i own this language, you only own 1966... and that's about it; not in the tier of fisherman, but in the tier of the salon ladies who find marxism unfashionable... and, but to no end, are unfashionable in their unrest of rekindling the linguo artefact of: what's to be edible / what's to be a fashionista's artefact.

whoever said the said truth,
never managed to
unsay the said lie;
we all know that lying
is the innocence of evil -
  and that truth
is the innocence of god -
for good knows that
uttering a lie,
is the foremost deviance
worth considering,
before mobilising a trajectory
toward a forwarding
of said, example,
toward a nowhere,
  with nothing: as the prime intent;
abiding in the hive
of leisurely "discontent"
                     fake macabre -
                 only a lie
is an innocence encrusted in evil -
as is truth,
an innocence encrusted in good -
what we call *choice is
       nothing but: a failure of will.