Sunday, March 18, 2012

...Elephants Never Forget?

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Beset by fears of vague unrest, most wallow in their squalid nests. Afraid of what we shall not see, we force a smile ... pretend we're free...
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Enslaved by our contrived indifference—awash in lies—we fake disinterest, but down along "avoided" halls the secrets lurk to "tease" and "call."
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Some jealous "few" make up most minds. They cant and program; we're dumb and blind. Their *seasons* work their will on us! ...Now comes "Christmas"—"Easter," plus...
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Pay for dross and soulless kisses; despair your social emptinesses.  Lose a home, but pay your taxes! Keep the "faith"—"it soothes, relaxes"—so rewarding... *gold* to "God..." ...your "Church's" too glib "winking nod...".
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Though, forget what dances in your skies! Forget the saucers "Phil" decries. Forget the motion pictures taken—radar, traces ... "Phil's forsaken." Forget the witness you CAN'T know, because they're scared a "Phil" might crow... they're tarred and feathered to their core... derided and disdained ... deplored!  Ask Stan Friedman what "Phil Klass" did: poisoned WELLS, and I don't kid!
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Forget abductees right or wrong who sing the *same* peculiar song. Forget the legends we all know that aren't explained; they tilt and glow!  These are but the facts perceived regarding things we've misconceived, so we enjoy the darker darks as others keep our senses parked.
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Forget the cosmos, deep and wide, an ocean where we float untied—thinking that we know so well what *oceans* are or how they swell! We endure self-serving ethics—as proud buffoons—depraved,  pathetic?
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Forget the record painted there, where words are writ describing *our* ..."peculiar"... place in space's grace, that wealth of knowledge leaves no trace!?  Though, yes, of course, we leave a trace; that's as plain as "nose" on "face"!  Fertile records, extant there, communicate a truth, mon frère! !
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Forget tradition handed down by word of mouth before some clowns... usurped those legends... ...with their crosses, beads of prayer, and smoking joss sticks.  History is their smoking ruin, while we are left their glib cartoon!
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Forget the Earth is wounded, plainly! Forget what we consume insanely! Forget that we're a demon species rolling in our steaming feces!
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Forget that we don't know a thing; we're swept along, unchallenging, by forces that we could control if we but heard that bell which tolls!
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The kingdom we can sense at hand is tied to water, air and land. It whispers from the dappled brooks where fishes swim before they're hooked... ...to ease us from our need to worry, be concerned, or bothered—hurried!  This is no mere faith, my friend!  This is "tested," valued, then.
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Conjectured futures, strewn with flowers, we keep our heads and use new powers graciously— inspiring honor!—respecting wealth at present squandered!
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The skies are clear if off our knees; it's when we're strong, and brave and free. A bounty rains like cats and dogs when we depart an errant fog—when we are honest, smart, and true our cherished dreams are self-imbued.
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...Though, we're beset by "stinging flies" we should abhor, detest—despise. We're at the whim of liars, friend! We think we're free, but we pretend. Our ethics are in sad disgrace. What's "Right" is out of line and place. We cry and mope and act like steers while outrage festers far and near.
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Something's wrong ... and we must shake it! We're not secure ... our leaders fake it! They're the reason we're not jolly; it's their season, and their folly ... sacrificing all our dreams for short term gains we'd deem obscene!
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Still—just look! The sky's ALIVE with "craft" that hovers, swoops, and dives! ...And all creation holds its breath while we campaign and scream for death?
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No, Virtue's for the taking, friend, paying freight that fronts our end! Looking up to see a saucer's just as real as reading Chaucer! Ask some questions! What's the problem? ...Getting tired eating pabulum? Bug the lawyers, and the cops; bug the news guys, never stop!
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Make those bastards earn their living. If you screw up, they're unforgiving!  Make them earn where we've paid dear, while they but profit from our fear.  They are not a different species, that is so much steaming feces.  They are far from our superior, they're psychopaths and so, inferior.



"Mammals" have to trump "reptiles"—essential psychopathy—because reptiles are limited by internal programming to self-concern, exclusively.  Self-interest supreme, those goals are short term.



