, in so little time. In our case, it seems our memories are so bad that we have no sense of time at all, or vice versa. Fifty years ago is 5 centuries, at least. We have Kennedy brains still spattered all over us and rotten material from the bodies of Lincoln and Wellstone stuck in our guts but we don't notice, or maybe we don't care. We are only good pigs and only wish to be fed routinely. For routine food distribution systems and a solid infrastructure, we will even sit down or suit up and submit to sadistic brainwashing, and go to endless, psychotic war. We're slyly trained with sports and video games and always, formally, by the military and by our secret husbands, and we hardly notice any of it. Games and Wars never stop, and they never have purpose, the funny things. But they both become more global and Greater, and more shiny with imagined virtues. They must be related somehow. They always have asses for the seats, meat for the kill, and grist for the mill. What right does meat on a hook have to vote for anything.

To get us constantly to forget requires some effort, you can imagine. I know you can. Because we are smart creatures and it is not simply a question of memory-loss here, but of trauma and coercion, too. In our case, the most effective expression of this effort, and maybe the only one worth talking about, besides football and Lady Gaga and all of televised or visual media, is the American public school system. I can't speak of private schools because I am from the lower classes. In those schools, they probably enjoy a different kind of scholarship, a different kind of education altogether, as they end up in very different neighborhoods, income brackets, and prisons. But in public schools I can tell you, we are ruthlessly taught to forget, and whipped if we remember. We are given harmless texts and a regimen that involves bells and a flag in every room except where we defecate. We are taught the obvious mysteries like Darwin and WWII, peace be upon it, and in these upsetting days we endure lots of testing that will determine our school's funding and the livelihood of our teachers. We are indeed very well-tested.

And we come out of these compulsory 13 years of training with a shabby and asinine view of the crucial subject of History, and apparently, also now, of the natural sciences, and math, and civics, and even basic, agreeable social training that for a time, about seven years, still held society together despite the advent of hand-held gadgets and compulsive internet masturbation. When I look back on the years of my primary and secondary education, the main impression I get is of the definite need for a tertiary one. We are not saying that the people there, my classmates and friends and fellows and instructors, were dumb or horrible, but that the specific school system itself, and its philosophy, were created by 19th-century Prussian Statists who worshiped centralized, fundamentally aristocratic power, and this system was selected and adopted by our Prussianic, freemasonic leaders for just this reason, because it regards us mainly as a form of chattel that can be brought into an ordered and reliable discipline. That is why we are lied to methodically and encouraged to feed or chant together in front of that mystery-school banner every morning, until the awful ritual isn't needed to help flatten our personal will, and we elect to refrain from standing and jabbering but still have the permanent tape-worm of obedience feeding in our stomachs. It is why we are force-fed such a fat catechism of lies. And obviously that's why our system has turned out this army of pitiless, vicious body and money-worshippers, these chemical-crazed sensualist hustlers who are stupid, vain and forgetful enough to call themselves "citizens." Usually even the finest and most honorable of us who graduate from high school to the voting booths are still just meat producers. We are tied to an economic system that is a murderous hoax and intended to crumble, and in our own political system we are meaningless and treated like babies with no understanding. Beyond our own private spiritual lives and our importance to our families and close communities, we are the lowest of pawns.

And then we have the universities, which we might hope would be that third and redeeming education, as we are hopeful and creative creatures, who anticipate the best as long as we get enough calories and the pump is thumping. The reality is far less wholesome. We make it to the end of another four to eight precious years of mandates and indoctrination and again receive square boards to put on our heads, and are granted our certificates, a ceremonial pronouncement of worth to society. Thus gripped by the ankle and smacked in the face, then flung to the unshackled bloodthirsty market, we can conclude that our universities have nothing to do with the universe and are in fact very much local, provincial institutions. They are so much more like your local cannery. The meat comes into the cannery and is put into tins, the tinned meat is then sent to market. As with caviar, there are different varieties and qualities of the canned matter, the best of which is produced and packaged in entirely different and mysterious buildings, and these wide varieties of flesh grant us all the illusions of choice and potential we desire. We have shining before us always the dreamlike possibility of advancement towards a higher grade of wastefully packaged slop. I don't know about you, patient word-reader, but fuck voting. It is the death cycle King of Insults to a dumb people who believe in Presidents and bin Ladens and possibly deserve them both. It's the modern Killing of the King ritual, expanded to the entire herd. Long live George W. Bush, Obama is King, Capital and material power are God.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Plea to the Lord, written in the eternal waiting room.

