tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12458868958700164842024-03-19T07:37:51.933-04:00Comin' Up Holdin' DartsEverything is speculative...☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-58603999252921456502020-02-10T23:28:00.003-05:002024-02-29T12:39:05.742-05:00Ghost Tape #10-- Operation Wandering Soul<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4d9H_1ygEv8" width="480"></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #0d0d0d; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Also known as "Ghost Tape Number 10" was an audio mix the US military used for psychological operations in the Vietnam War against the North Vietnamese. It played deeply on the Vietnamese belief of ancestor worship, spirits and the afterlife.The Wandering Soul was played on loudspeakers installed on helicopters, PCF boats or by infiltrating infantry 'loudspeaker teams' on known enemy areas usually at night deep within the jungle. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #0d0d0d; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">"It exploited the belief among many of the Vietnamese people that once a person is dead the remains must be placed in an ancestral burial ground or that person will forever wander aimlessly in space. The tape was so effective that we were instructed not to play it within earshot of the South Vietnamese forces, because they were as susceptible as the Viet Cong or North Vietnamese Army. Wandering Soul' broadcasts of eerie sounds intended to represent the souls of enemy dead who have not found peace (i.e. by being buried in the village family plot)...the idea was that the sounds would at least get a Communist soldier to think about where his soul would rest in the likely event of his being killed far from home." - LTC Raymond Deitch, 6th PSYOP Battalion Commander</span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #0d0d0d; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">"The damn reverb effect of the recording is eerie. I saw and picked-up leaflets and once heard Funeral Music played over the valleys around Landing Zone Mary Ann. A Kit Carson Scout told me what the music was. This was a ghostly sound. Hell, listening to that made me want to Chieu Hoi myself. It must have been effective as hell in the jungle at night." - Unnamed 1st Infantry Division sergeant 1968-1970</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #0d0d0d; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">"You know what we did on Nui Ba Den Mountain in 1970? The 6th PSYOP got an Air Force pilot to fly to Bangkok, to get an actual recording of a tiger from their zoo. We had a Chieu Hoi (rallier to the national government from the enemy ranks) come down the mountains and tell of a tiger that was attacking the Viet Cong for the past few weeks. So, we mixed the tiger roar onto a tape of 69-T, 'the wandering soul', and a 2-man team got up on the mountain, played the tape and 150 Viet Cong came off that mountain..." -- </span><a class="yt-simple-endpoint style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" href="https://psywarrior.com" rel="nofollow" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #f9f9f9; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">psywarrior.com</a><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" style="background: rgb(249, 249, 249); border: 0px; color: #0d0d0d; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" style="background: rgb(249, 249, 249); border: 0px; color: #0d0d0d; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" style="background: rgb(249, 249, 249); border: 0px; color: #0d0d0d; font-size: large; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;">-- <a href="http://youtube.com/channel/UCsFemxO87Sv0Qj6LOe2g-_g" target="_blank">Jonny Saiga's YouTube channel</a></span></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">From the Editors: <a href="https://wikispooks.com/wiki/Michael_A._Aquino" target="_blank">Michael A Aquino</a>, ret Lt Col, of the </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/6thPOB/" target="_blank">6th Psychological Operations Battalion - Airborne</a> was reportedly key in this operation. He is known for being a high-ranking official in the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_Satan" target="_blank">Church of Satan</a> and came into to conflict with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anton_LaVey" target="_blank">Anton La Vey</a> when La Vey pursued pecuniary concerns over the <a href="https://www.cheatsheet.com/entertainment/why-sammy-davis-jr-joined-the-church-of-satan-and-why-he-left-it.html/"><i>ideals</i> </a>of the CoS. He severed ties and founded the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temple_of_Set" target="_blank">Church of Set</a> in 1975.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aquino reportedly says that helicopters would fly at night high enough so that the rotors couldn't be heard, but speaker arrays blasted the tape loud enough all night long, so that sleep was impossible. He is quoted as saying it was effective in netting surrenders from enemy forces who swore they heard the voices of ancestral ghosts.</div><div><br /></div><div>H/T for the urge to edit by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZCCGSYVsiQ&ab_channel=ThinkTree-Topic" target="_blank">Paul Tree</a></div>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-73995240272576143832018-03-22T20:10:00.001-04:002024-02-29T12:55:57.674-05:00Stichomancy c. 1995; Wentworth Institute of Technology Library:In the image of homo dionysiacus, man sees decadence as immanent in human nature and history. Typical exponents of this view are Schopenhaur, Nietzche, and neo-romantics like Ludwwig Klags, Spengler, and Leo Frobenius. Man is seen as a "deserter" or a <i>faux pas</i> of life; as a megalomaniac species of rapacious ape; as an infantile ape with a disorganized system of inner secretions; or as essentially deficient in vital powers and dependent for survival on technological means. Man's power of thought is an artificial surrogate for missing or weak instincts, and his "freedom to choose" is a euphemism for his lack of direction. Human social institutions are pitiful crutches for ensuring the survival of a biologically doomed race. Reason is regarded as separate from the soul, which belongs to the vital sphere of the body. Reason is the destructive, "demoniac" struggle with, and submergence of, the healthy activity of the soul.<br />
-- Encyclopedia of Philosophy. <i>"</i>Philosophical Anthropology<i>-- The Self-image Of Man</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>From the Editors</i>: If you liked this, you'll love <a href="https://www.eolss.net/Sample-Chapters/C04/E6-20D-68-15.pdf" target="_blank">Philosophical Anthropology on eolss.net</a></div>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-21241677523785064962017-03-04T15:14:00.000-05:002017-03-04T19:35:32.270-05:0010-1 In Reader's Park<div dir="ltr">
<i>In my rookie year, 3 months in, I got doored on School Street. I was dispatched out of the Option office at 36 Bromfield; the job was a 44 School to 294 Wash— no shit, two blocks, literally around the corner. Traffic was tight and flowing, with every parking space filled. It wasn't a commercial zone back then, it was metered parking. The car was an older BMW, and the door just cleared my front wheel as it swung open. I went up and over through the window, and landed with the showering glass on my back on the other side. The whole thing was a mess, and I still have a piece of glass in my head for it, but this is really just the background for this other story I wanted to tell...</i></div>
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When I was working for Presto doing airline ticket runs, it was in the same office that Option had vacated at 36 Bromfield. Dispatch was in the front room, and we would hang out in the back between runs. I think everyone smoked in this office; we definitely blew bones in the stairwell. It was usually Spencer— when Minuteman closed their office down the hall of 36, he bought their list and ran Go-Go, and did the best art in the third floor bathroom— and Paul Tree from Think Tree, and I. Every once in while Billy Wig from Hell Toupee would be special guest star riding for Spence.</div>
