ZomboJunk

Junk is eternal,
Junk is the law.
Feeling infernal?
Eat one more slaw.

Switch on the Box —
The sacred machine:
You are the Fox!
Nah. Just routine.

They’ve got your key
In the ZomboChest.
Happiness? Eat.
And doubt? Repressed.



---------------------



ZomboBox screams:
"Eat. Obey."
You sell your soul
For junk each day.



---------------------


“The Tiny Orchestra of Hope”
conducted by pure idiocy

The tiny band of Hope plays on,
Conducted by a babbling freak.
No place for hope — it’s dead and gone
In Bedlam, dull and gray and bleak.

Bedlam’s a sewer, stinking, poor —
A dunce still hopes. The rest just spit.
One reflex left: to puke once more
At all this rotten, plastic ****.



---------------------



Hope leads the blind —
straight into bile.
The sane just gag
at all this vile.



---------------------


Rotten Apples from the Withered Tree of Knowledge

We ooze in half-thought idiocy,
Crawling down a dying tree —
The Tree of Knowledge, dry and dead,
Where intuition's light has fled.

No fresh insight, no revelation —
Just blind faith in imitation.
Lies are now the sacred norm,
Mind — the last to take the storm.

We snout through rot with eager feet,
Sniffing every wormy treat —
Eden’s apples, foul and mush.
Mindless — just a walking husk.



---------------------



Eden rots.
We grunt and chew.
No Mind remains —
Just swine in view.



---------------------



The Infantile Sandbox

Thrown in like tanks into the sand —
That’s your infantile land.
The wounded crawl, the games went wrong,
No lesson learned, it's been too long.

The scripts are dumb, the stench is real,
A reek of rot no lie can seal.
Grey-haired morons, blank inside —
Their Spirit smothered, crushed by pride.

These aging children rot in place,
And dumber grows the human race.
The sandbox now — a filthy cage
Where idiots squeal and cowards rage.

Traitors sit drooling in the grime —
The decent ones? Extinct with time.
Their games are now grotesque, obscene —
The end is near. Death wipes it clean.

A traitor-fool has no more role
In sand or burrow, numb of soul.



---------------------



A sandbox full
of dead-eyed clowns.
The traitor chokes —
and wisdom drowns.



---------------------



Lies and the Legion of Fools

******, Goebbels — now it’s Vlad,
Dugin’s mind-rot, twice as bad.
Ideas rot, but crowds obey —
Marching proudly into clay.

Dumb them down and feed them lies —
You can rule them, hypnotize.
“Tricking me is not so hard” —
Thinking’s tough. It leaves you scarred.

So the ******* chew and spit
Satan’s puzzles, bit by bit.
New-age ******, wrapped and sold —
That’s the meaning, dark and cold.

**** with CowID, **** with war,
Just keep lying more and more.
Herd the morons into lines —
March of death in grand designs.



---------------------



Lies go viral.
Fools obey.
Marching straight
to Hell — hooray.



---------------------


A Choice: Execution or Death

An invite to the gallows feast —
Accept the filth. Obey the Beast.
Endure the Evil? You're its kin.
All rot begins with silent sin.

Believe the lie? Then join the dead —
A zombie, slowly in the head.
Trust fake "science"? Then, for sure,
You’ll be labeled: hopeless, pure.

Don't believe. Don’t kneel. Don’t bow.
Fight the monstrous lie — and how.
Escape the noose? Not quite, my friend —
But Death will hold you in the end.




---------------------



Endure the lie —
you crawl and rot.
Resist — and Death
at least is not.



---------------------



The Dead Ones

A rotting fish just rides the stream,
The dead drift by in lies and dream.
The living soul — a freak, a spark
In zombie fog and dead-man's dark.

The fish will feed the hatchlings' tide,
Its corpse will serve — then turn aside.
But zombies, dull and reeking dread,
Spread rot and poison as they tread.