The FOGS we manufacture to obscure unsettling lights in the sky—abortion fog, flag burning smoke, same sex marriage smog... Everything peculiar to keeping harried persons thinking with their glands instead of their brains...

Faux-moralistic Rightists are going to pay heavily for their uber-moral campaign. Then, they make us ALL pay for their trouble. Again!  Always!  The last "King" must strangle the last "Priest" with the king's own steaming entrails!

Which reminds me!

It's constantly been said that the *Conservative* never forgets ... hence the overtly lard-assed pachyderm as the GOP's ponderous and pedantic symbol. Elephants are legend with regard to long memory. But you know? I think the inverse must be true with Present Day Repugs...

When one recognizes the historical, logical, sequential, and inevitable results of authoritarian oppression, rank tyranny, legislated morality, and an applied and very energetic double standard—every freaking time (!) ... one is compelled to consider, reader, that the Conservative never REMEMBERS! They are either without efficacious memory or they are fulsome and full-blown psychopaths as regarded above. Maybe that's the same thing...

On reflection, then, the elephant is ill served if not insulted outright regarding its association with the Grand Old Party. This provokes the admonition that Republicans might consider the assumption of a new symbol more in keeping with their record, their morality, their ethics, and their self-serving production. The river lamprey or single E-bola virus springs readily to mind.

Yeah yeah yeah Clinton may have been the ASS (donkey) who fronted his party, AND the liar that he's painted out to be... ...but, reader! His motivation, compassion, and priority—forgetting a trumping record, morality, ethics, and production—are SAINT LIKE when compared with his trickle downing, supply siding, and constitution evading predecessors and successors! If Clinton spent a weekend in a county lockup for his faithless transgression, Shrubs, Bush Sr, Reagan, and Nixon and should get life in prison with no hope of parole for theirs!

They didn't (or won't?), and it is that which wholly invalidates the chest beating, moaning, and teeth gnashing of those who would have "Obama" summarily removed from office out of naught but bigoted pique. ...And so "righteously," too...

Give in to rationality, not rationalization ... It'll bring the saucers down.

Restore John Ford! (...oddly, a Republican, though that matters not at all.)

Read on.

Sunday, March 04, 2012

...Psychopathic Percussions...


