The kids were unsteady, rocking lollipop lullabies last night at the Dive Bar in Durham, North Cackalackistan. I've always been a shy guy, but when the night gets raucous - the going gets weird, then I turn professional. Studying the small subculture/counter-culture cliches as a fly on the wall, I found - ZAP! that anywhere I went electricity was striking out at everyone. You could be sitting at the Bench out Back of the Accordion Bar, and - SWOOSH - electricity would just whorl out from the nearest lamp socket and damned near take one's neck apart from their neck!
Pure Fly-Swatter sophistry, Bug Zapper Madness!!!
CAZOOOM!!!!
I landed headfirst in my Gonzo Squat, Party of One.
Exceptions aside, the mix of sulphureous satanism with Born Agin' Evangelism created an atmosphere of near "CHILDREN OF THE CORN"-esque malevolence. The violence inherent in the purge, was the inheritance of the Masses, massively waiting for those with the money to savagely die and give it to their selves, forgetting about who from it was accrued.
What was the purpose if not the Geist?
Whenever I think back to the stiff neck punks, the hip hop savvy meat heads,
to the louses searching for one last call, one last gulp -
@ 1:45 am,
the...
...last,
Big...
*GULP*
I always think of savages near a watering hole. How it's a kind of struggle for primordial survival, only having to do with wetting one's whistle. BOOM... maybe an explosion the size of an avalanche will rush down with magnanimous fury, descending and spiraling us all asunder and under, bringing upon the hapless masses the Harsh Cold of Early Morning's "grim reality".
As I sat in my candle lit squat I thought idly,
"I never knew what to think of others, until they thought of me. Which is to say, Narcissists bumping into each other in pitch black, no use for abandon."
Somehow they still get the same nostalgia.
Just pure gusto,
The befitted tradition of Socrate,
Drinking his last shot of hemlock and driving amiably home as an Athenian Nationalist.
If there's one thing about that gadfly,
It's that he truly, truly, loves his country...
That is, when he was still here.
Was Socrates the precursor to the Messiah - Jesus hisself,
only with underage homofucking & dithyrambs?
What ever happened to Dionysus's
"WINE ORGiES" of ole'....?
I'd presume it's all a bit gauche, but Dionysus demands we Drink Fight & Fuck our way out of these calamities facing humankind. Why not mix all of them together, into a Fucking, Fighting Drinking bacchanalian revelry! Make the dunce the one who takes it up the SPHINCTER. Then get the Duchess to put a dunce cap on every idiot, every louse, every sex starved sinner. Let's let the Iron Maiden fuck the idiots! It's the only way to reconcile her whorish cravings and fixation with Beauty! Weep for our national calamities!
Dionysus need not sleep, weep nor keep a pact.
What do numbers even mean my jackal assed friend, what do they mean when Numerology has been made the currency of the cretans of the Former United States!!! When numbers mean more than their lot, the Numerological madness takes hold.
We merely need to Drink, Fight & Fuck until the foul & grim 1968 of the Republican aristocratic ascendency finally shimmers in the horizon, fading like thee dew to the day. A fine time for some, right chum? I've found that not counting on anything except numerals is important in a spiritual sense.
What numbers?
Well take these:
3.14 etc.
1.618 etc.
666 etc.
There's nothing more hapless and heedless than a Numerology Junkie, pushing his luck at the local Stop & Rob, just to get that... final... big... win...
And now he's lost it.
Lost it all just trying to make more off of what he won!
Nobody wins in a Gambler's paradise,
Except for Red Indians,
As God intended.
Ye Gods man,
What kind of sick gonzo laden phallic sucking beast would try to even be human in this era, state of Affair and current politic in America's history. Historicity won't explain me, when the time comes - but it will include Trump, the most brilliant social engineer turned hardcore criminal of all time.
1984... The beginning of the Millennial Generation.
Go to a rally on a head full of Amphetamine Salt,
you'll see just what I mean...
Oh the night,
Goes so slowly in a squaw's Squat.
Hindered neither by restraints spiritually or philosophically, the radical anti-fascists at the dive behaved like animals. Meat Puppets, conditioned long ago by Truth Serum's and Social Media's lack of post-humous depth, gibber jabbering and raving outlandishly for hours on end. And should one forsake their name,
Cause a KERFUFFLE?
They'll be the first to draw blood.
A grim malfeasance in the Midnight's "stone's throw" glare,
the lust for blood and young white flesh - aromatically dulled by the sour mash of Barley hops & Poisoned vodka.
DDU23
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