Mild Economical Horror

They will laugh,
as we knock on their door.
They will laugh,
as we do all the dying at war.

They will laugh,
like there’s nothing to care about,
They will laugh,
because those with cash have clout.

Their grin will turn into a smile,
when the wins become less.
Their laugh with turn to snicker,
with the first sign of distress.

Their wonder will turn to a mild horror,
as their empire evaporates like a tree.
Their pockets will eventually empty themselves,
by the rest of us giving and doing most everything for free.

 

What would you be willing to do for money ?

Military Fashion Show

Listen Now

August 30, 2011

Today’s Topics

Military Fashion Show
Dynamic Archetypical Duos
Tip Culture in the 22nd Century
‘B’-Corporations and Social Change

 Listen Live @ Noon on Tuesday  Or Podcast 

Score Keeping Popoganda

Every war has two fronts with one the battle lines and the other for home field perspectives

the one with weapons get funded while the other with waves are them that pays with their breath

the weapons of destruction are made by a complex network of private corporate collectives

the waves come in light and sound as what you see and hear to encourage you to accept the death

your consciousness and all the others from the collective masses is the battlefield of defectives.

They distract you with games of corporate domination and keep score by causing currency plights

popoganda disguised as news and commentary scripted to influence your attitudes and decisions

whiter whites and fresher breath have replaced the importance of human rights for those out of their sights

war mongers don’t fight for the corporstacracy enforcement brigade is trained to believe in their revisions

war is only inevitable for those who profit from the loss and when faced with loss, the bully fights.

From birth we are groomed in the classrooms and cathedrals to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good

generals are the gofers who give the hard orders and we the people are their cattle-like money slave

servitude never ended in America, it just changed enough to include everyone born in the wrong hood

you’re only rich if you have no debt and can do what you want without worrying about working for wage

short shows with laugh tracks distract and movies paint a future picture of the world they want understood.

 http://www.fccfreeradio.com/?page_id=3871

Geleogenic Kakistocracy

Society infuses your new plight

root cause community peace activism

eliminates the kakistocracy

remove public corporate advertising

reduce and end commercial exposure

trade food seeds with your favorite people

cosmic decoherance evolves the mind

popularize the congressional vote

politicians are public relations

geleogenic society rules.

Spare Change for Peace

Potatoes and tuna fish for dinner

almost free ramen noodles with an egg

worried about what to eat at month’s end

every moment warped with an empty angst

there should be free food everywhere we are

change for peace and the beggars and hungary

random acts of freedom are what’s needed

the starving have jobs and children as well

pay for peace because war is the easy

put freedom on the menu as anything.

When Who Looks and Listens Why


Who is in charge and we don’t really know
what do they want and why do they sigh
who is watching us underneath the moonglow
what do they do to get off on their high.

Looking and listening to every click
listening to the looks of white headphones
looking and baiting with the next chick
listening to the looks of silent stones.

When will it stop, slow or ever begin to end
why do they look so intently and stare
when will they stop coming round the bend
why do they show up most everywhere?

Forward Mass Progress

Ten indicators to determine if you are part of the mass population:

You believe in democrat or republican content

You vote and complain about our pseudo democracy

You believe the war on terror is just as it seems

Your credit rating is very important as well as your net worth

You drink bottled water, eat fast food and believe you’re still smart

You spend more time with t.v. than reading books or creating art

You believe America is the only great country on Earth

You are passionate about professional sports teams

You pay your federal taxes happily and diligently

You have a mortgage, car payments or rent.

 

Ten ways you can help with the forward progress of human civilization:

Eat organic fruits & veggies and torture free meat

Wear clothing that is label and slave labor free

Get off the power grid and reduce your pollution

Join the Peace Corps instead of the military war corps

Avoid doing business with publicly traded corporate vultures

Turn your businesses into not-for-profit ventures

Turn off your t.v. and walk through the black door

Join a movement and continue the peaceful revolution

Sell all of your stocks and bonds and invest locally

Buy local art when you need to give yourself a treat.

Please re-post at will for those who are seeking ultra social realization:


Mass Maze Games

The masses are asses and duly programmed to run the society maze,
who are the classes who make the rules and why should you even care,
to them you have little more importance than the cattle that they raise,
to feed and fatten you up enough to never question, think or even dare.

All people are programmed in one way or another, most without their knowing,
how is it really effecting you, yours and all the connected family ties,
politicos do nothing more than talk to people and keep them from rioting,
we pledge allegiance to a flag of power, corruption and institutionalized lies.