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I think Paul worked for Central. They were a driver-based company from out of town, and he had never met them. He was their only biker, and they had an ever-present walker named Nancy. Nancy looked like an aged hippy, dressed in well-worn coats and crocheted hats, was always over-dressed for the weather but was always there regardless of what it was doing. She was a fixture and a curiosity.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The story I got from Paul went something like this; Nancy lived with a Central driver named Shanti in a trailer somewhere. I heard that he didn't pay taxes and didn't use banks, like he had all his money in cash in mason jars somewhere, and was pretty vocal about his politics. Mid-'90s 'off the grid' type. I knew of Shanti and didn't really care for him, he'd occasionally try to muscle-in on some courier related event, and his mannerisms were really off-putting.</div>
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So anyway, this is a few years later from that dooring as a rookie, and I'm going down School, I forget where to, but traffic's rolling, and I see Shanti, cracking the door of his parked shit-filled shitbox looking to the back up the hill. We met eyes, he saw me coming,.. and he still opened his door. The door hit my right hand, I knew immediately it was cracked somehow, but not how bad. I wasn't knocked down, I had strangely suspected he would fuck me, adjusted foot down, and dismounted.</div>
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I was totally astonished he had done it, but felt some personal blame for even trusting him. He looked, he was a driver, he knew the risks as much as I. I mean he fucking looked, as a driver should reflexively, and still did it. Maybe I'm giving the world too much credit to think a person wouldn't do that; show some consideration and then consider otherwise. But this person was Shanti.</div>
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The arguing started and moved over the curb and into the park. I don't know what stupid stuff was said, I just remember him with his greasy, ill-fitting glasses, and puffy, blue down jacket that just added to his bulk. He had a Jerry Brown pin on his jacket, and I saw this as a clear omen I was going to get nowhere with this entire incident.</div>
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I remember him saying shit like, "I thought you could make it," and this excused his failed attempt at judging if he should fling his door open into moving traffic.</div>
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When I said my hand was likely broken— I've had enough broken ones to know— he say, "You can't sue me; I don't have insurance." I was just amazed at his lack of any kind understanding, any kind of empathy, or desire to make it right. I was so stunned, I couldn't be pissed off. We knew each other, traveled in the same circle, he was a Jerry Brown supporter, and so,.. what the fuck?</div>
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This kind of back-and-forth went on for a short minute, and suddenly there's this big, curvy hippy girl stepping up. She's kind of cute though, really should've been wearing a bra, and starts chicken-necking. "Yo! Dude! I saw the whole thing! I'll show up in court and be a witness! Let's sue him!" She's super animated and jiggling and putting on that act traveler kids have.</div>
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I make an effort to calm her down enough to get back at getting no where with Shanti, and I get hit in my upper left arm from my blind-side. I turn and this really old Beacon Hill-type guy in too much tweed has just hit me with his cane and is shaking it the air at me, and yells with spittle flying, "You rotten bastard on a bike! You got what you deserved!"</div>
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I just looked at the old man with his cane and rumpled tweed, then the hippy chick and her boobs, then Shanti squinting through his glasses. I became calm and clear-headed and entirely understood what was going on and what I had to do. </div>
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"All you people are so fucked up," I said as I rode away to make my next drop.</div>
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☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-26710995117518383932016-09-14T01:10:00.000-04:002019-04-06T22:04:59.772-04:00Beautiful silence<i>Editor's note: This is a traditional minimalist shake-n-bake hill-stomp number usually played with a 10-key concertina and a Roland MC-303. It was reportedly heard during a recent visit to a rustic laboratory while traveling through the Appalachia when the researcher happened to come across this porch performance.</i><br />
<br />
Beautiful silence<br />
How i miss you<br />
Now that you<br />
Are gone<br />
<br />
Left me here<br />
All alone<br />
With my mind<br />
And this song<br />
<br />
Beautiful silence<br />
Before you were broken<br />
It was like that moment<br />
When the day broke in<br />
And she banished blessed dawn<br />
But it was always that moment<br />
the whole day long<br />
<br />
Beautiful silence<br />
How i miss you<br />
Now that you<br />
Are gone<br />
<br />
Never leave me here<br />
Again alone<br />
With my mind<br />
For this long☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-67452271418916346352016-08-28T22:57:00.001-04:002016-09-12T02:24:51.055-04:00Art School Babes; a little of everything...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkP1OJrrz7hpUtYeyKQEb2bzjkOvtOlMzjB5G_yyIGvjepwdXUFSyD7NOiSUxh9NQurZmvGA51FFGrWKwXiHDIJbbX69LT8l4Kto8K2hb2AJzeNbFly5gOClVXUXuJL7lbsGrPRwAmQM/s1600/art-school-cnfdntl-final.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkP1OJrrz7hpUtYeyKQEb2bzjkOvtOlMzjB5G_yyIGvjepwdXUFSyD7NOiSUxh9NQurZmvGA51FFGrWKwXiHDIJbbX69LT8l4Kto8K2hb2AJzeNbFly5gOClVXUXuJL7lbsGrPRwAmQM/s320/art-school-cnfdntl-final.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>ART SCHOOL CONFIDENTIAL -- 2006</b></div>
☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-61562277335409150412016-06-12T09:45:00.000-04:002016-06-12T09:45:58.425-04:00Yet another girl-on-a-bike gif...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaVr3l2LxCOK7At6sprE3jAVxMqIGnmgyw-iPpJoGJ3wsZ0HDDwQGdps4-WnmC0AruViZXH7l7ANa0oM18IrhqFsxYNxYtpsQ3ddNtipAUtgZqKskpIFMY2_52V9v40H_ka4L-CRIJGJ8/s1600/Rhymes-optimized.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaVr3l2LxCOK7At6sprE3jAVxMqIGnmgyw-iPpJoGJ3wsZ0HDDwQGdps4-WnmC0AruViZXH7l7ANa0oM18IrhqFsxYNxYtpsQ3ddNtipAUtgZqKskpIFMY2_52V9v40H_ka4L-CRIJGJ8/s320/Rhymes-optimized.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2385195/" target="_blank">RHYMES FOR YOUNG GHOULS [2013]</a></div>
☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-47115448098033445702016-06-04T21:23:00.000-04:002016-09-12T02:25:21.120-04:00Ghosting & Falling<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1WOWDwqbBVnOmd0Bkl1gsgPhkQwN8d-TChwNJEAiEEyOCSGmmx4zJqwUV60wHOGJqHb5eyf57BLmHqLA-by1kv0ihaKMmCcxniG6oeasAeaV6WKyoujKy8CrWYTOpouBJ8pZoDQOCB8/s1600/BikeMessanger2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1WOWDwqbBVnOmd0Bkl1gsgPhkQwN8d-TChwNJEAiEEyOCSGmmx4zJqwUV60wHOGJqHb5eyf57BLmHqLA-by1kv0ihaKMmCcxniG6oeasAeaV6WKyoujKy8CrWYTOpouBJ8pZoDQOCB8/s320/BikeMessanger2.png" width="256" /></a>
Like a ghost I’m falling forward<br />
and with each step forward<br />
to catch myself<br />
I fall the faster.<br />
A strip of rubber<br />
a ribbon of hoop<br />
a collection of sticks<br />
that roll;<br />
running, static<br />
running, static<br />
running, static...<br />
<br />
And while I do this<br />
a thousand songs<br />
occupy my mind<br />
and a thousand throngs<br />
cavort and crash<br />
about me and only when<br />
I imagine<br />
my native brother<br />
alone in the wilds<br />
both vulnerable<br />
and threatening<br />
to every challenge<br />
and every adversity<br />
and then all the birds<br />
and all the small game<br />
and the tracks of enemies<br />
