My Live for Englande

 

...jk Rowling is great

She has such affertile mind and good character as I see it

But admittedly I love British people

Or at least their character,

Which is a basic position I'll

Expand on more

In lines 200-280, later on

How I do love rain and magic

And a general mannerliness,

And then

The dreadful quixotic

Lunch rock,

I mean punk rock,

God damn auto correct,

Which that baseline courtliness

Would seem to

Generate

As if by a counter-spawning,

In time.

How I live there

I mean love their

Droll, viciously decent

Sense of humor.

And their

Crazy sexual openness

And rutting naughtiness.

Just think about it.

If you were born

Of a small, eternally

Rainy and dark Island set

Of Atlantis-descended, weirdly powerful Kingdoms,

Fraught with war

And insane religious

And cultural conflict,

Between paganism

And stark monotheism,

And then among the bickering steel-clad splinter sects

Of Christ-worship,

Wouldn't you also

Be obsessed

With sex

And getting drunk..

Simply living,

That is.

And then there is

The Scottish area,

inhabited still to this day by the truculent, unintelligible Scots
and magical bloodlines,

And then there's the

Irish,

And the

Refugee Egyptian Royalty,

Etc.

Don't like it, take it back, bring me a new one.

 

...First, a solemn prayer: With each new person who agrees to speedily send me some likely small amount of their precious money, my strength and willingness as a notable and relevant writer will grow, like a turtle with two loving parents. A turtle who some other virtuous and intelligent turtles consider good, and beautiful at times, and having some potential maybe still, and a fairly impressive vocabulary. Now listen here: it is a categorical fact, in late, sadistic, rather flammable August of 2023, that it's no longer in poor taste to ask for money, when you write despite everything, including your morbid, relative laziness, and disdain for the world of women and men and States. After doing this with no financial motive for years and years, prior to now. And if you think it is gauche, etc,. to write such preambles to germane, timely poems, then i'm forced to disagree with you, and add a few words here and there in order to waste your time and cause you to sniff. I understand completely that it's not exactly endearing or very palatable to directly ask for money just because i feel i'm a valid and somewhat worthy writer, but i can promise you i do it intentionally, meaning it would have been easy simply to monetize the web-log or move to a different format with more secure and sanctioned means of accepting donations, etc. Yes, some people who read this shit have good reasons not to donate. Other people, sadly, are just cheap chiseling motherfuckers who might consider writing their own damn poems and essays of very necessary moral contempt and outrage. I'll monetize, etc., in my own damned time, or I won't. I sincerely feel there's some odd, small dignity in asking directly, and even more than once. Or perhaps it's just the laziness and my being a bit of a pushy, lately more brittle bastard. Only two people have given me money since I swallowed my decorum and undertook this mendicancy, and they aren't wealthy (and one of them is a single mother, and i hope her husband pays out of his motherfucking ass once the barristers have done their sleazy job). These two helpmeets of mine are certainly rich in terms of taste and kindness, though. You're smart, and if you're game, you can figure out how to contact me or be my modest benefactor. Also i came up with the idea for using the internet to directly, financially support small, local and distant, sometimes lazier artists and spitting screed-writers and the like, way back in 1998 but you don't see me suing anyone or getting stabbed to death in San Francisco, do you. The Great Architect keeps really precise records and when i get to Heaven i'm going to have a giant expense account, and all the beggars, artists and homeless people I've known will take me to the bar and we'll have a raucous sing-along. And now for the poesy let's get right into it please like comment and subscribe and be sure to follow me everywhere, just don't make it too obvious i'm warning you i have great peripheral vision and situational awareness...

I don't like google, anymore.

I don't like sexting

Don't like tinder,

don't like LinkedIn

Or Grindr either

I don't like scallops, and never have,

Or Nazis at all for sure

Or communists

Or braindead democrats

Who bray and

Love saying the phrase,

"Cunspeercie theery"

Like vicious, nasty children

Singing mean-spirited

Little bratty songs

To a bullied loner, at recess,

Or

Rather just like the weak non-leftists

and grubby,

off-shoring union-gutters the

D's have

Actually become, since at least non-11,

Which seemed to make them

Forget a lot of things,

Like how to oppose

Capital and MIC-imperialism

And the murderous fascist deep state,

Or admit that powerful conspiracies

Are horribly real and

Super-significant,

Or even bray about them.

As I was saying,

These weakling spineless

Sybarite democrats,

Repeating themselves,

Cunspeercie theery cunspeercie theery

Just to bully

And exclude and be

Mean in spirit,
and also, i suspect,
the motherfuckers are simply lying and faking,
and hiding under
their cribs of mock-rationalism.
Motherfuckers never heard of Abe Lincoln or the Kennedys, i guess.

Malcolm X knew wtf he was talking about when he called you out,
you white penises, you pale scrawny pussies.

Don't likem,

Not very much at least.