The rulers of today control the masses just as the ancient Romans did,
distract them with mindless entertainment to maintain their dominion,
give them bloody games and teach them to kill while keeping them fed,
generating little more than empty banter of matters of popular opinion.

Working jobs they don’t like alongside people they can’t really stand,
for companies who don’t care about you or any of your friends,
just to afford payments on houses and cars that impress by ultra brand,
friends who will be gone when your financial good fortune ends.

Indoctrinate them from birth to believe in a pagan god of sacrifice,
giving himself to death for your sins just for when the time is right,
to wage another war with volunteers who are willing to die at least twice,
convinced of a virgin birth and afterlife they are willing to lead the plight.

Politics are a game to keep our people from discovering the ultimate truth,
keep people fighting and arguing amongst themselves while paying all the taxes,
supporting the efforts of waging senseless wars full of bitter rotting vermouth,
beyond the impact of their bottom line without regard for the natural abraxas.

The stock market is a billion dollar shell game with the house the only real winner,
the common people hold the dice and gamble with every option and derivative buy,
the preferred stock holders do all the reaping while the poor have nothing for dinner,
commoners sow with a manufactured crises to reset the game back to zero on the sly.

They determine how the Food and Drugs are Administered with an agency of the same name,
unlike the tyrannies of the past our federal government puts most everything out in the open,
they know as long as the people are fat they will continue to believe they are the same,
by the time they realize what is happening to them it will be too late for any hopin’.

Our federal government oppresses and kills thousands of innocent people hourly,
they can be overthrown tomorrow without spilling a drop of blood with precision,
voting for presidents is like pissing in the oscillating fan of popular society,
you can vote daily with your dollar and turning off their mind control television.

Part Duex

Listen to live reading and interview here

 

Dance Worship

People aren’t people,
we are numbers instead.
Moving through silence,
always get ahead.

Get up every day,
and ride to the stage.
Take your small pay,
then back to the cage.

I found out,
the not so hard way.
However you do it,
take back your day.

The ride I’m on,
is a one-way trip.
Because rhythm is my god,
and dance is how I worship.

Neo Holiday Jeer

The holidays are here and it’s time to ignore,
all that is wrong with all of the unpleasants.
It’s easy to do with really good food,
great entertainment and lots of presents.

Homeless is up and so is the crime,
it has nothing to do with what’s on the books.
It’s those who scribe the laws with their built in flaws,
who are the true villains and wealthy crooks.

Try to help those who need your heed,
before your friends but I know that’s a task.
Remember those unlike you is why you are who,
while drinking from your golden hip flask.

There is no need to proceed to the alter and kneel,
praying that nothing and every one else matters.
You know what you want is a room full of wrappings,
with people who praise you and regularly flatters.

Those who should be sharing in the annual bounty,
is the reason the season should be so dear.
To those not so fortunate to have privilege with birth,
should go many presents from the good year.

There really is no santa clause or a virgin birth,
but they are very much present none the less.
Any reason is good enough for a season,
that brings good cheer and a new shirt or dress.

We’ve gone astray from the fray so much that there is no more core.
It’s been replaced with digital space and our favorite stores that we adore.
You can’t give it unless you’ve got it so emerge from behind the Black Door.
The time has come to open up and sell to the rich while giving to the poor.

San Franskitzo City Stall

San Francisco has lost its soul,
in the name of a balanced budget.
There is also what we all depend on,
the tourist dollars they count and fudge it.

Change is the cry they always jingle,
to get themselves elected.
They make us think we need their angle ,
because the city’s infected.

The people in charge have everyone fooled,
believing that they are free.
The power lay in not knowing who’s ruled,
if you look you too will see.

They sell us security and false hope,
but are really just liars and thugs.
All in the name of what they really scope,
Gold, Oil and control of all the Drugs.

The tourists come here looking as did I,
hoping to find sometime in which to belong.
What they find as progress is that people can get high,
but still get a life sentence for just having a bong?

They come here daily already in love and from the moment they arrive,
are given maps and tour-guides to all of the objects of their misplaced affection.
They come here hoping to find something close to how we used to survive,
many leave with plenty of souvenirs and an unsettling sense of personal rejection.

Our biggest “Tourist Attraction” or otherwise amusement ride,
is another sign of a society way out of reality whack.
It once was a way to help the people who lived here and provide,
now it’s little more than revenue stream for City Stall desk jockeys to spend and track.