come into focus…<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00Trxe-cO0qUlKq5yQxycG3EYZ0-_enRQen9ldxmNBd26nOhK_fR1xnnwJ-s6ScopMfgnip2t-vBHR5tN4tX4P2V_1sp4r9B981lB37st4-IQ6387ZKgMw5sYObHBJymwXO91ml0B9Cg/s1600/BikeMessanger1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00Trxe-cO0qUlKq5yQxycG3EYZ0-_enRQen9ldxmNBd26nOhK_fR1xnnwJ-s6ScopMfgnip2t-vBHR5tN4tX4P2V_1sp4r9B981lB37st4-IQ6387ZKgMw5sYObHBJymwXO91ml0B9Cg/s320/BikeMessanger1.png" width="280" /></a>
I collect the data<br />
assess it and<br />
discard what I don’t need.<br />
Collect the data<br />
assess it<br />
discard…<br />
<br />
Good things too, come from<br />
conflicts and collisions<br />
I have been part of many<br />
Moby Dicks, even the parts<br />
that suck, lived every<br />
conflict of man<br />
against man,<br />
against himself,<br />
against society,<br />
against rule of law,<br />
against Nature—<br />
Ahab had even knocked up a teenage Quaker!—<br />
every conflict, I’m against<br />
and have survived<br />
with lungs on fire and<br />
drunk with the bends…<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeasEdzXH1qeNoWSTaWxkmyOZICYdUzE4Qzy3MJgsI2hIt_HB5DA35VbOrf6z667sgoRTh6JfPm7K6P10bo78sMu-5f21pr3ukXGFuqTk9wA7AuyUht6Fhvhgs6fBuXjFLnkkmoHWpkeU/s1600/BikeMessanger3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeasEdzXH1qeNoWSTaWxkmyOZICYdUzE4Qzy3MJgsI2hIt_HB5DA35VbOrf6z667sgoRTh6JfPm7K6P10bo78sMu-5f21pr3ukXGFuqTk9wA7AuyUht6Fhvhgs6fBuXjFLnkkmoHWpkeU/s320/BikeMessanger3.png" width="239" /></a>
Everything is sweeping vectors<br />
magnitudes and directions<br />
angles of inclination<br />
moments of inertia.<br />
In the goodwill of<br />
the human marketplace<br />
the streets fold and shuffle<br />
like decks of cards and<br />
raucous concertina bellows<br />
while pouting women<br />
beautiful in their boredom<br />
gaze down from their balconettes.<br />
Everything comes and goes<br />
all at once as I do, too.<br />
I crease them<br />
I sew them up<br />
I clip and drag<br />
cross a bumper crop<br />
effortlessly slipping between<br />
objects with a perfect economy<br />
of motion and force,<br />
just like the Day’s light.☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-66275046309397084402016-05-10T22:51:00.001-04:002016-05-10T22:51:10.930-04:00Sometimes when<p dir="ltr">Sometimes when <br>
my neck is jacked up <br>
like this between <br>
the bedpost bars <br>
I can hear <br>
the bells of St. Mary's <br>
calling to prayer. <br>
Then I lie still to hear<br>
the Cardinal's mate<br>
and the Jay's response <br>
in evensong.</p>
☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-42393917818564618732016-04-11T16:01:00.000-04:002016-04-11T16:01:47.549-04:00All of my heroes are teenage girls...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-ltZZUrlBF0wAoPUPnRPB6kN-zJGcmE0AGZUZQg9GJ3CihlMGpXEDl4ktMbcoNgHJlVLlZXajXV9qBo0Oa0CYwgcnFILrGLlaRcsv8_5pLFmvhLxAKUnvwfAB_97GWlIrZLCmnPx9MA/s1600/Rhymes-for-young-ghouls-lowest.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-ltZZUrlBF0wAoPUPnRPB6kN-zJGcmE0AGZUZQg9GJ3CihlMGpXEDl4ktMbcoNgHJlVLlZXajXV9qBo0Oa0CYwgcnFILrGLlaRcsv8_5pLFmvhLxAKUnvwfAB_97GWlIrZLCmnPx9MA/s320/Rhymes-for-young-ghouls-lowest.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<h2>
<b><i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2385195/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Rhymes For Young Ghouls; 2014.</a></i></b></h2>
☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-10183042003257392332015-11-15T20:07:00.000-05:002019-04-06T22:07:11.846-04:00A dullahan told me, while rattling by <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsozd9BgkknyVnMOa5NMLr4T0ly7VuNU_rByM-LxGEVjLdkLbxZydVz4IeJn4n8HOa_-J7Sy4URaJR_RZlIqeotw_lBKdkRO6T54KSX8aiq0DcDImcIxUjflv_P1_bdDrQzJxEBhSh6Uo/s1600/DkBlbUe.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsozd9BgkknyVnMOa5NMLr4T0ly7VuNU_rByM-LxGEVjLdkLbxZydVz4IeJn4n8HOa_-J7Sy4URaJR_RZlIqeotw_lBKdkRO6T54KSX8aiq0DcDImcIxUjflv_P1_bdDrQzJxEBhSh6Uo/s320/DkBlbUe.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5eEv6N-Pak5W9qyb2FYkR3Xx_XPHS0xlE58-CTiyaEDwcPeJTGtxAl5b5lpsMQ_WJegcxdxwBxQddTER7h0ZLN5v6d-5pBtXq7prHQVqVFqAindvhU9NcMkQoCNMPc3tNipCXVaUmII/s1600/500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5eEv6N-Pak5W9qyb2FYkR3Xx_XPHS0xlE58-CTiyaEDwcPeJTGtxAl5b5lpsMQ_WJegcxdxwBxQddTER7h0ZLN5v6d-5pBtXq7prHQVqVFqAindvhU9NcMkQoCNMPc3tNipCXVaUmII/s320/500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-21945963520953569922015-05-27T20:48:00.000-04:002020-02-01T20:26:02.086-05:00Σn[in Hz] ⅟∆τ is constant<div class="p1">
through a coiled copper tube,</div>
<div class="p1">
distilled and dripping with brilliance</div>
<div class="p1">
each drop faceted and radiant</div>
<div class="p1">
a diamond third eye</div>
<div class="p1">
winking in the moonshine</div>
<div class="p1">
a shimmering smile that</div>
<div class="p1">
dissolves sugar cubes</div>
<div class="p1">
from a perforated pewter spoon</div>
<div class="p1">
billowing into milky effluvia</div>
<div class="p1">
cupped in the gentle touch</div>
<div class="p1">
of crystal slightly leaded</div>
<div class="p1">
just to soften against</div>
<div class="p1">
lips that ever thirst</div>
<div class="p1">
more with each passing</div>
<div class="p1">
and are never drained but always</div>
<div class="p1">
prismatic upon consumption.</div>
<div class="p1">
with such a long and slender neck</div>
<div class="p1">
you shall never be emptied</div>
<div class="p1">
no matter how many times</div>
<div class="p1">
your heavy bottom rises.</div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s1600/a_m_logo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="25" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s200/a_m_logo.jpeg" width="25" /></a>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
dropping a needle in your concha,</div>
<div class="p1">
your tympania pierced by a </div>
<div class="p1">
low gauge through which steel</div>
<div class="p1">
the caliber of Big Bertha, </div>
<div class="p1">
bursts with a slight dimpled stretching. </div>
<div class="p1">
the head now a broken womb</div>
<div class="p1">
curst with an inequity</div>
<div class="p1">
poisoned only by the Verb, </div>
<div class="p1">
which disseminates towards</div>
<div class="p1">
a grace that cannot</div>
<div class="p1">
be Earthbound, </div>
<div class="p1">
has upturned heels so vulnerable</div>
<div class="p1">
that are held in scarred palms</div>
<div class="p1">
and are tentatively grasped</div>
<div class="p1">
and touched in a pledge,</div>
<div class="p1">
that wordlessly proclaim</div>
<div class="p1">
a bounty to avoid being</div>
<div class="p1">
turned over to the flag </div>
<div class="p1">
that covers those</div>
<div class="p1">
that bore and kicked</div>
<div class="p1">
the ass to higher</div>
<div class="p1">
platitudes & treasons</div>
<div class="p1">
that shimmer downward,</div>
<div class="p1">
like confetti laced</div>
<div class="p1">
with fallout that rains</div>
<div class="p1">
upon skyclad wooded</div>
<div class="p1">
forms replete with</div>
<div class="p1">
nothing but</div>
<div class="p1">
another</div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s1600/a_m_logo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="25" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s200/a_m_logo.jpeg" width="25" /></a>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
Light twice removed.</div>
<div class="p1">
You fade to black</div>
<div class="p1">
Every time, lunging,</div>
<div class="p1">
Leaving airstrips,</div>
<div class="p1">
And precipices,</div>
<div class="p1">
And the scent of</div>
<div class="p1">
Long nights and</div>
<div class="p1">
No launderings.</div>
<div class="p1">
A plea to linger,</div>
<div class="p1">
Or not, to not </div>
<div class="p1">
Explode into the</div>
<div class="p1">
Everyday of the</div>
<div class="p1">
Everyone, but no</div>
<div class="p1">
Holding you</div>
<div class="p1">
Is like pinching </div>
<div class="p1">
The neck of a taut,</div>
<div class="p1">
Untied balloon</div>
<div class="p1">
In trembling fingers</div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s1600/a_m_logo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="25" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s200/a_m_logo.jpeg" width="25" /></a>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
Her weeps made</div>
