Commentary: Mad Verse

I don't want to sign up, sign in, register, log in/or out and I'm not rollin' over - I eschew your f'in' Help button - it's a dreamer's madhouse, really, the paying customers subjected to tiny harpies with booming voices demanding, " Did this answer Help?" - a hundred monkeys equipped with Android apps could deduce the meaning of life and publish a NYT best seller before that happens.

So why limit ones self to overt manipulation?

Don't ask me. I don't tally the votes. As though anybody has control over my problems, let alone their own. But for those psychopaths, those crazies from the Sales Department - mutineers all, I dare say - they've taken apart the hoopty of human decency, run it into the ground, drained the oil and loosed the screws, jacked the tires but call it do God's work - chanting Mandalas of Infinite Solicitation slapped together from spare parts left on the shelf, then re-submitted, re-labeled, trotted out and offered again with the same old promise - it's New, Our Materialism, who art in Marxism, strange as they may seem ... Amen. If Duct Tape is already a gift from the God's, how then do you bend her to your will? You needn't bother.

Could it be the herding instinct, or an ill nature of Cycles that makes us adapt to others will, with their TVs and their radios, far out and solid state, embracing scraps of the dead and dying from digitalia exposed full frontal to weaken our already mutant resolve, to run away, catch up, heinous acts of repetition, and follow follow follow follow follow the ultimate obscenity so gruesome it's impossible to look away from. Just try ducking those errant microwaves - primal, raw, they'll eat your brain if you let them - but, isn't it easier that way?

Give up and surrender. Leave just enough cells to plead and cajole, begging for sweet, sweet mercies and then asking for MOAR. 

It's different this time - You've pressed Enter - without removing your card, here, have some kibbles washed down with Likes - wait for it! Anathema or instant gratification, what the fuck you gonna do about it? Well, feel lucky, punk? Fill out this form - while you're at it, click on these other offers, ,,, #aumf Look! Another false flag to justify another war for another millennium and another dead and another maimed and legions upon legions of dead dead dead . . . (yawn)

Even now, what they say is comfort, through prayer and worship to their inestimable Gods, is lying in wait and raking it in. Bernays has finally delivered Ganesha - his downfall due to the ultimate weapon, a Feedback Loop Set to Infinity Approaching Inertia - how do I look? OK? They're waiting to harpoon your unsuspecting Self, claiming they're here to help, or so they say.

Yet they bid you Death by a thousand sharpened pencils, shamelessly provide just one nibble at a time from the miasma lurking in Rain Forests of fine print, the final offer directing you to conformity - I won't roadie in that traveling circus, so put that Kool Aid away, Missie, lemme see your hands and then show us your tits. You might earn Goebbels beatific smile, or another persuasive erection ... feel better now? I don't.

I reject your misleading FAQ's, you sick bastards, try to hide an answer and I'll lower your standards while I raise the alarm. I escaped the Labyrinth long, long ago, a penknife and Idiom to defend and sustain me yet nearly succumbing, caught in a web of political collectivism - all of it, it's yours, will be yours, what's mine is yours - while you stood there, posing in clown shoes, polished uppers and blackened souls your best advantage, a squirting flower pinned to your wide lapel, batting those Emmett Kelly's primed with vitriol in baby blue, talkin' smart and recitin' the Mantra, was it tin pan alley or just another ruse?

The Clown Boxer's contention, a ring of black velvet on a green screen backdrop, those wistful bruises and yellow eyes pasted in, certified Organic and quick to anger, unsweetened rabbit punch and cauliflower ear the only things on the menu and a door prize of perception rendered in charcoal, anime of Whizzo behind bars - Free Whizzo the Clown! - a chance of a lifetime, but there's a catch, a trade off of cheap thrills for what you truly desire, a year's supply of pratfalls and a laugh track all its own thrown in - all entries are shall be rewarded with the Slap and Tickle administered by a glove with four fingers, more than a whiff of rot embedded within; an unwavering ability for deflection, to determine someone or something, a projection, a different entity, made from scratch, an invention of make believe, just anybody at all on who they can place the blame.

No wonder you scare the children.

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