Someone: 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, 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 -  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, our only 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, so they say

then bid you Death by a thousand sharpened pencils, shamelessly,  just one nibble at a time, 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 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 - 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, 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.

Online Porn Use Flourishes, Corona Withering

Despite obscenely massive wealth transfers and tightening of sado-masochistic restrictions by politicians in Dominatrix roles, still a few scoff laws deny un-Constitutional authority, mocking media's alternate reality while insisting that, on a long enough timeline, everyone's chances of survival returns to zero.

Resistence is fundamental

I had the craziest dream - we sank into another Great Depression, the long awaited, blockbuster sequel - but in just two weeks - compared to the last century's event which took a full two years to fall, still a lesser extent than this current manipulated debacle, its carnage, deliberate or not, of a level of magnitude far greater when the staggering amounts in the last decade preceding it are added, bail outs and boondoggles, domestic and foreign, gone unaccounted for - omg - they've kidnapped the Commerce Clause! Am I still asleep?

The ECB had just turned to the dark side - invoking that same Omerta, the law of Goldman Sachs, trading against friend, foe and citizenry alike - Muppets, the insiders called them - to revoke their humanity, privacy, speech, every transaction on the record, a mark for or against, depending on the seat of power, its definition of social status as arbitrary as the time of day.

"You think you're out when they pull you back in," they remarked;  central bank governors and speculative financiers drawn from the same whole cloth, on their duty free, top executive revolving door positions, the only barrier between public and private monetized debt,  Glass Stegall found dead on their doorstep, with a self inflicted nail gun wound or two, the memory still fresh for anyone paying attention above the din of a Narrative in terms uncertain, more competitive with Euro Zone banking and the omission of collateral's true bottom line. Epstein's flight list is more transparent despite the Princes and politicians with lips tight shut, Bubba's hands the only ones shaking, but from Adrenochrome abuse or the reins of the Pentagon leading everyone astray?

Plausible deniability rules the day, until Orange Man Bad is gone and order and control is restored, a failing Empire inexplicable for its extreme prejudice, and only then can America get on with its manifest destiny:
70% taxation, mandatory vaccinations and 0 carbon dioxide!

power corrupts

'O no, you first, I'm right behind you - 

And then BAM! a weight like a massive stone descending on its sunken chest, disrupting the FA Cup semi on the biggest screen available in this awkward sanctity, it's gauche decor with some really shoddy lighting ensconced in a musty old basement, cobwebs hung heavy in every corner with dust.

It's the space preserved for the winner's history. A lonely place, one adorned with all the self perpetuated trophies and thoughtless certificates of award to and from it's own image given away like toothpicks at one of those tawdry, low-buck functions, virtues described in a fiction by Louis L'amour, ineffectual and moot. All in all, and one after another, they demarcate the unintended consequences born of a self congratulatory, good old boy board of directors.

A republic, like any other that stood before it, it hasn't spoken to its insufferable spouse for days on end.

As it falls, in slow motion impossibly ridiculous for its sheer, dead weight and fathomless hubris, an arrested scream remains unresolved, stifled in its throat. But for the epiphany of knowing it's too late - there it hangs suspended for what seems an eon, then head first into its plate of beans and sausage, dead dead dead.

the full moon declines
and then
the next morning of spring
春の翌朝、満月の辞退

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.

,

Hi, My Name's Rice Wheelock!

I'd never download a film. Somebody gave me an MP3 -
haven't loaded a note. I refuse to install the web on my
smart phone. I don't take pictures, sometimes, 'cause
I'd rather the scene fade away, snapshots like an
errant Polaroid, so that my mind plays tricks
with the images all the rest of my life,
that's the way I'll know I'm still sane,
when nothing is so extraordinary,
nothing out of place, everything
where it belongs, the endless
days, oblivious and sedate -
But, although I will forget
everyone I ever met, and
every stranger becomes
my friend, so then I'll
die ... yet, to linger
a little while
longer

in `

`this `

` ` floating `

` world `


. ;;;;

Redemption: on a long enough timeline ...

Oldwood's picture

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Oldwood NoDebt . Oct 2, 2017 9:48 PM

We all live in relative peace until it is perceived we are a challenge or threat. The very nature of power is in response to perceived threat. I do not understand why people refuse to accept that life is WAR on one level or another. That is not to say we must be hostile or violent, just that we can't be surprised that we are contested at virtually everything. People looking for safety are simply in denial.

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new BingoBoggins Oldwood . Oct 2, 2017 11:03 PM

Reminded me of what my father once said to me when I was a still a boy. "Never knock a man down so far he can't get up without resenting it".