<div class="p1">
the sound of</div>
<div class="p1">
duct tape stretched</div>
<div class="p1">
fresh from the roll</div>
<div class="p1">
used to futilely</div>
<div class="p1">
contain the grief that</div>
<div class="p1">
poured from her coeur</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
‘Lest her soul escape</div>
<div class="p1">
like flies from a swatted</div>
<div class="p1">
fruit rind and not remain</div>
<div class="p1">
intact as a beam</div>
<div class="p1">
to be refracted</div>
<div class="p1">
to everywhence.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Is it tract, or transit</div>
<div class="p1">
trajectory, or the impact</div>
<div class="p1">
that makes this mote</div>
<div class="p1">
upon my eye?</div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s1600/a_m_logo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="25" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3m475y8Z_rtKZXcCp4DcA3dGlaogR_tiWzmbrIpK95bWDKFDeeUq2ay2NLM0eZnalDg2moK8mAxUAZ3ygm3ztO2YMtAwhRz8ZkOj-ZjRi8M1-z2PLOw29UHLJ0k85Znnkzrdc1Evl5-E/s200/a_m_logo.jpeg" width="25" /></a>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
You make me shiver, Arachne,</div>
<div class="p1">
Hanging in your web with another</div>
<div class="p1">
Enshrouded victim, whom you</div>
<div class="p1">
caress and suck at like</div>
<div class="p1">
A lover, jetting about his still</div>
<div class="p1">
twitching body, kissing him</div>
<div class="p1">
all over, between silver thread.</div>
<div class="p1">
Even you cannot but help</div>
<div class="p1">
to raise a leg and shake it in</div>
<div class="p1">
Ecstacy.</div>
☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-40029508947319665102014-09-03T21:25:00.002-04:002014-09-08T22:07:17.715-04:00never bet on saving a dancer's daylight <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkbid4uhSY3mVHyxF55-6AIWQ7aakHIx_Zmia7KHgN5Eik667XLJx6SjhDUO-2QoIrmpBMLoHfBS7Cr5NT5qFTfPi3Tjv1msHbeCg9FbJhoi-ATu6bQ3etCQKCMGNYQVgr3P3ff-c4RY/s1600/dagny_i_blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkbid4uhSY3mVHyxF55-6AIWQ7aakHIx_Zmia7KHgN5Eik667XLJx6SjhDUO-2QoIrmpBMLoHfBS7Cr5NT5qFTfPi3Tjv1msHbeCg9FbJhoi-ATu6bQ3etCQKCMGNYQVgr3P3ff-c4RY/s1600/dagny_i_blog.jpg" height="290" width="148" /></a>when we finally met<br />
it was already the late afternoon<br />
in the day of our time together<br />
when you got off the bus<br />
and I saw you in your sundress<br />
how you waited with girlish anxiety<br />
for the long traffic light to change<br />
so you could cross over to me<br />
I knew I had the green light<br />
to be with you<br />
for the short time you'd be here<br />
I heard there's a rook, you said<br />
sphinx-like smile<br />
eager to start to explore<br />
<br />
there were no dirges as<br />
we tripped over worn gravestones<br />
and spider-webbed crypts<br />
remarking more about the life<br />
left in the summer and the day<br />
and in the other animals around us<br />
wild turkeys puffed up at us<br />
young rabbits ran away halfhearted<br />
not able to pass up good clover<br />
a young falcon gazed long<br />
down at me<br />
my totem giving me permission<br />
to be me<br />
what you would let me do<br />
<br />
I miserably tried to get you<br />
to sit by me hidden in the dell<br />
I wanted to seize you<br />
and run my hand up your dress<br />
feel your dancer's thigh and butt<br />
that's why I laughed when later<br />
you revealed you wanted to<br />
take me in your mouth<br />
on top of the rook<br />
the roof of the Hub<br />
treetops already blanching<br />
but the yard's workmen disturbed us<br />
<br />
by the reflecting pond<br />
while we talked of politics and feminism<br />
I looked down your dress wanting<br />
to see the nipple of your small breast<br />
I wanted more of what I could see<br />
I wonder if I'd have been surprised<br />
it was pierced if I saw it<br />
then later only pleasantly so<br />
and too when I lifted your dress<br />
kissing your stomach and found<br />
you were shorn<br />
you are a dancer after all<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nth7ewC749txxrgHapVYxlxlDYwEC8Mv8DGVS6plGJR7i3ezB4031vlEEQ8S8Ish7-Ub2gJk7N5yQ6DD7-3f8qKcN3Y02dcUViBxRTYCmJHpMgIpvzzqauEmAm_UMF0bLt8XdVKtkrM/s1600/dagny_ii_blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nth7ewC749txxrgHapVYxlxlDYwEC8Mv8DGVS6plGJR7i3ezB4031vlEEQ8S8Ish7-Ub2gJk7N5yQ6DD7-3f8qKcN3Y02dcUViBxRTYCmJHpMgIpvzzqauEmAm_UMF0bLt8XdVKtkrM/s1600/dagny_ii_blog.jpg" height="350" width="150" /></a>and funny too how I ridiculously<br />
asked if you'd like to come to my home<br />
and your concession was so blasé<br />
I was still perplexed about<br />
that sphinx-like smile<br />
at my place I tried to think quick<br />
about how to invite you to my room<br />
and you honed in on my photo<br />
of victorious Victoria Pendleton<br />
I mumbled a few things and then<br />
took you in my arms and kissed you<br />
to shut you up<br />
so you'd not wake my housemate<br />
<br />
we both had surprises for each other<br />
when we stripped one another<br />
rocked and flickered in candlelight<br />
cool sweat coating us for hours<br />
your brown eyes twinkling in candle-dance<br />
with each thrust<br />
deforming that cryptic inscrutable smile<br />
in your rise and peak<br />
shudder and fall<br />
nice to meet you we joked<br />
glad you stopped by<br />
<br />
we paused at turns<br />
I didn't want to finish what<br />
your exit would<br />
we enjoyed our company our secrets<br />
our jokes our honesty<br />
and when the car came to pick you up<br />
I should have known it was<br />
already midnight in the day<br />
of our time together☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-79171914714077866502014-07-02T10:25:00.001-04:002014-07-02T13:49:21.360-04:00Recently Uncovered Revolutionary War Document Featured In An Omnific Anthology— M'Lady's Secret Service<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Taking-Liberties-Yankee-Doodle-Anthology-ebook/dp/B00LFOWTCM/ref=sr_1_11?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1404230983&sr=1-11&keywords=Taking+liberties" target="_blank">Taking Liberties: A Yankee Doodle Dandy Erotic Anthology</a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwoUu3xnV_bpG8SmWSDxUjSmRPAqvRJX96aQg83CzzVCdGmUBudkoq7hLgVjms-DwObRd9845_LGU1IgWFfPg_7FQIVig4EjxQL_1xrTbLMqxHmEMVVu28XSu5CSo2zn2FKlbRe3QeiU/s1600/taking+liberties+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwoUu3xnV_bpG8SmWSDxUjSmRPAqvRJX96aQg83CzzVCdGmUBudkoq7hLgVjms-DwObRd9845_LGU1IgWFfPg_7FQIVig4EjxQL_1xrTbLMqxHmEMVVu28XSu5CSo2zn2FKlbRe3QeiU/s1600/taking+liberties+cover.jpg" height="320" width="205" /></a><br />
A recent contribution to <i>Comin' Up Holdin' Darts</i> by the grand-daughter of Vivian Rider called <i>M'Lady's Secret Service</i> has been published in an anthology put out by <a href="http://www.omnificpublishing.com/" target="_blank">Omnific Publishing</a>. Pick it up before the King suppresses it for sedition...<br />
<br />☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-14318757357204564552014-01-01T02:12:00.002-05:002014-01-30T03:44:30.731-05:00Damn, son... old crank complains about kids today at shows— ƱZ at Rumor 12/26/13<i>Originally drafted December 27, 2013 at 3:02am</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb739kS07-TMla50YsyfzrC186mK50PpoFsoTDDXqV4d3QYLhJDloI2n1Sztpiqkvk8JYC1D5RBo6IS3fHaYDXlljJhixhzN6rd4MCa-UEyA56-Nk9i7u4GeA5bfR3rKFLEv4xprRDxbQ/s1600/uz_xmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb739kS07-TMla50YsyfzrC186mK50PpoFsoTDDXqV4d3QYLhJDloI2n1Sztpiqkvk8JYC1D5RBo6IS3fHaYDXlljJhixhzN6rd4MCa-UEyA56-Nk9i7u4GeA5bfR3rKFLEv4xprRDxbQ/s400/uz_xmas.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
So, I went to go see <br />
︻╦╤─ ƱZ ─╤╦︻, <br />
who is a hardcore trap act— he plays with a mask and no one knows who he is— and the show was so f'd up, or I'm getting real old. The music was incredible, crunchy and glitchy sub-sonic hard beats. I only drank three 8 oz Red Bulls, and with the booming sound and lights and visuals and the writhing post-teens, a few times I wondered if I got slipped something, because I felt transported to some ethereal bacchanal purgatory. It was hot, but I don't get out much.<br />
<br />