But what if i had wished great harm unto all the evil-doers i saw, and read about so often, and in my private time thought of their punishment and even a bit of their degradation? What if i never looked on politicians with anything but scorn and distrust? Or anything but confused admiration for those who were murdered right in front of our eyes over and over and called "assassinations" and "plane crashes?"

How will it turn out for me if my acts and works were chiefly of the idle and bread winning sort? If i muddled about and philosophized, and puttered along pursuing fleshy pleasures until i could no longer....will it matter that this was all supplemented by my deep feelings of remorse and sadness, and contempt for the predicted, prescribed, preordered and accepted state of things?

What if i did bad deeds, deeds known to be bad to me, and yet still prized the happiness and feelings of others as highly as my own, more than 98% of the time, probably? What if i was the rare bug calm enough and sweet to realize self and other were already in harmony---in harmony no matter what, despite the ignorance and shame and sorrow of our lives, despite the devilry and the strength of the lunatics and their dark masters whom you have let prevail over the earth since its beginnings, to test our mettle and weed out the faithless, in your high wisdom?

In Praise of godless Sorcerors

somebody must have hung out with
Charlie Parker on an off,
quiet night.
someone must have seen his beautiful,
bloated, wretched body
move about sloppily
with the magnetic grace of
drunken Hephaistus,
seen Bird when he felt
unwatched, and uncaged,
and wholly intoxicated.

they must have heard the beautiful words that came from his
keen alert mind.
He would have dazzled this person,
and they would have lapped up his company
like a draught of magic alcohol
they should never have
even approached drinking,
because that wine slept in the cellars
of the Gods,
waiting for a time when men could
handle it,
which still has not come.

i am listening to him now, on
the Strings records which
he reportedly said
were his best,
perhaps because they
enjoyed the possibility of big sales,
being on Verve records at his height,
especially with a little pushing
of his.
it is fine music, yes. but who the fuck
needs strings
when they are singing like God
through a bent and buttoncovered
piece of metal

Monday, January 10, 2011

No Need for titles or riches

oh god i need a starlet
with an angular jaw who
flares her eyes and nostrils
when i look at her and
puffs her swollen scarlet lips
poutingly and affectedly just so,
just for me.

make her the slinkiest that i've ever seen.
when she descends stairs i want to
see stars, and handsprings.
make sure she scorches the earth with her
stamping, privileged boots.
let's have a vital lass with vim brimming up over her stylish collars
and sexy footwear,
and a...primary erogenous zone that weeps
at the thought of me,
needing it as much as Man does.
we need her to be sentimental too,
and to have traveled to Europe,
and even studied there a bit.
bring her to me one night in a chance alleyway,
when the moon is pregnant
with hardcore mating potential,
when it's unlikely we could resist each other,
or bring her along by a crowded, swanky bar
with good lighting,
and have her proffer me a stiff drink of
it all,
and a lewd offer to leave with her immediately.
it's not essential that we rut on the first date
like dirty feral lovepigs
but it is fine.

i know that she may want something
like a star-caliber A-list celeb
with a car and free plane tickets
and a full head of hair...
but it only matters
that she fall for me
and my tender trickery.

Monday, January 3, 2011

chi hua hua Tartar

young Mr. Lakiavitis
thought he would end it all around noon
on January 2.
the first of the year had been too inauspicious,
and there was the important matter of
waiting to see whether he would be evicted or not,
and his lawyer, Mr. Small,
would have to be contacted
for this determination.

but otherwise his plan
was to fling himself
from his 9th-floor rent-controlled apartment
which his parents owned,
in the building
where he was known
as the withdrawn young man
never without headphones,
into the frigid Manhattan street below.

New York city had received
almost two feet of icy blizzard over the holidays,
and many of its services were
as paralyzed and incapable
as the despairing
mind of Mr. Lakiavitis.

so that when he screwed himself up
to the herculean task of self-defenestration,
his long liberating plunge to the frozen street below,
to escape all the
confusion and humiliation and disappointment
he had known
in his brief city-bound 26 years,
ended with what could have only been
an anticlimactic sound of busting rubbish
and air escaping from many stuffed trash-bags.
Refuse sacks piled high on snow drifts
all over the city
and neglected by the sanitation department for days,
prevented him from escaping
his life's bleak, sullen, dirty anguish.

but he was able to break his back
and develop further financial ruin.
Hello, cruel world,
he may have muttered,
as he waited for the ambulance.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Enter net here

the wild, unchecked, and over-checked
rowdiness of the internet
has come to take us away,
in an elegant suit, wearing jackboots.
to bring us home from
our lickspittle suffering on isolated I-lands.
from this thriving enterprise, from this
county swivel seat.