Paraphrasing. Yeah. Figuratively, as in a good chewing out, a reality check, what have you. In other words, don't crush his dignity. "Resentment" is my own interpretation. Sad I should think in those terms. Someone pointed that out to me - it wasn't that long ago.

I suppose that's a building block of character, whether or not you're a knucklehead that needs straightening out, or some returned to the fold, Squad 10, dry drunk, River City Alano lyin' to beat the band sum bitch on a Friday night? Shouldn't there be restraint, even if he is lying? Or even still, a semblance of dignity? What's the alternative then?

That was the real question - though he never quite put it into words that way. No explanation. He just asked if I knew. I s'pose I nodded my head ...

As far as I recall, he made no mention of any person's redeemable qualities, either. Deliberately. "Just don't do it". Like some ultimatum, or a promise, or, could it have been ... one's own redemption he alluded to, perhaps?

Now, if it were a street fight ... No. It isn't. It's affording someone the ability to get up again, count their bruises, shake off those jitters, undisturbed, cognizant - and go out and try again.


solemn now,
my vow to the scarecrow
to change the world



;;;;

Reconciliation

trying to reconcile my image of a semi-retired slouch
with my OCD has been no Spring picnic










more people seem fixated on a speckled fawn
than concerned with a flight of geese










poets anthropomorphize plants and rocks and things
while I struggle with inanimate objects










my MMPI reveals a predilection for occasional chairs that swivel










more than once I've been called upon to ask myself,
"What would a Monkey do?"









I never understood what they meant by "fat ladies in glasses"
until I'd been under surveillance by the Secret Service











they talk of War and all the while I've fought myself
and I'm one tough son-of-a-bitch

bottom line

Yeah, the bottom line.

Up here, history always rhymes. Like a throat singing session done to a Polka beat.  

The band is drunk, but nobody notices. This place is slower than Easter week. 

The only one counting time? 

Secretary/Treasurer - Fat Ladies in Glasses League. 

Who everyone tries to emulate, though nobody can compete.

At least until their backs are turned. It's far more discrete.  

They may think they're going places ... 

up until the Others begin making with their stupid faces.

Real Nobility is the Cold, and it will kill you, lest you should ever forget.

It just hasn't happened. Nope, not yet.

Church Row

"Asymmetry"

used to hang our by the canal behind my house and smoke weed tilll an alligator came up behind once when we realised we could die - ah youth ... ;) perhapsi spoke to soon ... new photos may be forthcoming.

Oh, you silly girl.

church row?

across the canal where you sat teh building markers. To the West on the map you provided.

After 9/11?

"News & Opinion"

evidence faceboo k's investor cIA's start-up incubator In-Q-Tel. Oh! f it, a link to an article, but n need to rush and read it.

(relie too much on spell check . Double Post

Which is a reason I reason I destroys continuity of thought, an ability to analyze situations or argue logically. its emotional roller coaster funnels people into a queue through eternal damnation, feedback loop's and promotional tools. there's no escaping; a real dog's breakfast.

con't // no more



between church row
and red lounge records -
a "Missing" poster on a pole

"You Know The Fix Is In"

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BingoBoggins Bloodstock May 30, 2017 9:47 PM

Fix four hours worth? How long was that history documentary on Netflix? Were you like me, appreciative of trivial information - other times, questioning an apparent motive? What motive is that, pray tell? Why have expectations of motive at all?

It's a bit of a mystery, like a card trick or a coin toss, determining what historical accuracy actually is. And don't we all understand that problems do exist with the media's version of current events. Well, don't we?

Still, it often falls to us to pick a side based on certain ideologies. Did I say yours, or mine? Could I have meant ... the mere suggestion of an unfair advantage, or, some lick spittle's vapid bias?

In many cases it's a matter of expediency, so, just how damn many cases is that, like, a court case, maybe, or a valise you tote into a salon?

"Matter, Schmatter" - who elected you the judge and the jury? And, and, how - why are we always pressed for time, to make a decision, taking the time or making the time, time with family, time that got lost, for the reckoning's sake, always in for a penny or a dime, here one minute and then it's gone - did it ever exist at all? Who the fuck is running this shit show? What do I look like? A drip/dry shirt?

"What's the greatest word in advertising?" once asked my ad man Dad. I said "free" - and he said "new". Could just be another jingle coined on Mad Avenue.

You're right, Bloodstock (... blood stock ... ?? ). The percentages are as good as gold, royalties accounted for, down to the minute, you can bet the checks are in the mail, and how many points did that guy really make if you add in all his perks? Only the invoices know, really, and their true worth - it's only a rumour.


Paparazzi --
too damn many hipsters
hanging around