This effect began when the security guy at the door made me raise my arms Christ-like, and he actually waited for the bass-drop from the club's interior music to do the weirdest, furious frisk I've ever gotten. As I went through the gauntlet to get in a few people complimented me on my <a href="http://dustrialstreetwear.spreadshirt.com/" target="_blank"><b>Dustrial</b></a> t-shirt and <b><a href="http://mishkanyc.com/store" target="_blank">Мишка</a> </b>gear— considering the fact that I knew I looked like an old n00b, I took it as sarcasm and felt self-conscious.<br />
<br />
Otherwise the crowd was a huge case of class transvestism where all these young super skinny girls dressed as trashy as possible like second-string strippers. The guys were all uniform and seemed under-grown in stunted puerile sub-maleness. When the dudes danced with each other, they did this gang$ing$-vogue thing, busting moves from bad promo photos of hip-hop acts from the '90s to a 4:4 beat. When they danced with the girls it was in a hyperbolic pantomime of being presented with presents on Christmas morning, and then they fell into a lackluster parody of the girls' failed grind and wiggle. Roaming photographers only added to the rippling spasms which were rewarded with dude's business card.<br />
<br />
One girl had a Santa-like bathrobe clutched tightly around her. She jumped on a table, whipping it open revealing ample jiggle and shake, popping out of a "dress" that was like a tight fitting cannoli shell of some man-made plastic that was more midsection-covering than anything. Since there was no show-stopping reaction, she covered herself back up and scuttled off pouting. Another butch punk girl roughly pegged her girlfriend right in front of me.<br />
<br />
I stayed in the same place, leaning against a pillar the whole show and a few girls playfully bumped me asking me why I wouldn't dance. Rather than shout over the noise, that as an old Boston punk I was accustomed to standing fixed in place and listening, and maybe bobbing my head in approval, as we all did back in the day, I said, "I'm just here for the music-- what are you here for?"<br />
<br />
The highlight of the night was getting my coat back from the less than diligent coat check girl. The layout of the club had a stairway that the drunk, rolling kids stumbled down into a space smaller than my bedroom with three choices that were difficult to make for most who arrived there, two separate bathrooms, and the coat check. The girl was there with a less than patient security dude. As the crowd piled in, drunk kids, eyes wide with vanished pupils crushed and surged like oversexed zombies. I really wasn't sure what the criteria was for being charged with groping, but I definitely felt cheapened by a few uncomfortable moments of unwelcomed frottage.<br />
<br />
At one point some girl yelled something unintelligible and punched a guy in the head several times. This caused the security guard to leave, and service slowed while the crowd began to shout "USA, USA, etc." if it was foreigners holding up the line, or barking "Coatcheck?" to which several returned the query in good comedic timing. I glared at the few who tried to cut in front of me and they yielded the way. I handed my ticket with a dollar bill to the security guy who had returned, got my coat quickly, and I turned to fight the crowd upstream. They actually parted, yelling, "Let him through!" One chimed in, "He's a handsome young man!" To which I replied, "It's my birthday." Since it was after midnight, I was 45.☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-55029313598111994782013-11-03T00:30:00.000-04:002013-11-03T22:56:44.816-05:00Route Seventy-three; 'Meet me at da Dunkins'there's this couple<br />
who ride my bus<br />
they look like<br />
they're serious pillheads<br />
opiates and benzos<br />
they are probably<br />
much older then they look<br />
but they've been together<br />
a long time<br />
you can tell<br />
because they<br />
look so much alike<br />
they have the same expression<br />
all the time<br />
their faces are<br />
deeply creased and<br />
chaotic dashed lines<br />
mar everywhere else<br />
the skin looks like<br />
it is about to slide<br />
off their skulls<br />
their eyelids hang<br />
like thick heavy awnings<br />
i've never seen<br />
their eyes open<br />
just squinting enough<br />
to scratch tickets<br />
or screw with an old phone<br />
their mouths share<br />
the same grim frown<br />
i've never seen<br />
if they have teeth but<br />
they have too much cheek<br />
it hangs loose on the sides<br />
while their neck skin<br />
is shrinkwrapped<br />
under their jaws<br />
they have the same<br />
nasal raspy whine<br />
but his is a tone<br />
or two lower<br />
they always wear shapeless<br />
boston sports fan<br />
activewear<br />
and faded baggy unisex jeans<br />
their slouching posture<br />makes their bodies look like<br />
they are about to<br />
slide off their Selves<br />
so much do they look alike<br />
they both wear a lot of<br />
cheap yellow gold<br />
he has big ink blots for tattoos<br />
the high-dollar tickets<br />
they scratch<br />
have odds of 1 : 8.33<br />
for even money<br />
[i looked it up]<br />
they mumble to themselves<br />
or each other<br />
while they scratch them<br />
their phone conversations<br />
are insane<br />
like today it was only her<br />
i sat two seats away<br />
she fiddled with an<br />
old junk phone<br />
it rang and she answered it<br />
hello<br />
hello<br />
hello<br />
hello<br />
each time her tone was<br />
more confused and irritated<br />
a question to the void<br />
i wondered how it<br />
would be to<br />
live like that<br />
two stops before<br />
the train station<br />
she made a call<br />
every thing she said<br />
was a loud confused question<br />
lynn<br />
hello<br />
lynn<br />
i'm almost dere<br />
where d'ya<br />
where d'ya wanna ta meet me<br />
i'm on da bus<br />
almost ta hahvahd<br />
da seventie-tree<br />
at da station<br />
what<br />
what<br />
yur goin in an out<br />
yur goin<br />
i'm almost at da tunnel<br />
where<br />
where<br />
mmm<br />
ah<br />
da dunkins<br />
da dunkins<br />
mmm<br />
by da trains<br />
da dunkins by da trains<br />
downstayahs<br />
okay<br />
i'll be dere<br />
da dunkins by da trains<br />
a few min<br />
i'm going down da tunnel now<br />
i'll be right dere<br />
yeh<br />
bye<br />
yeh<br />
oink-ok<br />
bye<br />
when i got off the bus<br />
i had to get away from her<br />
as fast as i could<br />
while waiting to pay my fare<br />
in the station by the trains<br />
i looked over at the dunkins<br />
lynn was there<br />
dirty blond hair<br />
pulled back<br />
in a tight ponytail<br />
with matching grey<br />
baggy sweatpants and shirt<br />
and immaculate white sneakers☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-62141113426097441552013-06-29T23:15:00.002-04:002013-06-29T23:22:27.101-04:00Steppin' wid Sweetums || Über 52<b>Steppin' wid Sweetums</b> || <a class="soundTitle__username sc-link-light" href="https://soundcloud.com/erik-ellis"><b><i>Über 52</i></b></a><br />
<i>Direct link:</i><a href="http://www.blogger.com/%C2%A0http://snd.sc/11Vp226" target="_blank"> <i>http://snd.sc/11Vp226</i></a><br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F99003246" width="100%"></iframe>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-14854097640995123452013-06-08T18:26:00.000-04:002013-06-08T23:54:20.805-04:00Maturation of Wine || Trans. by L.S. Todt:<i>Trans. by <b>L.S. Todt</b>:</i><br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgItJTXEbaVySvCC7osAnLA7kuWZHCenQd838lAiZafveu6JJ1sHf1cUMPdo9IjM6WSyqSACXGdbtB74XUcX0POATZeEonGQvfLB5vfAZxgqqCgGc7WibmVkHQO0-2VR1UKh3kNGsZb0/s1600/the-boy-bacchus-1620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgItJTXEbaVySvCC7osAnLA7kuWZHCenQd838lAiZafveu6JJ1sHf1cUMPdo9IjM6WSyqSACXGdbtB74XUcX0POATZeEonGQvfLB5vfAZxgqqCgGc7WibmVkHQO0-2VR1UKh3kNGsZb0/s320/the-boy-bacchus-1620.jpg" width="221"></a>Note to the Editors. <i>While at the farmsale of a local vintner, I came across a small and curious volume in a box of old books. The entire book was in Old French, with the above title. The first part was a botanical guide to different types of grapes for wine, and the second was concerned with the process of blending and ageing them. The third seemed to be a fragment of a novel entitled "Imperator Du Vin." I believe this translation would be of interest to your readers.</i><br>