Or only as much

As the R's

And their much more

Consistent,

Somewhat less addled

World-view and prejudices.

Don't like my neighbors,

Probably,

Don't like the modern version

Of cartoons or government

Or pop music

I don't enjoy

Striving towards very distant retirement

While dodging

A seasoned army

Of multiplying and dependably reproductive Cancers

And being more or less

Poor along the way

What I like

Is free time,

kindness

And decency, and

People thinking of

Things other than

Themselves

I don't like

An excess of opinions,

Which should mostly

Be kept to oneself

Unless goaded,
Or writing poems,

Or having a proper

Discussion or debate

With someone else who

Is principled,

In earnest,

And not hopelessly dumb

Or mean-spirited or

One of these sociopaths

Whose numbers are

Well-known to be

Increasing,

For various reasons,

Some of them spooky,

As far as I'm concerned.

Don't like capitals
or small depressing towns
except my own,
don't like having to
copy and paste
these necessary but admittedly indulgent and drawn-out poems
from one shitty format to another
and then debate with myself
whether or not to go
and chop down the ugly capital letters

at the beginning of each little line,
thus i added this stanza.

To recapitulate,

Sincerely, I don't like

People stating

What they like and do not like

Quite as much

As they tend to.

I bet some real hunger

And poverty

And effective martial law

Would

Shut us quite the fuck up.

I don't, or rather,

I tend not to like people who

Don't own any plants,

Which are not barred

By any known housing lease,

Like animal pets often are,

Being messy and

Potentially dangerous,

As we animals may be.

I dislike with a

Particular and impatient focus

people

Who say they hate jazz.

You can dislike jazz,

But don't be a philistine asshole

About it,

You sad,

Noisy pervert.

I don't like getting old.

Nor falling down accidentally

Or because I've been attacked,

Or struck by a more

Insensible force of nature

Like a giant steel girder

Or earthquake.

I don't dislike a good pratfall though.

I do like

W.C. Fields.

And the popular French-negro comedian,

David Chapelle.

I've even written

A song in DC's honor,

in nonsense-French.

I don't like newspaper editors, generally.

Or other kinds of

press secretaries.

Don't like monkeys dressed in

Tutus or Tuxedos,

Etc.,

By blunt tool humans

Who think that's funny.

I don't like the blunt tools

Themselves when they all

Willingly wear business suits

At weddings, funerals,

Award ceremonies and

Job interviews,

And every dog and pony show

Of both politics and business.

Am I to suppose

Everything is business,

Or suitable?

Or that a better model

Of "suit" has never

In about 150 years

Been imagined?

We are pawns in a mysteriously ancient game that few understand,
but most pretend or are blind to,
Facts.

Are the standards of necktie

And cut of lapel

Really that inviolably perfect?

Fuck you

I doubt it.

Bad dog! Dumb dog!

Don't like cruelty

To poor folks,
black, yella, tan, and white folks,

or to insane and mentally ill people,

Or the non-housed.

Or even to the elderly and senile.

I won't stand for
illegally obtained adrenochrome.

Don't like extremely cold weather

Or extremely hot climates,

Do not like calamities

Nor state-sponsored psy-ops

And falls flaggereh

I really, really don't like

this new craze of 

global, mass murderous arson.

This evil, devious giving of a bad name to forest fires,

when it's just devilish fucking arson.

Don't don't don't

Do do do

Don'ty Doodie Duty

Of Thomas Sheridan, my Excellent Grandmother, John Coltrane, and our foul world's filthiness

In my sometimes soberly considered opinion, Thomas Sheridan, (Irishman, Public Intellectual-moralist, Furnace and Generator of badly necessary Rants and Philippics against the vile state of almost everything in the current, disastrous, despicable, dystopian, dinosaur-infested world) is one of the very bright spots in this place. This particular failing universe of human beings and Modern western so-called civilization.

I discovered him for myself about 10 or so years ago and he ages like the best scotch, of the kind i can no longer reasonably afford if i wish to survive on anything more than my monthly allotment of vaccinated and genetically modified government gruel and cheese. He ages like my beautiful grandmother, Katherine---God rest her divine, delightful and spirited soul---or like each of her beautiful children and other progeny, who i miss and love very much. Now it's rather too easy to find fault with Thomas, with his tone, style and general demeanor. Not for me, of course, I automatically love a scabrous and resentful, brilliant motherfucker like he. But being rankled by a man of Sheridan's high value maleness is often the result, when a normie-type creature is confronted by hyper-intelligent intellectuals, the type, that is, who are also imbued with confident self-certainty and the spirit of the public moralist. The kind of person who froths with contempt for the evil and stupidity of the world, and is simply incapable of keeping quiet about it, because to do that would show one's complicity. One's neglect of soul and virtue and all the good things that make us not quite lower animals. The things that make us human and worth not taking straight to the stockades and gallows and town square to be tarred, feathered and pelted by the terrible children, as most of us so completely deserve, in one sense or another. Sheridan has really been "killing it" lately. That's another African-American bit of hip-hop era parlance the black community has been generous enough to gift to the larger, popular culture, and it means to do something well. To "slay," in other words. Or even to "murder," which the youths and 35 year olds also say these days, like cynical programmable toys. But TS has been murdering the murky, usually cloudy-weather car-testimonial for many years now.