Sure it’s cute and it keeps the tourists coming,
with every ticket comes a much bigger invisible price.
Which by the way is the latest 19th century travel technology,
for the price of a round trip ticket and 2 scoops of creamed ice.
All for a ride with a little bell and a cute jing-a-ling-a-ling,.
that reminds them of back home and their box of shrimp friend rice.

If we are going to do it anyway we should so in with electromagnetic pulsation,
they keep on coming which they’re going to do anyway and keep snapping pictures as they pass.
The attention of the world will be upon us once again as we carry the pulse and the minds of a nation,
the trolly may work fine for the tourists but for those who live here the hills are still a pain in the ass.

The art scene here would be laughable,
if it weren’t so pitiful and unbelievably sad.
The greater tragedy of this part of the fable,
is that everywhere else it’s just as bad.

Buyers with dollars and nobody to trust in the end,
with a market with no rules and everything sounds like a cheer.
It’s the ones with a hammer at the other end of the pen,
who maintain the prices and control them with fear.

I’ve never been to Alcatraz and there I never will see,
I seek no beauty in a chamber of pain with hoodies and an audio tour,
What needs to replace this old and ugly monstrosity,
is a futuristic reminder of what we are willing to endure,
and show how the perfect world is going to be.

For most of the tourists anything will do like they say,
they really want to say that they did this and that with pride.
Standing in lines for things they really shouldn’t even pay,
always paying for the t-shirt with the smile and glide.
They can now go home and wear it to display,
that they too went on the San Francisco ride.

That’s what we’ve become and it’s been like this for a while,
we have two choices that seem easy for to me and us to make.
Stick with the past and make history our trade in the name of denile,
The second choice has already been made behind your back and this time with nothing that’s fake,
the artists are taking over again but this time with mba’s, engineering degrees with much better fashion and style.

Independance Glee

We cheer with glee,
yet another won war.
Will it be endlessly,
the need to abhor?

Thousands lay dead,
forgotten just like us.
To them we all belong,
on the same big bus.

The only thing that changed,
was the look of our money.
Who we pay our taxes to,
so much it’s not funny.

We celebrate independence,
though don’t know its meaning.
The holiday is ironically needed,
never realizing it’s demeaning.

Instead of giving us freedom,
they give us the whole day off.
idecided for myself long ago,
that just simply wasn’t enough.

Freedom is losing track of the days,
because you’ve walked the walk.
The illusion of freedom is a 401K,
from someone who talked the talk.

The really good new is finally here,
information has come in last.
The key to being the you you want,
is learning to see but let go of the past.

 

this is what i did in my early 20's

 

 

 

Warped Speed Mind Healing

If a mind can be twisted it can surly be mended,
not by those who have to gain what you are about to lose.
Doctors, therapists and psychiatrists are bended,
treating something like its broken when its really a bruise.

Just because you’re hearing voices and seeing a new thing,
that doesn’t mean you are deficient like they want you to believe.
Doctors are only partially right 100% of the time they ping,
when asked most will only recite what the dsm labels your reprieve.

Why is it that drugs that let us feel good instantly,
are made by and large expensive and illegal?
The drugs that they are not sure what they do,
most cause anhedonia but are considered noble and legal.

Why does is seem from their limited perspective,
they are the ones that know what to do.
They are only there to see everyone at their worst,
and are never around for the normal part deux.

Too many of them and too few of us,
for anything like effective mind recovery.
People are nothing more to many of them,
than one step closer to their next big discovery.

They’re here to heal but don’t really understand how,
offering all of their empty help our minds can now sing?
DBSA and the NAMI groups perpetuate a familiar lie,
that everyone is somewhat sick and can’t do anything .

Schizophrenic this and bipolar that and lets not forget depression,
they only focus on what to call all of the others.
I wonder how they would like to be labeled in negative regression,
by all of our disenfranchised sisters and brothers.

Only deal with those who prove themselves,
to be your personalized recovery practitioner.
If they say there is no such thing on their shelves,
then they’re nothing more than a drug dealing executioner.

Learn more here

Fox News and Benzoylmethyl Ecgonine

CBS, Viacom,
Fox News and more.
Taking your eyes,
off the path to the door.

Sweet flavored water,
and expensive white powder.
They share the same name,
and some of the power.

Reality sucks,
but illusion does more,
to make you wish,
like it was once before.

Making you laugh,
and sometimes cry too.
‘Please make me famous! ‘
is the cry of this zoo.

Everything is not,
what you think that it is.
Walk through the door,
and become your own Wiz.