<br>
It is with great sorrow and desolation that I, Tria Oculo, scribe to my Liege, tell of His last days. It was my news of the bearded Nazarene that had stricken him with that perpetual ennui of the day after. It was I who provoked in Him, The Deep Sounder, the desire to return to Thebes. I have forsaken my own savoir and Gentle Master.<br>
<br>
He who saved me, a Sacred Virgin of Naxos, from the invading Herculi. Those infidels who violated me, rendering mute and deaf. It was Bacchus, the Careless Lord, whom I saved and committed to another realm<br>
<br>
Since the massacre of his followers and Constantine’s conversion of the Empire to the Christ, we had taken refuge the deserted estate of a bankrupt vintner in Illyricum. That land, as much of the Empire had ceased to be fertile. The numbers of my Lord's worshiper's had dwindled, it was only a few who declared their devotion, and still it was only convenient for them to do so.<br>
<br>
There was Debacchus, that whimpering simp of ill-prudus, who was the ungrateful son of my Liege and an acolyte of Medea. He whom the Father of Liberty did take charge over to avoid suit of paternity and palimony from the <i>causidicus</i>. Those are dark days when a God can be sued.<br>
<br>
And Sardia Licentia, whom Sapho's high priestess did lure down from the Caucus range with a trail of oysters and mussels, to a boat filled with lobsters and crabs and, set sail for Lesbos. There she was drafted into service, and achieved the rank of Sergeant-at-Arms. However having hunted all the stags and trapped all the ganders of that isle she fell victim to Diana's jealousy, and she was forced to wander as the eternal huntress. Having been intrigued with the strength and fierceness of the Bacchanals, particularly my Liege’s own aunts, she was mercenaried as His protector.<br>
<br>
By far His Most Fidelus was Bababalouk, the Great Dark Giant of Tremendous Girth, the former Emperor of Sudan, who was enslaved by the Perses and made a eunuch for their petty harems. Meus Rex did find him in the woods, having escaped and suffering fron several wounds in the belly from their scimitars. The oil that oozed from his avulsions was tapped into our empty lamps, which lit the many nights he was nursed to health with grapes and olives. Bababalouk’s devotion never wavered and for this Bacchus frequently restored him to his former <i>virilitas</i>.<br>
<br>
The Maenads, those most mysterious of spirits, are those who always accompany and herald Him. Some say they are simulacra of the nurses of Jove's Most Pious Bastard, to others they are his incarnated aunts, the daughters of Cadmus. It is they who shine in the drunken maid's eye. Their form is ever shifting, their number unknown, both befit their fancy. Sometimes they are swarm of thighs and breasts, of carameled hair, kohled eyelids, and hungry mouths. Other times, as then upon our departure from that refuge in the hills, they took the shape of five Egyptian slave girls with <i>tibae </i>and <i>sistrum</i>, accompanied by a peacock and his hen who with their music they incited into a mating dance.<br>
<br>
Bacchus' litter was supported by a company of statues of soldiers from the court of Pluto, who in flesh were victims of the Gorgon's, gaze. They had been reanimated for divine attention, and many were missing noses, heads or arms lost in faithful service.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw_z4_S5GFIqYdrxT0rUNmiQwcR5iMijusRoseE2-YLtRDOXlnc6w-Qi-F-H3kZf4D2nokyY-D-rtkvLN6omMNeTkHp-XV8Rc8_scB3EquZqh9htYFrerygoux_9hkIpHSL_6IxdnE-0/s1600/Drinking-Bacchus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw_z4_S5GFIqYdrxT0rUNmiQwcR5iMijusRoseE2-YLtRDOXlnc6w-Qi-F-H3kZf4D2nokyY-D-rtkvLN6omMNeTkHp-XV8Rc8_scB3EquZqh9htYFrerygoux_9hkIpHSL_6IxdnE-0/s320/Drinking-Bacchus.jpg" width="246"></a>We had journeyed far in the Dalmatian Mountains. into the glowing hills of Uranium, whose realm was governed by Regina Cerratonium. She was a barren queen who desired a great son to rule over her decrepit kingdom. All the young men had expired from exhaustion from her wanton, yet futile desire. Those that were virile enough to survive the crush of her great thighs, had paid for their efforts of spilling their seed into her broken womb with their heads. Her court now depleted, she took audience only with the vermin that proliferated in great abundance. She greatly admired these rats, for their ability to reproduce, and hoped vainly that their fertility would somehow relieve her of her great desire.<br>
<br>
She never left her bed, a great walled eiderdown sunken in the middle of her chambers, and let these rodents scurry freely about in her presence. She cooed to them and spoke soft and lovingly, declaring them her children.<br>
<br>
<a href="http://www.cominupholdindarts.com/2013/06/maturation-of-wine-trans-by-ls-todt.html#more">More on the Jump »</a>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-39083445827637535962013-05-29T14:06:00.000-04:002013-05-29T14:06:35.159-04:00Sister Autumnal by Charlotte Praecox Regina<b>Sister Autumnal</b> <i>by Charlotte Praecox Regina</i><br />
<br />
Sister Autumnal<br />
you of equal night<br />
how you blush<br />
in the weary hour<br />
of fading & lighted touches<br />
which push us beneath<br />
quilted bed clothes<br />
embroidered<br />
with emblazoned<br />
Maples & Elms<br />
with lips stained<br />
by Blackberries,<br />
your nape<br />
smells of greened Apples<br />
you bring me deeper<br />
to embrace<br />
this dark & great slumber☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-2024096327015428952012-12-20T13:41:00.000-05:002012-12-20T13:49:12.364-05:00GHETTO ASS WITCH (FEAT. GVCCI-HVCCI) [BLIND BINDINGS REMIX]<div class="trackView leftMiddleColumns has-art" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/MusicRecording" style="float: left; line-height: 14px; width: 765px;">
<div id="name-section" style="float: left;">
<h2 class="trackTitle" itemprop="name" style="line-height: 0.97em; margin: 0px 0.7em 0.2em 0px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">GHETTO ASS WITCH (FEAT. GVCCI-HVCCI) <br />[BLIND BINDINGS REMIX]</span></h2>
<h3 class="albumTitle" style="font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; width: 385px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: normal;">f<span style="font-family: inherit;">rom <span itemprop="inAlbum" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/MusicAlbum"><a href="http://ritualz.bandcamp.com/album/ghetto-ass-witch-remixes-volume-one" target="_blank">GHETTO ASS WITCH - REMIXES VOLUME ONE</a> </span>by <span itemprop="byArtist"><a href="http://ritualz.net/" style="cursor: pointer; text-decoration: initial;" target="_blank">RITUALZ</a></span></span></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<br />
<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/v=2/track=1806188708/size=tall/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/transparent=true/" style="display: block; height: 270px; position: relative; width: 150px;" width="150">&lt;a href="http://ritualz.bandcamp.com/track/ghetto-ass-witch-feat-gvcci-hvcci-blind-bindings-remix"&gt;GHETTO ASS WITCH (FEAT. GVCCI-HVCCI) [BLIND BINDINGS REMIX] by RITUALZ&lt;/a&gt;</iframe>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-79964199418137263442012-10-06T15:45:00.001-04:002013-03-14T17:18:38.377-04:00Rich October Burn<br />
rich October burn,<br />
where the Sun plays<br />
across the face like<br />
a lover's smile<br />
upon parting.<br />
I turn and hold the<br />
door from closing<br />
and kiss her as it's ajar.<br />
I touch her crotch<br />
and she laughs and<br />
leans on the door<br />
harder which closes<br />
yielding to my too<br />
gentle pressure.<br />
door latch,<br />
and down the stairs,<br />
my heart bounces<br />
and out onto the street.☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-15008592615976350232012-09-30T15:58:00.002-04:002012-09-30T16:06:23.530-04:00And Now a Word From Our Sponsors...With Dorothy Gray's Salon Cold Cream, you know you remove dirt— and more importantly— every trace of makeup and atomic fallout that can clog pores. Recommended for a young military industrial complexion. Because a clean communist-free skin is a healthy all-American skin.<br />