This stinking world’s a reek machine,
Mass-breeding dead for the death routine.
Ugly rules, the oath is sworn:
"**** all life — let beasts be born."



---------------------



The dead decay.
The filth expands.
While beasts parade
with rotting hands.


---------------------



The Final Turn

The battle horn is drowned —
Now memes replace the cry.
The slaves all kneel, spellbound:
"Just trust!" — the core of lies.

Trust monsters. March with pride
To "treatment" masked as fate.
Be brave — yet crawl and hide,
Just trust... and urinate.

The world’s a madhouse zone,
Where goats lead donkeys blind,
Into the slaughter-zone —
A camp for broken minds.

The final turn draws near…
To what? You think it’s grace?
The fool injects his fear,
Then stumbles into place.

March on — just trust and shake,
You’re almost at the brink.
While Hell counts every ache
You twitch through as you sink.



---------------------



“Trust and obey!”
the demons hiss.
The grave’s one step
from cowardice.



---------------------



Grief and Conscience

To drown your grief in ***** —
Just **** into your brain.
Why not let truth abuse
Your lies with sacred pain?

The lash — a Spirit’s string,
So fine it’s barely heard.
But still it dares to sting
The mind with silent word.

This war is waged to crush
The strings that point above.
Yet through the noise and hush
Still rises purest Love.

No ***** lifts your soul —
It only drags you low.
But conscience takes its toll —
To skies it bids you go.



---------------------



***** pulls you down.
The lash lifts up.
Conscience is pain —
but it's the cup.



---------------------



Virotrash

Virotrash infects the air,
Crushes every vacant head.
Tyrants find their servants where
Fake “scientists” are led.

He’ll “discover” what’s not real,
Prove it to the foolish crowd.
Sanity’s a rare ordeal
In this Bedlam, dumb and loud.



---------------------



Viro-fear,
idiot’s law.
Lies appear —
and fools go "Aww."



---------------------



Creations

Petty, vile, and mean in kind,
Stupidity and madness bind.
We’re “godlike” beings? Hell, no way —
When madness rules and fascists play.

Satan’s march, betrayal’s grind,
Lies made labor, fools aligned.
Talk of “resurrection” sounds?
No — those ******* all will drown.



---------------------



Petty beasts in godlike guise —
Madness reigns, the devil lies.



---------------------



To the Propaganda Consumer

The propagandist screams — but that’s no sign
That terror came along with their shrill whine.
The agenda’s set — obey the call,
To dumb us down, embraced by Satan’s thrall.

The media’s grip—no news to those
Who still keep thinking as their mind still grows.
Lies, fear, betrayal, vile disgrace—
This toxic smoke is all they place.



---------------------



Propaganda shouts,
but don’t you fall—
The lies and fear
will claim us all.



---------------------



A Fool’s Life Work

"An ancient sage once said:
‘Only fools perform outside-directed tasks.’"
— Linji, 9th century


A fool’s life work —
This burden’s never light:
Bruises everywhere,
The mind’s the only fight.

If the head is cracked,
And chaos rules the throne,
That problem in the mind
Can’t be solved alone.

The fool was taught to grieve
Only outwardly,
So crowds stay easy led,
Slaves crushed endlessly.

Boldly turn inside —
All answers lie within.
But Bedlam fights that truth,
To keep fools locked in sin.

Trained, bound in forgetfulness,
In weeds of age-old times,
When minds still had their value —
Now lost in empty rhymes.



---------------------



Fool’s burden — bear it tight,
Mind your wounds, fight the fight.
Outside grief will never heal,
True escape’s inside, real.



---------------------


The Roly-Poly

The roly-poly “Vanka-Tanka”
Endures the endless genocide.
For centuries the same old crap —
In this toy, the mind has died.



---------------------



Vanka-Tanka rocks and spins,
Endures the pain his mind’s within.



---------------------



"Titans," **** Them All!..

