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Charlie Kirk:  Called  for “God’s perfect law” of
stoning gay  people 
to death !  Do you know how painful it is to be killed in that manner?
  Constantly and. repeatedly   called women *****,  
dumb ****** , *****  receptacles    etc.  
His main target was susceptible youth, and he spent the majority of. His early career targeting college campuses with Turning Point USA, a national conservative youth group and media platform he launched.  Potential members say they were brainwashed, coerced,        fleeced repeatedly.  and  bullied. Hazing was common and encouraged.
  He openly and  cruelly   mocked trans people, saying someone identifying as  trans is akin to a white person putting on
blackface.
Pushed “great replacement” trash,   doubled and tripled down on the whole Haitians eating pets thing
  called  for  open hate  
and  condoned  violence.  he’s discussing real deaths of school  kids  as acceptable collateral, which is morally grotesque said it was just.......“an unfortunate cost”  ...  

  ALL  with corporate sponsors and social media reach.
No  self-righteous,
self important CARR  and the    FCC chair threatening   him  
or  his ridiculous dog and pony circus of a  lopsided hate  filled   GOP  propaganda  labeled  as  a show .
  No  stations    lost  licenses over that.  

 Charli could (and did) spew YEARS   of
hate filled  
, racist
misogynist. bile .
Uncorroborated. Unchecked.  dogwhistles, anti-LGBTQ screeds, conspiracy theories  . etc ad  infinitum....
all the while defending violent extremist movements. Including, but not limited to, attacking gays at funerals and AIDS victims.
The worst type of mental garbage anyone could possibly imagine cranked all the way past 11.
All of it dressed up as “political commentary.”
As vile as it is, the Constitution protects that speech because it’s viewpoint.
The First Amendment doesn’t let the government say:
“We like this opinion but not that one.”
It only makes very narrow carve-outs (direct incitement to imminent violence,
true threats
, obscenity,
terrorism etc.).
Kirk’s   non stop  SEWAGE 
  apparently   didn’t cross that legal threshold, so it’s   some  how shielded.

Meanwhile, when Kimmel drops one pointed line  like...
“hey, that shooter looks like one of yours”
suddenly the  full  trump  hammer drops.

That’s not about protecting decency.
That’s about selective enforcement.

Here’s the hypocrisy in plain language: Jimmy Kimmel: makes a single satirical jab pointing out an uncomfortable political truth, and suddenly affiliates yank his show

Disney  cowards capitulate.   and suspends him,
FCC chair   threatens  at regulatory action.

That’s not “free speech vs. consequences.”
That’s government- demanded Trump  protection  

vindictive  suppression,
because the punishment only flows one direction:
against criticism of power

. The First Amendment is supposed to protect
both
Kirk’s hate filled inane  religious fueled Christo-fascist  bile
and 
Kimmel’s mild mannered  and accurate  satire.

But what you’re seeing in practice is the government and corporate media conglomerates selectively shielding one side while punishing the other.

That’s why the Supreme Court’s Vullo ruling matters so much: it’s exactly the kind of unequal, government-pressured suppression the Court just said is
unconstitutional.
These are important issues,
but no politicians are allowed to even address any issues
because of the constant nonstop Trump circus.
No one can even focus
or understand because he's continually doing. It
one. Thing that is even more stupid than the last.

The important issue
already occurred

and that was when a vote approved the so-called right of a corporation to donate or support and fund a candidate with unlimited resources.
And the American people just let that slide like nothing was even happening.
What that means is that any grassroots decent human being trying to run against the corporate sponsored, dictator approved puppet has absolutely no chance of winning that office

because, as the presidency of the United States just showed us, money. 
 Can buy  any position.
  Even for a
******. 
 He  *****  E  Jean  Carroll
   and a *******.
Repeated trips to Epstein's island.
Repeated flight logs from the ****** Express.

I lived
No survived
For love
The hope that i could have teenage love
Then i could die in peace
But im getting closer to that edge
And as much as i love my first girlfriend
The urge to jump is too high
The one thing i lived for is slipping away
And soon i will have nothing left to live fore
I wanted to experience love before i died
No i want to die before my death

On some clear night
Their tale gets retold
Silent sobs fill the air
Thick with grief and memory
As he kneels by the body of a
Dancer

With a gear-made heart
And glassed copper eyes
The ghost of her maker lingers here
And her other half
A few feet away
All in their presence hear the whispers
Of monachopsis

A prince covered in life
Tendrils of Ivy
Spring from his ankles
Slashes of moss
Dapple his shoulders
While twisting trees
Paint his back

His sobs fill the air
Thick with grief and memory
As he kneels by the body of a
Dancer

His lover’s soul split
Two halves
Two dancers
Melomania led the charge
In his demise
A kiss sealed his prison

One heart made of gears
Another smashed on the ground
Two eyes made of copper
Another pair on the floor
Chimes in the distance
One dancer goes on
Unable to stop
There’s no mourning the other

A prince covered in death
Still tendrils of Ivy
Spring from his ankles
And slashes of moss
Dapple his shoulders
While twisting trees
Paint his back

A lover nearby
Corpses of dancers
Lay down beside
Chimes in the distance
Ring without greif
His soul spilt
A prince now alone

A hot old pipe rested in the old  sailor’s mouth
As he overlooked the sea, salt air
The wind in his blue eyes and his gray hair
He had seen many a storm in his time
But each one of them had a different rhyme
Like that of an old  sailor’s song

He sang of Sirens, with bodies of ocean
And of the monsters that lurked in the deep
With all the sunken boats they were to keep
And the skeleton of a siren of sand
With soft lips, and  softer hands
A  sailor by the name of Lars

But Lars was nothing but a memory
A candle that had gone out for the night
Or a brave old soldier in his last fight
But most of all, he was but a minx
Something as mysterious as a sphinx
This is about the sailor, isn’t it?