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Don't forget to send away for the Atomic Test Booklet!☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-5702271836308365022012-09-05T15:28:00.000-04:002012-09-05T15:33:31.520-04:00BRUXA || VICTIMEYEZ<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="http://soundcloud.com/bruxa-1/sets/victimeyez" target="_blank">BUXA || VICTIMEYEZ</a><br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="http://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Fplaylists%2F2396822&show_artwork=true" width="100%"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://i1.sndcdn.com/artworks-000029130980-83uage-crop.jpg?b96a101" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="http://i1.sndcdn.com/artworks-000029130980-83uage-crop.jpg?b96a101" width="135" /></a><br />
Free download on Bandcamp:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://mishkanyc.bandcamp.com/album/victimeyez">Bruxa || Victimeyez</a><br />
<a href="http://mishkanyc.bandcamp.com/album/victimeyez">http://mishkanyc.bandcamp.com/album/victimeyez</a>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-56712449395548449992012-08-19T00:26:00.000-04:002012-08-19T04:25:28.307-04:00A Day In the Half-life
<i>To the reader: A special agent to a federal bureau, left this file at the apartment of an avid fan, who then submitted it to us, with you in mind.</i><br><br>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCBHWZawYwb1Qd35hS_q8E-5ZLEIE9Pi1xmzHmGGXmF3gJInUcuPPiCLejJRLPfRlzvXcna7XLQv0eVv-v_oRKb1koojknHE5zgym22mcskQEvsadwZsIkS_ircs4EsE44JFrLBYeGRn4/s1600/oldman.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCBHWZawYwb1Qd35hS_q8E-5ZLEIE9Pi1xmzHmGGXmF3gJInUcuPPiCLejJRLPfRlzvXcna7XLQv0eVv-v_oRKb1koojknHE5zgym22mcskQEvsadwZsIkS_ircs4EsE44JFrLBYeGRn4/s320/oldman.tiff" width="256"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;"><i>He was ideology and I was methodology. </i></span> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This is hardly a confessional. It is not a rail or rant. Neither William Chadwick nor I are weird beardos hunkered down in the woods. Nor are we gun-toting white power right-wingers. This is to prove how our project failed due to the very elements we were compelled to eradicate; the sedentary incompetence that has infected this country.
<br><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I arrived at
Logan Airport in Boston late, due to fog, one morning last September. My only
luggage was carry-on, a briefcase containing a neutron bomb that would wipe out
the Greater Boston Area up to the Raytheon plant in Wilmington. I wasn’t
nervous about the time, once I made the drop I had to catch a flight to St
Martin by 3:30. At 5:30, in rush hour traffic, atonement would be made. </span>
<br><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chadwick and I
went to MIT together & graduated in 1949, both with Master’s degrees in
physics. He was the beautiful bastard, and I the awkward Wunderkind. He was the
idea man, and I the one who made the ideas real. He got the gorgeous women, and
I got their frumpy friends. He was ideology and I was methodology. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We were in school
during the war. Chadwick’s father, who was inspirational to us both,
sympathized with the Fascists in the face of the Communist agenda in America.
The Cold War reinforced this sentiment in our minds; there was none of our
hearts involved. It was this patriarch who made me aware that the underclasses
must be put down and their proliferation halted. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I took a cab from
the airport and had driver, a Caribbean, drop me off at Harrison and Stuart, in
the middle of Chinatown, in what’s referred to as the Combat Zone. I wanted to
soak up the filth, and clear my mind before the big event. I started walking
west, toward the Back Bay, where the drop zone was. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the New
England Medical Center, I passed mothers holding bald children whose pallor was
green. I grinned, thinking, “Soon your cancer will be burned out.” </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The two of us
built bombs in California. We always worked for the government, in some capacity,
up until the eighties. Because of cutbacks, I then began to do consultations
for nuclear medicine. The crowning moment in my career was a speech delivered
to the American Oncological Society. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Individuals are
the rebel cells. Affecting all others. They metastasize against society.” With
this future credo already entrenched, business was good through the sixties. As
the decade closed, the sympathies toward a <i>Free Burn Society</i> improved. The big
guns wavered from outward to in. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From Rutherford’s
early experiments to Cockcroft’s and Wilson’s, the mission was clear: to
accelerate the human race to a singular and pure destiny. But these men of the
highest ideals, only thinking in platitudes amongst the clouds, had no
awareness of the glutting masses, which labored, but prevented this flight from
even beginning. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chadwick and I
were the medium through which these lofty dreams were to be made real, or at
least truly begun. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But indeed, today
it had begun. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Though even as a
body fights a foreign infection from without, how does one amass an army to
fight against those most lethal to the self, the enemy within, soldiers from
the order of their own? </span>
<br><br>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Nothing is more
dangerous or crippling than a revolution from inside the home ranks. But
occupation need not be taken battle by battle. But, by the displacement of
sheer numbers using up too many resources. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Case in point,
the supposed invasion of barbarian hordes. The Eastern and Northern Europeans tribes’
progress into the Mediterranean region was recorded by those whose land was
taken up by the uncivilized brutes. These brutes, however, had no written
language to record their own migrations. Thus the record is one-sided. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“They chose to
have only an oral history, not for lack of advancement, but for higher ideals. The
barbarians chose not to develop a written language, because in their own
thinking, that would lead to a sedentary populace, which leads to kings and tyranny. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmUc17Fo05tqciGa56LfSuhc-sIxkzbCunTSRkUQX7V7Qi5PPTUnp408sBsk9jPJhsx4g4TzO__Gg7HIUbDHvwL_DPvNTtL7KHgYhq5109l7iHSV6l0c-qDCwSuY4QQJiu8tt6TUL9Gw/s1600/oldman32.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmUc17Fo05tqciGa56LfSuhc-sIxkzbCunTSRkUQX7V7Qi5PPTUnp408sBsk9jPJhsx4g4TzO__Gg7HIUbDHvwL_DPvNTtL7KHgYhq5109l7iHSV6l0c-qDCwSuY4QQJiu8tt6TUL9Gw/s320/oldman32.tiff" width="212"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;"><i>As we are earthbound by the laws of physics, without<br>these laws we would have no hope of ever lifting off it.</i></span>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“They chose
personal freedom over civil order, a choice that still divides this world
today. And the hardest choice for any man. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Order cannot be
seen as unhealthy or unfree. As we are earthbound by the laws of physics,
without these laws we would have no hope of ever lifting off it. As a body
becomes more complex, more order must be enforced, or the system comes in
conflict, and a fugue ensues resulting in cannibalism of the self.” </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I walked swiftly
over the Harrison Street Bridge, spanning across the expressway. The wind was
cutting. Passing the <i>Boston Herald</i>, I
thought of how the paper declined into a mere tabloid, yet tried to maintain
its <i>status quo</i>, working-class roots.