to a place where there is
only light,
and the best information,
and elegantly prepared
truffle cupcakes and pancakes
and great Kardashian ass-cakes
to eat, between healthy meals that
test the bounds of health and leather
and all sorts of stretchy material.
Here we will in comfort
and slipping slowly about in a sweet, milky sort of froth
enjoy many consecutive seasons
of velvet underwear and better than .500 ball,
of silken fuck-swings,
Love and financial security,
of constant updates and
lots of planned unavoidable social Events.
your flesh may never rot in this land,
if you care for it enough,
and routinely apply the Lotion;
the only worms or viruses that exist
will be made of processed sugar.
Nobody will ever distrust you again in that light-flooded digital land.
A child will never be heard to cry
unless beaten by a legal guardian
or gently denied a third helping of whatever it wants,
especially sex with animals
and beheadings.
There will be endless effulgent commentary
on the most common and dingy of ass-wipings in
the fine goldy expanse of
the internet.

the internet webbing has done and woven
what could not be done or woven,
in record time.
it has strung up and together
a world of atomized, abused
automatons,
and given them a voice,
and a large hollow tomb in which
to throw this voice about.
this web is dependent entirely
on electricity,
on a temporary maintenance of the insane
disorder of things


the magic of
the internet
can only be
compared to a
24-hour service station for the Ego,
and a warm rock for the reptile brain.
or else,
to an extremely well-funded
spy agency,
for which the spied-upon line up eagerly,
wearing big diapers,
to spill their guts.

it is a dating service
for the fed-up
and the castaways,
and a syringe for the
inoculation against general health and modesty,
used by salesmen
and government and your fellow man
to avoid living
and playing fair.
In the beginning,
it had promise,
but look now.
look now upon its ugly facebook.
it is an ugly sunken hag,
it is a sick-minded Golem
running wild.
Dirty self-adoring dirtiness
in the filmy public eye
is its Way.

now it can be compared
to a step-brother
that has come to wake you,
in your bunk bed, when the house was afire,
but stabbed you to death instead,
after giving it some thought.

heavenly bastards

they sit there and stare,
the Greats.
the legends in photos and eternal words
and sounds.
they castigate me without
a word
or sound.

"Do something. No more thinking,"
they imply,
and stare...


well if they're so great why
haven't i done anything?
and why haven't they
through all their high eternal deeds removed
the necessity of day labor for us,
at this late stage of the game?
Not very impressive.

humpty dumpty

yesterday i was dumped again.
tossed, thrown over,
moved beyond,
given my papers.
Love is all around us.
what the fuck are people afraid of?
i love the garbage man,
and woman,
for they disappear my many
fat loads of garbage every week,
for they are not politicians,
or giant spiders.

i love the post man who brings me
products i have bought
off of the internet by pressing the buttons,
using the numbers off of my card,
representing my imaginary
digital wealth.
i love the strongarmed officers of the Law.
their tight blue uniforms.
I love em for holding it down and shooting steroids
and thugs who creep and use
bagged drugs and not bottled.
i love very much the shuffling
homeless couples who have
each other
and lay about in moldy corners,
in their swollen redfaced misery
reeking piss,
glad for each other's warmth

i love my several friends
who number less than a dozen.
they have great patience and lending capacity

i heard
love is the mix
and the blender. fair enough.
but it is also
the noisy yet perfectly-maintenanced thresher of dreams, as well as
a thin slime we crawl through that
slows us down when we were hurrying like
sad but white vermin
here and there through the lab.
Love is a pungent healthy slime that cloys.
it suffocates and gloats
and stammers
and can't get it out.
love is grimy but we need it so bad.
love is perfectly beautiful and it teaches us
not to be our asshole selves.
it will stop you in the park
and split you
with a grin
it will separate you from
your money and your blood
it'll make you write
bad but generally sincere poems.

the thing called love
will get us through the night
and lend a sprig of dignity to
our deaths,
even deaths on the public scaffold.
we can whimper about it
and people will remember
us...
or how
if our flesh was weak and flammable,
then our love for the flesh and soul
of another was immortal,
worth praising as divine.

you can love god, and you can love a live or dead rabbit, too

Yea love surrounds us.
some would say like a womb of
life-sustaining fluid,
others, like a pack of desperate cannibals.
But all agree that if you dare use the Word,
if you dare use it
incorrectly,
or with poor timing,
there will be Trouble.
someone will groan
as if they had sprouted a
weepy but benign tumor on their neck,
and will have to be troubled with its excision,
and some other may moan
like a sick child in the dark,
dug in deep
to a bed of loneliness.