People tend not to like you if you are certain of yourself and about your business, while you are explaining to them that the world is unconscionably evil and that they themselves are not behaving very well, in the grandest, moral and spiritual sense. Sheridan doesn't pull his punches and never dumbs anything down. I have to assume 90% of Americans wouldn't make it past 2 or so minutes of his even-tempered rants, in that gorgeous, educated Irish brogue of his. He commented recently about Common Core and how its chief purpose probably was to ruin the cognition of westerners. To finally bring our sad, rusty minds to heel, and complete this long-term process of The State administering lithium and lobotomies to the cheerily subjugated population of the developed world, who were always, regardless of race, sex, and creed, meant to be absolutely nothing more than tractable donkey wage-earners. War-fodder and empty lever-pullers in the machine of pretend-democracies, and so on.

Verily, people always resent being told they're asleep at the wheel and not nearly as decent and well-informed as they imagine. They like it even less when the bearer of this lately very relevant bit of news does it with flair, and never or rarely erms or uh's, and also peppers their screed and reporting with clever flourishes and countless references about the world, history, and ideas that soar completely over the listener's head like a secret military aircraft powered by hidden, suppressed systems of physics that could probably end hunger and war, if directed properly and not by psychopaths, as Sheridan is very fond of designating our masters and leaders. The other thing which is now so terribly clear to me as I get closer to being a truly crotchety and venomous old person, is that when delivering one's sermons of contempt and moral apoplexy, actually being angry and fed up while doing so will very often turn off the listener, reader or audience. I suppose it makes them want to go huff more of that handsomely state-subsidized Soma, too. I cannot and would never dream of doing anything for you, man or woman, if that's your problem with me or anything that i write, personally. If you're not angry about the world and the ascendant state of evil, corruption, infantilizing, pedo-adjacent super-hero movie franchises and general spiritual-cultural depravity, then fuck you, again and again and again. You oiled-down, chemically sexless handmaiden of wickedness. You god-damned greased-up sodomite lemming.



It's not purply or an exaggeration for me to say that i view Sheridan, warts and distemper and all, as being in the category of John Coltrane, if only in the sense that he makes me very proud to belong to the human race, to the species that can create someone so decent in their art, or their sputtering disgust and dissatisfaction with this horror-show which most people think is generally not worth fussing over and saying nasty things about. Coltrane is the glorious carrot and Sheridan is the fundamentally necessary and quite effective stick. His recent vlog addressing the State of Africa right now and its relationship with Russia and China, one that is in fact being mischaracterized at large by the vicious and venal, mammonist banker-directed western media, is a very good place to start, if you haven't dipped into the salubrious acid-bath of TS yet. Here is another intense scrubbing for you, one i haven't even finished yet, but am still confident will be good for your heart, like terminating your Netflix account. It's understandable if you find him off-putting in his seeming arrogance, at times. In his defense, though, the state of the world and of gross human bastardliness in this day and age, is simply forcing people who are both smart and properly morally outraged, to seem arrogant. It's a simple matter of pre-Demonic Common Core arithmetic. The average person is such a careless, self-absorbed piece of shitty garbage, you see. But it is by design, at least. The learned public moralist, when compared to the manipulated but still necessarily traduced normie, is indeed full of themselves, in what i consider to be the right and more or less excusable way. They're also full of concern. 

I really don't have the energy today to write the appropriately glowing essay or paragraphs of praise for Thomas Sheridan, over there in Ireland, being illegally and surreptitiously capped at less than 50k subs, fighting the grotesque laboratory monster of collective reality from his humid motorcar. But the coast is clear for me to say that he is a bit of microcosmic proof of how we're not all so disgustingly bad and that there's hope, still. Now i strongly suggest listening to this Coltrane rendition of Don't Take Your Love From Me. I think, in my opinion you understand, it's one of the most wonderful personal interpretations of a ballad that he ever recorded. (It includes the probable and definitely under-celebrated genius, Wilbur Harden, on trumpet.) If you like what's been composed and distributed here, and think there's something like a unique value to what i sometimes attempt to do in this way, writing, please consider donating some durable form of shekel, ruble, or state digital currency unit to me, if i ever get around to making such an act of charity possible or more secure than the phone-centered, money transfer apps whose handles of mine you might be able to find wandering lonesomely around here somewhere. You're also welcome to direct-message me. I am very friendly and known for my almost instantaneous replies. "Mackindoll" is my gmail handle, and it's not as flirtatious or conceited as it sounds. It refers to a hero of the Haitian revolution, if you must know.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ItpBVrKGfZc