“Titans hold the sky up high” —
But on legs made out of clay.
These “Titans” leave the ignorant
To fool’s fate day by day.

“Titans” keep the dark deceit,
Laughing at the dumb parade,
For shadows mask the worst defeat —
Feed rot, and keep it made.

Evil propaganda spreads,
Let chaos flow and grow.
“Titans” stash their falseness,
Ready for the blow.

Plans are made, but if they slip,
They’ll use worn phrases sharp —
To herd us all back in the pen,
Just on time, on mark.



---------------------



“Titans,” **** Their Greedy Souls!

“Titans hold the sky,” they claim —
But on clay legs they stand weak.
Titans drag the fools to shame,
Leaving dumb ones mute and meek.

They keep the fog, the lies, the blight,
Laugh at fools, the morons’ throng.
Darkness beats the devil’s fight —
Feed the rot, they feed the wrong.

Evil screams in endless flow,
Chaos spread in every crack.
Titans stash their fake and show —
Poison stocked to launch attack.

Scripts are set, the game’s well planned,
If it fails, they’ll strike again:
With worn words and beaten hands —
Herd us back into their pen.



---------------------



“Titans,” **** Their Rotten Skulls!

“Titans hold the sky,” my *** —
They stand on legs of crumbling clay.
These “Titans” ***** the clueless mass,
And leave the fools to rot and sway.

They clutch the fog, the toxic lie,
Mock the dumb in their dark lair.
Better darkness than truth, they cry —
Feeding filth with rotten care.

Evil propaganda roars,
Spreading poison far and wide.
“Titans” stash their fake reserves,
Ready to unleash the tide.

Plans are set, deceit designed,
If it falls, they’ll strike again.
With stale lies, they herd the blind —
Back into their cage of pain.




---------------------



“Titans,” **** Their Rotten Bones!

“Titans hold the ******* sky” —
On legs of clay they ******* stand.
These “Titans” ***** the dumb and dry,
And leave the fools to rot the land.

They clutch the fog, the **** they sell,
Laughing at the dumb and weak.
Better darkness than truth, hell—
Feed the rot that makes them sick.

Evil propaganda’s roar,
Spreading poison, ******* vile.
“Titans” stash their lying store,
Ready to **** up every mile.

Schemes are set, their ***** game,
If it fails, they’ll ******* twice.
With stale lies, they herd the lame—
Back to prison, cold as ice.




---------------------



"The Last Clowns"

The fools still dance on broken strings,
Puppets sold by rotten kings.
They preach their lies with holy sneers,
Fueling fear to chain our years.

The media’s *****, pure disease,
Feeds the herd on its knees.
Brains sold cheap, numbed to the core,
Swallow **** and beg for more.

Titans? Nah, just clay and dust,
Built on lies and broken trust.
They laugh as puppets bleed and fall—
Their kingdom’s nothing but a stall.

Wake the hell up, or die a drone,
Rotting dead with empty bone.
No mercy waits beyond the gate—
For fools who choose to feed the hate.



---------------------



The Price

All theories come with a similar price,
Though some may seem noble, or honest, or nice.
— So name it, just name it — what cost do they bear?
— Theoretical. Mind-stripping fare.

"Knowledge" comes easy — they've gutted the Soul,
But Spirit seeps into each crevice, each hole,
In all things it breathes — but the ****** of the lie
Keep false science leashed where the BEASTS dwell and cry.



---------------------



The High-Rise

A bleak, crawling nest of the weak,
Of madmen — near none break the mold.
No hope for the chained and the meek,
Their madness is deep, tight, and cold.

They call themselves free — what a joke!
Their world is a pitiful cage.
Enduring this filth? Let it choke!
One vow: rise and fight through the rage.

No hope? Then at least save your soul —
Don’t pity the slave in the mud.
Seek Kindred, the Brave, the Whole —
Not lice feeding blind on your blood.

A bleak, crawling nest of the lost —
This world, this insane little trap.
Look past the heads (and the ***!) of the host —
Their time ticks away with a snap.