Howling

All the best minds are destroyed by madness howling through the street,
starving hysterically naked at dawn and looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly meet,
starry dynamo in the machinery of night with poverty and trixx.

Hollow-eyed and high we sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness,
cold-water flats floating across the tops of contemplating jazz cities,
who bared their brains to just under heaven and saw angels redress,
staggering on tenement roofs illuminating those who pass through universities.

Radiant cool eyes hallucinating about light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for seeming crazy & publishing obscene ode,
cowered unshaven in their underwear and burning money in a wastebasket moore,
windows in the skull listening to terror through the busted wall with their beards old,

Belts of marijuana eating fire in a painted hotel room and drinking turpentine to death,
torsos purgatoried themeselves night after night with dreams of drugs as waking nightmares,
alcoholic cocks and endless balling down an incomparable shuddering blind breath,
clouds and mind lightning leaps toward poles illuminating the motionless world between stares.

Peyote solidities in halls of drunkenness down the green backyard tree cemetery at dawn,
rooftops in storefront boroughs take teahead joyrides with neon blinking traffic lights,
sun and moon with tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks and ashcan gone,
kingly lights of mind are chaining themselves now to endless subway rides.

Noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering and mouth-wracked,
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of zoo’s cerebral detox,
who sank all night in submarine light then floated out and sat through the stale beer back,
fugazzi in the afternoon listening to the desolate crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox.

Seventy hours of continuous talk from the museum park pad to Bellevue then to the bridging,
lost battalions of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops of fire escape doors,
windowsills of empires stake out of the moon while yacketayakking screams and vomiting,
whispering facts of memoric anecdotes through eyeball kicks of hospital jail shocks and wars.

Intellects disgorged in total recall for a week of nights with brilliant eyes of doom,
meat to cast on the pavement vanishes into nowhere zen leaving a trail of empty postcards,
suffering sweats and bone-grinding migraines in a bleakly furnished room,
wandering around and around at midnight wondering where to go next in the railroad yards.

We went without while leaving broken hearts with lit cigarettes in boxcars going slow,
snowstorms toward lonesome farms with grandfather we nightly studied telepathy,
the cosmos will instinctively vibrate at your lonely feet through the streets of Idaho,
visionary indian angels thought they were mad while gleaming in supernatural ecstasy.

Jumping in limousines because of smalltown winter rains near Chinatown,
lounging hungry and lonesome seeking jazz or sex near a fireplace with a group of newbies,
following brilliant conversation about eternity is like a hopeless frown,
ships disappear into volcanoes of lava and ashes with scattered poetry casting shadows of dungarees.

Reappearing and investigating the beards in shorts with big sexy pacifist dark eyes,
skins passing out incomprehensible leaflets with cigarette holes burned into their arms,
protesting with pamphlets the narcotic tobacco haze of capitalistic communist lies,
Union Square is weeping and undressing while the sirens wailed all of the alarms.

Broken down and crying in naked white gymnasiums and trembling before other skeletons,
detectives in policecars shrieked from the neck with delight for committing no crime fits,
wild cooking pederasty and intoxication howling on their knees in the subway stations,
involuntary drunken dragging off of rooftops while waving genitals and manuscripts.

Fucked in the ass again by saintly motorcycle cops screaming with joy,
blew and are blown by those seraphim human sailors of caressive love,
balling in the morning grass of public parks and evening rose-gardens of coy,
in cemeteries we scatter semen freely to whomever comes our way from above.

Endless hiccups trying to giggle but wound up with a sob that sounded like a holler,
partitions of blond & naked fallen angels came to pierce them with a bent sword,
loveboys lost the three old shrews of fate with the one eyed heterosexual dollar,
the shrew winks the womb and sits on her ass while making you extra board.

Olden threads of the craftsman’s loom copulate ecstaticly with a bottle of beer,
packages of sweetheart cigarettes light a candle and fall off the bed of relentless,
continuing along the never ending floor and down the fainting and cracked hall mirror,
visions of an ultimate cunt with come eluding across the last gyzym of consciousness,

Millions of girls tremble in the sunset flashing their buttocks near a naked lake of zeros,
red eyed in the morning and yearning  to sweeten their snatches as our sunrise glows,
whoring through a myriad of stolen night-cars with a book of poems from secret heroes,
joyous memories of innumerable lays in empty lots & diner backyards with rickety rows,

Caves upon mountaintops with gaunt waitresses near a familiar lonely roadside picnick,
uplifting petticoats & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns & hometown alleys,
fading out in vast sordid movies about shifted dreams that  woke with a sudden panic,
basement hangovers with heartless horrors of iron dreams & unemployment valleys.