Its lies were thinner than its third page. The liberalist <i>Globe</i> wasn’t much better. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The area was
desolate now. Some rummies collected like trash in the wind. In an alcove, one
pushed another while the others yelled. He reeled around, drunken, urinating
and stumbling. Barely breaking his fall, he leaned on the trunk of a car, urine
still cascading onto the middle of the sidewalk. The scent of his sick, fetid
water knifed along with the wind. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I made my way
onto Appleton Street, and took a left onto Clarendon, and soon was in the now eclectic
South End neighborhood. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Three fourteen
year olds offered, mostly jokingly, to sell me heroin and then threatened to “kick
the shit out of me.” A bug-eyed woman, face speckled with sores, said she’d “suck
me for a rock.” The fact that I, a 73 year-old scientist, could be a part of
their universe seemed to their bleary perceptions, perfectly normal. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Two men window
shopped, oohing at a feathered dress, and then looked on into a shop that body
pierced. They held hands, and as I walked by, one reflexively and openly
stroked the other’s buttocks. </span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br><br></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Two blocks down
Columbus, I hooked a right onto Exeter, for a short walk to the Back Bay. The
drop zone, the Prudential Building, had been bobbing and weaving across the
rooftops. </span>
<a href="http://www.cominupholdindarts.com/2012/08/a-day-in-half-life.html#more">More on the Jump »</a>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-69894930841555826372012-08-18T21:49:00.001-04:002020-02-02T03:31:58.035-05:00To Be Holding the Eye<i>To the reader: A federal coroner was in town for the weekend recently. She was caught short with a steep bar tab. The editors were only too happy to help out, and received this manuscript as a token of gratitude.</i><br>
<br>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKJyPzb2HEWnQ6uUWj92gbwSuEm3wuM6jtC_oHJPLoudDWoW1bdYEEyvHF3HsIPbamMKWyIE3mW3zhzPlcu0gk02JWT79NfHj4Wo9ef-KwKJt38wJ1k3fIkMD3shFCnYGDgpVX74_c4A/s1600/EYEHAND_blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKJyPzb2HEWnQ6uUWj92gbwSuEm3wuM6jtC_oHJPLoudDWoW1bdYEEyvHF3HsIPbamMKWyIE3mW3zhzPlcu0gk02JWT79NfHj4Wo9ef-KwKJt38wJ1k3fIkMD3shFCnYGDgpVX74_c4A/s320/EYEHAND_blog.jpg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="text-align: start;">In terror I... beheld the living machines <br>of my mates standing before me.</span> </span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In 1954 there was an atomic test that was part of Castle Project. It was a 13.5 megaton device called Yankee Shot, and was discharged somewhere in the Pacific Proving Ground. That it happened, of course, is of some importance, but for the sake of my story it is but one brief shining silent instant.<br>
<br>
I was a Radio Engineer for the Navy. We were to witness the blast topside, standing at attention, with a hand covering our eyes, in some grim salute. At the time of the blast, for a frightful moment I could see not only the bones in my hands, but the network of nerves and blood coursing through it. In terror I dropped it from my face, and beheld the living machines of my mates standing before me.<br>
<br>
I was dispatched to one of the decommissioned vessels that had remained afloat, to test the electronic equipment. This test was intended to be done on merely a pass-or-fail basis, the idea was to get in and then get out fast before things got too hot.<br>
<br>
My preliminary testing showed that most of the gear's internal resistance had dropped to zero. This, of course, was impossible, but even my meters were cased in lead, so I trusted the reading.<br>
<br>
I decided to extend my stay to pursue this theory, as I was bucking for a commission and transfer. In the middle of my testing, I heard a squad hit the deck hard, and quickly descend the stairs.<br>
<br>
"Jumpin' Jay-hoo Mister! Ain't your brain getting too hot down here?" It was Commodore Bracken, an egghead, and some MPs.<br>
<br>
"Sir, no sir. I was running some tests on the suspected zero internal resistance of the radio equipment, sir."<br>
<br>
"Well sir, you can suspect your ass is going to experience some zero internal resistance with my boot if it doesn't get topside stat."<br>
<br>
"No, let him speak." The egghead hissed like a goose in his white protective gear. He was the only one of us decked out for the holiday. As Bracken glared at him, the ever helpful MPs roughed me up the steps.<br>
<br>
Anyway, after getting out of a failed career in the Navy, I wound up repairing appliances for some slave-driving company in Poughkeepsie. I had some innate knowledge in the field of fixing washing machines, refrigerators, and dishwashers. I'd just look them over, make some polite chit-chat, and be outdoors, fending off the appreciative thanks of bored homemakers.<br>
<br>
Some portion of the good sense of duty that I had managed to glean from the Navy kept me pretty square until about the summer of '66.<br>
<br>
I was at some place on Lawndale, which was inhabited by the wife of some pawn-broker, by the look of all the gold dripping off her. She answered the door draped the doily from the end-table, and was smoking a 120mm cigarette whose last half was stained red with lipstick.<br>
<br>
I was hungry and grumpy in the humid afternoon, with donuts and coffee straining in my abdominal cavity. I was going to play this one.<br>
<br>
"Howdy, ma'm."<br>
<br>
Disinterest.<br>
<br>
"Mighty hot today."<br>
<br>
Apathy.<br>
<br>
"What's the problem?" Entering the kitchen, I saw it was the fridge and only a fuse at that.<br>
<br>
"Fridge." She said, squinting through cobalt eye-shadow. "Want a drink?" She was a bit puckered.<br>
<br>
"That would be mighty kind of you." I palmed a 600 amp cartridge in one hand. Pulling out the appliance out a few inches, I popped the dead fuse out, and slipped in the new one. It hummed alive.<br>
<br>
"Yay..." she intoned flatly, handing me a Bloody Mary. "My <i>husband</i>...," she said the word with disdain, "...will be very happy. <i>Cheapprick</i>!"<br>
<br>
She trotted back to the counter, boozy on high heels, and put her big ass up on top of it. She fished out another cigarette while giving me a kind of "get to work" look.<br>
<br>
"Will your husband be home soon to thank me?" My professional pride was hurt. I stood and began unzipping my coveralls, which were older than me, and stank of sewage.<br>
<br>
She stuck most of the butt down her throat and sucked hard. The pigments in her heavily painted face irradiated, glowing under the sudden flush of blood in her heat.<br>
<br>
"He told me to thank you myself."<br>
<a href="http://www.cominupholdindarts.com/2012/08/to-reader-federal-coroner-was-in-town.html#more">More on the Jump »</a>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1245886895870016484.post-11212593078707932602012-07-15T22:17:00.000-04:002012-07-15T22:25:43.745-04:00"UFO" Siting at the Closing Ceremony of the 1984 Summer Olympic Games in Los Angeles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I found some weird thread with a prediction about an alien, or a least a fake alien, invasion during the 2012 Summer Olympic Games, most likely occurring during the 12 August closing ceremony. There was during the closing ceremony of the 1984 Summer Olympic Games in Los Angeles an elaborately staged "UFO" siting that happened between the extinguishing of the Olympic flame and the reading of a poem attributed to <i>a group named Pindar</i> by the announcer, and the flash appearance of an <i>alien</i>— all before Lionel Richie busts in with <i>All Night Long</i>. Check it out, it's pretty funny. </div>
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[ed. note: <i>The reference by the announcer to the poem has been picked up by conspiracy theorists as a convenient slip. Pindar was a Greek poet (d. 443 BC) who did write </i>victory poems<i>, but Pindar is also the alias of the Marquis de Libeaux, known as Phallus of the Dragon. The Marquis is supposed to be a Reptilian alien leader who fathers royal Aryan bloodlines, like Prince William's. The whole thing is suppose to be rife with Illuminati, NWO, CFR, Bilderburgs and the Merovingian Bloodline complete with MK-Ultra slaves and Princess Di's murder. So it is hard to say if </i>group <i>was referring to our Reptoid masters, or that he was just another know-nothing media chump. Either way it has to be the worst production for TV since 1978's </i>The Star Wars Holiday Special<i>.</i>]</div>☿Ü♭Σ☈♣ ḶỈḬhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11497997289667448924noreply@blogger.com0