Thursday, October 25, 2018

Obscene, Unjust—But True.



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Write this off as wallowing a bleak naiveté—still preferring the Sympatico might hear—though, ever are there those of whom I'd likely never find... ...I reflect that these are used to—ruled by—fear.

Likely way beyond "experience," and served up all contrived, this "fear of things" addresses what we're not. See, it's absent in the actions of the ones who make their living with this puzzle, they're not showing, we've all got!

It's everybody's puzzle, and we all should get to question gravid mystery that lies—or cheats and teases. The ones who are researching are the ones so often hurting for the 'one' who's always done... just what he pleases.

Remember, then, John Ford, to be reminded his confinement is a black mark on the labors we perform. "…Into UFO research? Then you might be like that 'loon': the 'flying saucer killer' named John Ford."

See, let the 'man' grind down on him without a single peep from you? ...And that deed is quicker done on you and me! If they cap off Johnny Ford, well then they've drawn their threatening sword, and they slash and hack at chances you'd be free!

Some of these are wolves who prowl a "land" they think they're owning, and are pissing on its corner's stems and twigs. These are vaulting over tick-turds so distorting apt researches!  They're dismissive as a swine farm full of pricks.

The *glee* that they're displaying when they vilify subjectives: It's a game the meanest children always play.  See, it's children they're revealing while engaged in doubtful dealing is what the field has evolved to? ...Hard to say!

Too, suffer wrongful take-downs with indifference at your peril!  It won't be long they've made their way to you. What salvation will appear, my friend, when you're the one who needs it! Recall John Ford is languishing! Obscene, unjust—but true.




*Machines* exist—likely, always have... Still, we pretend, superficially, to eschew our criminal machines opting, in all pretense, for a more evenhanded efficacy in society. It remains, we tolerate our *machines* and pretend they are not there... when they appear to do our bidding or provide an illusion that they're staying out of our personal business while doing those "other" people's business... there's a load, well defined, eh?

The "cooperation" alluded to is short lived at best—likely, it always is. They don't have that requisite respect for individuality, remember. Respect for "individuality" is contrary to a fat profit margin and a corpulent—forgetting a thoroughly reptillian—bottom line...

John Ford's discovered such as this, n'est ce pas?

Verily, we must blow our horns now and again lest they are presumed to be funnels, friends and fellow motes!  Sometimes your horn's—even timid—music dispels its antithesis, I've experienced.  Why?  

Because music, an under the RADAR communication, is compelling language after all! Consider rock n' roll, eh?  This language helps you "see" what is "meant."  That's why poetry will always have a relevance.  Also, in addition to the preceding: this musical language can be said to say things that could not otherwise be said, it's been said.  Poetry "says," reader!

A song: it's repeated to an efficaciousness, potentially, or not repeated at all.

Restore John Ford!

Read on.

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