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You may hear the *strangest* music, but its syncopated beat will absolve you of all fearfulness. When you're fearless, you're complete.  The tunes are self-evolving and appear at no command, though remembered they are such as that as brought back from M's* land.  M's "land" has no locality, it's everywhere at once; see, everything's connected, and once "there"?  There is "free lunch."
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...Elevation's certain if one's open to this song in our universe of ...wonder... far from want or rage or wrong!  Time is its vibration and vibration is a music; too, that music is a blessing sent since all sense dances to it!
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Though... if one then listens closely for the notes to fall their way?  Discordant songs of psychopaths prove the order of the day! Know its "concert of collusion" for the chords that they will stroke... with their "self-invested orchestras" extant to play false notes!
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Their music is self-serving, duplicitous—a lie.  It's all about a "bottom line" to serve too few, is why.  It's all about a trickle up—where gulf's divide is plain—so some can live apart from us while we endure hard rain.
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See? Their music's badly written. It's not using all its notes. Songs disrespecting happiness?  Music smashing all your hopes?  Likely not the way its 'sposed to be. Better music is well known. But we're beset by psychopaths who conduct the cruelest tone.
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...Pray listen to their voices, though, for they blend in ways unplanned. A glimmer of some truth portends—it's music, understand!? Music has an inner voice, transcending any lie. Too, music leads to everything! That "math's a path" is why...
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...And, it's music that will always work, will always proffer truth; "told to be then, understood, it's then believed"—of use!  Finally, it is beautiful!  It transcends all obfuscation.  Above concerns considered?  It has the right vibration.
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So we "listen," then; who plays bad tunes? Yes, all we have—a pity—conducted by sure psychopaths who express a shadow's bidding... These conduct an "orchestra" to buttress status quos; the musicians, then, are in the tank... ...and bought.  That's on the nose.
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Let's grok alluded orchestras and parse them out real fine.  Let's analyze their music, friend, before that's made a crime!  Let's examine pitch and tone re-tuning errant strings, and make a better music than the "one percent" would sing.
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...The HORNS, then: played by News folk, though their key is flat and dull; aggrandizing solos are the "focus" they'd extol.  At best, "whores of shallow aspect," reporting not... (the bastards!). Betraying public trusts, one finds, they're serving other masters.
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They move a tune along alright, you'd almost think they care, though it comes up short of climax—denouement is never *there*.  Mythic Swinton blew the clearer note; he had to drink to do it—he knew that they had all sold out, and blew that tune!  All knew it.
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He hit the righteous high notes, then, his music sweet and clear; he should have been a front man, he sang so hard and dear. Though, we just rolled our blind eyes up, pretended a mistake ... awaited safer *music* which we lapped up for our fate.
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The STRINGS are plucked by charmless "priests" who moan their shallow dirge. They play upon the guilt produced on harps that but discourage. They whip us with their hair-shirt bows and cut us with their strings. Then, fleecing their respective flocks, become religious kings.
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Theists pluck "dour movements" from their strings composed of gut, thus provoking ardent churchster's weep and wail! That's just nuts. They whimper hopeless harmonies of meaningless dichotomies insuring only futures where we'd FAIL in bad harmony!
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They don't police their ranks at all, and do us ALL so wrong. Their songs are rank extortion built to string us all along! These songs are self-enriching and produce an easy guilt... for the many who just cash on in, eroding mental health!
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The REEDS are paid politicos who just whistle from their stumps... ...just exactly what a public wants to hear—the facile chumps! They listen to their horns and strings, then harshly hum their spin on things: a beatified corpocracy they pump.
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On gravy trains they'd rather be, they laugh at you and promise—tease! They keep their hand within your pocket, lifting cash and keys or lockets ... looting from your stuff they'll buy their music for their comfort's eye!
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Some reeds split off like missiles! "Truth at last"(!), you cheer and whistle! But these are reeds soon locked away if they refuse "their" piece to play! ...Johnny Ford was such a "reed" (I hope that, soon, he might be freed...)!
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An unpleasant cacophony, this mixture of strings—of brass or of reeds and more *curious* things. The movement is hollow; it is tuneless—discordant; it settles for short term and forgets long importance. It limps through its song like it's missing the notes. Forbidden to play them? Songs sound like a joke.
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...And who's this *Forbidder*? Who "conducts" from the shadows? Who's the arranger—this snake without glasnost? What is his end, and how is that measured. Who wins again (?); whose nest has it feathered?
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Good music it's not, but your *beat* is still good—and the notes they don't play ARE a symphony, dude! ...And that's your paid ticket! You hear what's NOT there! That music is better (...trades Rush for Astaire)!
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See? It's you who adds percussion! It's you producing heat! It's you producing rhythm... Individuals tapping feet. It's you distilling truth from fear. It's you to play and croon. It's you providing heart and soul—who keeps that beat in tune!
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...So, hear your own music! Refuse their contrived! Look for those sweet notes! Be on guard for their jive. Make new connections and wake up refreshed! Tolerate more that the MORE MAY BE BLESSED!
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Concrescence is looming, and what do we find? That their music's awful, but your music's fine!








*McKenna's Land

  • Bip.Boop.Bop - but'-ton, dada--dada!
  • Bip.Boop.Bop - but'-ton, dada--dada!
  • Bip.Boop.Bop - but'-ton, dada--dada
boom, pa-boom, pa-boom, pa-boom-ba-pish...

  • Bip.Boop.Bop - but'-ton, dada--dada!
  • Bip.Boop.Bop - but'-ton, dada--dada!
  • Bip.Boop.Bop - but'-ton, dada--dada
boom, pa-boom, pa-boom, pa-boom-ba-pash...

  • Bu-dot, but ot in dada! Tink! Tink!
  • Bu-dot, but ot in dada! Ta Tink! Tink!
  • Bu-dot, but ot in dada! Pa-tinkity! Tink! 
boom, pa-boom, pa-boom, pa-boom-ba-posh... 


  • Bip.Boop.Bap - but'-ton, bada--dada!
  • Bip.Boop.Bap - but'-ton, bada--dada!
  • Bip.Boop.Bap - but'-ton, bada--dada... 
(wait for it...)

...Taditity boom!

Restore John Ford!