This old  sailor with leather hands
It was a book with stories that filled pages
Some that brought joy and others that rages
Some of it was fake as unicorns or lies
Others that were true, like the sea and skies
How can you tell a lie from your eyes?

This story starts long ago, before many know
The old  sailor was a young man
His hair was smooth and his skin was tan
His parents wanted him to be a scholar
But his ambitions grew taller and taller
His ambition to see the water in full

The S.S. Enola smelled of *** and men
A few had cards, others with books
Many had nets and hooks
“There seems to be a singer”
Some said, nodding towards the wringer
So the S.S. Enola hides under the deck


The young  sailor tries to cover his ears
But he heard lyrics of such sin and lust
Of bodies you could never quite trust
But he saw it before his very eyes
As if the devil, himself in disguise
The young  sailor felt a pit in his gut

A pit like that of a ripe  peach
The sprays sweet juice when you eat
Who in the earth needed to be neat?
When a face of soft peach fuzz was here
The young  sailor was wet, not of tears
Was this hell gripping him by the neck?

“My name is Lars” The beauty said.
The young  sailor stared for too long
The voice was like an all too known song
Of love that kept giving with a tock
The tics and tocks of a wooden clock
Of a love that was forbidden

The young  sailor felt heat and desire
As a loose red cloth around naked shoulders
That made the young  sailor’s heart a boulder
But not the shoulders that were soft and round
The ones of his fellow sailors, hard and sea-bound
Ones of men, perhaps just like him

Lars just smiled and the young  sailor gasped
“You must be a siren, a trickster of desire”
The young  sailor felt like a wildfire
The other sailors heard and crowded Lars
Stripping his clothes as if showing scars
There wasn’t any scale nor a fin

But, they grabbed Lars by the ankles
And dragged him to the deck
They grabbed him by the neck
There was a beg and a plea for life
That’s when the captain pulled out a knife
And then that Lars was no more



He was thrown over deck like rotten food
His body sank without a worry
And the young  sailor wasn’t in a hurry
He could have saved the man known as Lars
He never had to join those tragic Greek stars
Lars could have been his to touch

But that’s not what happened
And it never, ever can be
How much of this story was just me?
I can’t tell you. Even if I were dead and cut
You could never tell me, but
the young sailor’s life goes something like this

A hot old pipe rested in the old  sailor’s mouth
As he overlooked the sea, that salt air
The wind in his blue eyes and his gray hair
He had seen many a storm in his time
But each one of them had a different rhyme
Like that of an old  sailor’s song

my boyfriend blocks me for four days
because I won’t give him the chair he wants.
I’m left scrolling through IKEA listings,
pretending the algorithm knows my waiting.

outside, neighbors drag out plastic stools
for another birthday party. balloons
tied to the wrong wrist, a dog howling
like it knows who gets the last seat.

on day three, I start naming the chairs
in my apartment: recliner as prophet,
barstool as witness. I kneel before
the ottoman, bargaining like a priest.

when he unblocks me, it feels
less like forgiveness, more like return policy:
no receipt, box dented, parts missing.
we drag it inside together, silent, already exhausted.

what I wanted to say was:
I would’ve sat on the floor
if it meant staying.

My partner is fun,
I’m sure he’s “the one”,
His body’s a work of art!
He thinks like I do,
And loves me so true,
And I love him with all of my heart.

My partner says he
Has PTSD,
And needs to be just on his own.
“It’s just a bad day,”
I hear him say,
“We always can talk on the phone.”

The close times we spend
Being “more than a friend”
Are few and far between.
My partner needs time
To get over the crime
Of abuse he endured as a teen.

The bad days won’t last,
They come from his past;
He’s getting some help for his pain.
I give him support
And write a report,
To help win his Right to Remain.

The lockdown has hit,
My partner feels ****,
And won’t let me visit at all.
I stay home alone,
And support him by phone,
But he often won’t answer my call.

My partner is sick,
He sends me a pic –
In his darkness he’s done himself harm.
I call 999,
But he tells them he’s fine –
He says there’s no cause for alarm.

I worry so much,
And long for his touch,
As months pass me by I just pray.
My friends wonder why
I stand by my guy,
But I know him better than they.

Time has moved on,
The lockdown has gone,
My partner’s now feeling quite well!
At last we can meet
Not just in the street;
He’s coming back out of his shell!

Before long I learn
My partner will earn
A wage as a carer in York.
But why go so far?
It seems so bizarre
To move far away for such work.

As I help him to pack,
He says he’ll be back
As soon as he finds a job here.
But something is wrong –
It’s taking too long,
And again I’m missing my dear.

To my deepest dismay,
My partner’s away,
Our contact is fading once more.
I call him and plea,
But he breaks up with me,
And says to me, “You deserve more.”

How much was a lie?
Is he even bi?
The red flags were all there to see!
With hindsight I’m wise,
And now realise:
The one who needs counselling’s me.

My mind filled with doubt,
I may never work out
The truth and the lies and the cause.
Two years since we met,
It’s time to forget
My partner who never was.

The one who stood up here before
Who couldn't take it any more
Went through with her plan.

What would be my legacy?
Just like me,
I could turn the statistic
Into a curvy figure too—
Not a straight and slender one.
But being realistic,

I find the strength to turn away
And face the world another day
—A continuing man.