The beasts shall lose grip on this land.
This madhouse will burn, every wall.
The Soulful shall rise, take their stand —
New worlds await those who don’t fall.



---------------------



The “Flow” of Time

Hour by hour? Thought by thought —
That’s how time moves, when rightly caught.
Those who’re trapped in mental frames
Are timeless fools with hollow names.

They call it nirvana, serene and still,
But five dark spirals spun downhill.
Now he basks in fascist grime —
The vilest freak of broken time.




---------------------



Beyond Time

Time is far deeper
Than all that you claim.
The sooner you melt in it —
Gone is the flame.

Then Hell recedes
From the mind’s old despair —
And joy, and Light
Reborn in the air.


---------------------



Burn the Clock — Rise Beyond!
Time is a trap. Dissolve. Respond.



---------------------



Time is illusion — break the thread.
Melt into Light. Be born from dead.


---------------------



Clock’s a Lie — **** It Clean.
Melt. Transcend. Exit the Machine.



---------------------



Time is rot — burn through the shell.
Light is rising. To Hell with Hell.



---------------------



The Tick is a Trick. Smash the Frame.
No more waiting. No more name.



---------------------



Time’s a film — slice it through.
Step outside. Become the True.



---------------------



Ticking’s a trick — a veil, a snare.
Cut it clean. You’re already There.



---------------------



The moment’s a mask. Rip it wide.
Truth’s not waiting. It’s inside.



---------------------



Watches lie. The Now is fake.
Slash the loop — before you break.

"Get over here, brat!" Levi hollered at me from across the room, with that permanent scowl and annoyed voice. I prance over to the table he stood over and studied the map he had laid out in front of him.

"What do you think of this?" he asked me. I continued staring at the map. it showed titans coming in, now closer to the walls than they ever had been before; the titans were getting braver.

"We have to scare them away. Look! I made this new potion that when thrown on a titan's face, will explode and make a fog over the titan's face, confusing the titan and making it easier for the scouts to **** the titan. Let's try it out when we go scare the titans away!" I exclaimed with fervor and grinned excitedly.

"Problem, four-eyes. Everyone is either dead or has left for vacation." Levi stared at me, matter of factly.

"Well, we'll get them all together! It's time to kick some titan-***!"

Levi snickered at me. But he always does that anyway.
What was I thinking attacking with only the two of us. I'm always prepared to die, but not today. Today will be different.

"Four-eyes, there's only twenty of them. We can do this with your new potion stuff. Your brain's inane like them. You probably knew them the best. I believe in you brat." Levi gave me that uplift despite the sarcasm.

We planned out our pattern strategically. Usually it'll be easy with eight men. But I need to uphold his trust. His beliefs.

The first explosion went perfectly, grazed the titan's face but his nose exploded. And we killed him in a second. We managed to skewer more than we expected. Explosions within seconds, titan growled in agony as they fell to their demise. Suddenly something flew up in the air.

"Run hanji!!! This ******* can fly!!!"

I lurch away just in time as the titan snapped his jaw right where I was at. I maneuver around, trying to get away, killing titans left and right. It still trails behind me and I run.

"Levi! What do I do?!?!" I holler to him.

"Figure it out, four eyes! I'm busy!" Levi hollers back as he kills a titan. I glance back at the flying titan, trying to think of a way to outmaneuver it. Hmm 15m class, wing span of maybe 20m, two capable legs and two arms, vulnerable neck, but wings help it fly... can we use its flying ability against it?

I throw a potion at the things head and maneuver my way into a building window. It follows me, right where I want it to, and the potion explodes in its face, so it blindly reaches forward. I maneuver out a nearby window and slice its throat as it stays face first into the side of the building, confused on where I went and what it's seeing. It roars, then slumps down, dead. I make a mental note to come back here and inspect this new titan later, but for now, I run towards the other titans, ready for the bloodshed to come.

.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!