Snowbank docks doors to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium pipes,
walking in their shoes full of blood they created a great suicidal drama that delivers,
apartments upon cliff-banks under the wartime blur of the moons floodlights,
heads shall be crowned with an oblivion of the imagination and muddy bottomed rivers.

Weeping at the romance in the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and a bad buy,
sitting in boxes and breathing in the darkness under the rising bridge of harpsichords,
vacant lofts coughing on the sixth floor crowned with flame under the tubercular sky,
surrounded by orange crates of theology scribbled all night long rocking the boards,

Rolling over lofty yellow morning incantations we were prosing stanzas of gibberish,
cooking rotten animal lungs with heart tailed borsht & tortillas dreaming of a kingdom,
plunging themselves under meat trucks looking for eggs and throwing off their watches,
cast your ballot for an eternity of clocks in the head each and every day of the next decade,

Wrist cutting successively and unsuccessfully three times giving up with antique stores,
grow old and cry being burned alive in innocent flannel suits amid blasts of leaden verse,
tanked-up clatters of iron regimental fashion nitroglycerin shrieks of the fairies whores,
mustard gases of sinister intelligent editors were run down by the drunken taxicabs hurst’s.

Absolute reality jumped off the bridge and actually happened to walk away unknown,
forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways singing to the lasses,
falling out of subway windows in despair for one filthy free beer or a small loan,
leaping criers all over the streets danced barefoot on smashed wineglasses.

Smashing records of nostalgic jazz and finished the whiskey with a bloody vomitorium,
moaning in your ears are the blast of colossal steam-whistles blowing silently,
barreling down the highways of past journeyies to watch our hotrod jazz incarnation,
driving cross-country in just three days to find a vision of our only eternity.

Journeying to die and come back lonely and brooding waiting in vain,
watching is a way to find out the time for lonesome heroes sedated,
fall on your knees to hopelessly pray for each other’s due salvation,
lights and breasts beam until the soul is momentarily illuminated,

Minds crash in jail impossibly waiting for golden headed criminals to behave,
charms of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
retiring to cultivate a habit and rock tenderly to the black locomotive grave,
demanding sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism left with insanity pizazz.

Throwing salad at Dada and then presenting themselves on the madhouse granite steps,
shaven heads and harlequin speec of suicide with family demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
given walls of concrete instead and the void of electro-hydro-psycho-therapeutic pinging amnesiatics,
humorless protests overturned once symbolically resting for an endless moment in a catatonic tsunami.

Returning years later with balding under a wig of blood with wards of madtown madmen pointing tears,
shedding fingers to the visible foetid halls bickering with the echoes of your rocking and rolling truck,
in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love you dream of a life without long nightmares,
bodies turn to stone as heavy as the moon with all of our mothers finally free to fuck,

The last fantastic book flung out at four a.m. of the tenement window suture,
the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply to the sharpened off-set,
the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture,
the yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the empty closet.

Imagining nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination for the pleasantly insane,
we are far from from safe while you are really about the total time of the mind we mapped,
suddenly flashing through the icy streets obsessed with the alchemy of the variable vibrating plane,
dreams dreamt with incarnate gaps in space-time through images juxtaposed and trapped,

Archangels of souls between visual images have joined the elemental verbs and nouns,
dashes of consciousness jumping together with the obsession to recreate syntax,
poor humans measure prose and stand before you speechless with sounds,
shaking in rejected shame and yet confused about the naked dance traxx.

Endless souls conform to the rhyming thoughts in my suffering head,
we burn angels to beat the time of putting down unknown destiny,
what comes after death is to reincarnate roses in a ghostly red,
clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow blow the mind nakedly.

Love is like a saxophone cry that shivered down the cities,
aether-waves beat the heart of an absolute poetic life,
butchered up and out of our own broken down bodies,
good to eat for another thousand years of our strife.

Transmogrified from Alan Ginsburg’s “Howl”

Gold : Oil : Drugs

Change is the cry they always use,
to get themselves elected.
They make us think that we need them,
because the country’s infected.

The people in charge have everyone fooled,
into believing that they are free.
But nothing could be more untrue,
if you look you too will see.

They sell us security and false hope,
but are really just liars and thugs.
All in the name of what they really want,
Gold, Oil and control of all the Drugs.

G O D