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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.
CK Baker Jan 2017
So I'll have mine
and you'll have yours?
who could ask
for anything more!
grey beards march
the union jack
build a wall
and send them back!  

Grudge, sludge
a sanguine view
****** off
and take the cue
hide, plunge
aristocrat
run the field
like an old tom cat

Narrow pass
and capital flow
falling crude
and currency woe
deep depression,
mutineers
the mastermind
of project fear!

Silver spoon
at Hampton court
madness waits
in Davenport
divisible
and off the grid
**** it up
100 quid

Helen’s horsemen
unified
the springbok club
will never hide
plebiscite
in deep despair
an open scroll
Trafalgar square  

Grapple, grovel
sentry shame
along the shore
of river Thames
king of wankers
lord of beat
break the rule
of old elite!

Stone the posse
bullets bare
load the chambers
fists in air
voices, faces
haunted souls…
should i stay
or should i go?
pitch black god8 Mar 2019
while the debate goes on and on,
as to which country has the longest, continuous
democratic parliament, have it on on good authority
that the subject above,
is it better to love your kids too much than not enough?
was the first among all temporal discussions ever held,
despite periodic tabling, the debate remains unresolved,
the question unsettled even after 1000 years+ of argumentation

when over time, Universal Adult Suffrage finally came to be,
the debate became renewable, enflamed, divisive most contentiously,
various coming down on each side of a point of view topically

since mother, father and child, i.e.
pretty much everyone, definitionally,
claimed total expertise,
and sparing the rod was deemed by most to be illegally,
no plebiscite, amendment or ballot initiative was resolved resolutely,
the beat goes on continuously as new children reach voting age, sagaciously repeating their view, personally

my view?

I’ve tried both and failed equally
so I’ve little to contribute,
so let it be stated in manner unequivocally,
the sweet sensibility says too well,
but helicopters crash and monied snowplows
run over other both their own and others better deserving,
leaving all of them buried in snow piles street side,
while those who blame their faults on insufficient love,
are later most demanding more attention than any,
having becoming painfully hardy, by being treated hard about,
******* themselves and worse to others

everyone knows the answer to this question for themselves
but I’ll leave you with this,
permitting a child to fail is a winning strategy,
as long as there is no legal limit
regarding the amount or frequency
on lifetime hugging
2:13am
3/26/19
fo SY
Yenson Mar 2021
I have been hoping
that the visible invisibles
of Keystone Solidarity Republican
Militants
will soon come and tether a black horse
in front of my front door
to put their famous Doubt in my mind
that I am actually a horse
and not a human being
Why this simple act is taking so long
baffles me given they are specialists
in formatting doubts
perhaps they doubt horses have our legs
as I have three legs myself
though the middle leg
is not usually used for trotting
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
people should really stop ridiculing this medium of communication, and abusing it to serve out market square profanities against people while trying to sell kilograms of apples and shrimps... don't people realise this is a resurrection of the wild west? there are no laws here, there are no publicist authorities telling us: profit above niche interests... you really want a world where only something akin to the Da Vinci Code comes to your eyes' mesmerisation unglued from that sloppy version of sleep: in the s.e.m. when given the epileptics' digest by the television producers? this is play-dough! we have the ultimate authority - the software within software... all these software brands are also slaves to the hardware companies... please don't let them undermine the content within the content, because that recycles itself back toward the context within the context: i'm only using a computer, not a ****** kettle to make tea.

the argument bypassed all hierarchies of power,
                and it was done in the realm of the shadow people,
    long was the established
authority of man, in that democratic  babble -
until someone resorted to anarchistic measures
and said: well - allpoetry.com is a ******'s pleasure
garden of Pavlov, wattpad.com doesn't allow
                                                           ­                            ctrl c / p,
                 and elsewhere a truest
democratic expectation was
written out, against all established
lumberjacks of print,
   there, it was written,
lay the gambit - two cruise ships set off:
   become rich or die trying,
or...
               speak the truth against
a billion or two people and die not wanting
         a silver-spoon up your ***...
but i still can't believe that *incubus

released their seminal morning view
album in 2001; ****! i was 15 then,
an album of my youth...
                        such that music ages
like wine... apart from classical / literati
music kindred of Bach -
               the 20th century phenomenon
music as enjoyable as alcohol,
        no stiff-necktie princes readied for
louse agitation sitting in an opera theatre
for too long: grit and grime:
the down-to-earth passe that was actually
an impasse in terms of: can't ignore this
outlet.
             there's freedom where you can
find it,
                  sometimes facebook.com
allowed minor computer coding,
   the stroked-out ambiguity of
the zoological enclosure of <u> ending with </u>
for something being underlined,
but it's still all software, the hierarchical priest
that's a chef, but not the hardware wired
slaughterhouse attendee or the butcher -
i still find it bewildering that journalists
treat the medium that's electronic as a form of
surrealism, unreal, psychiatric worthy investigation...
well: dope,
                     people die from interacting on this
quick-action translated into real life "t.v.",
              journalists are basically writing us off
and whatever the internet provides goes against
their famous revolution of the printing press...
they can't stomach democracy of the internet,
they prefer to peer for the autocracies of
their belittling tabloid conglomerates of a Hussein;
they can't stomach freedom,
they can't stomach free enterprise: with or without
a care to have a family, pay the extortion that children
surmount to...
                         they are like priest, in the grey suited
attire of authority that's beyond
       distinguishable...
                                    opinions spewed like
regurgitated kebabs on an Essex dance floor after too
many shots of warm *****... without even a
chance for a dialectical horizon...
                     little fears, little people.
sure, i can be the village idiot: i did the opposite
of people outside of a eugenic background of
Shakespeare or Beckett households do,
    simply outside keeping the motto, if not
merely the motivation to be blunt flints -
i.e. great-grandfather was a doctor, grandfather was
a doctor, father was a doctor, i am a doctor...
embarrassing, this "noble" form of ******...
                doctors and lawyers are alike...
     if you want to know where the neanderthals are
these days? i'll tell you, there, where i pointed
at with the inbreeding of inter-generational "improvements"
but keeping the family name attired in a certain
profession...
                                    to be honest, for all that blah blah
of Darwinism (never stance it off against theology,
                      any -ism isn't a -logy, the former
attires itself with words but simply dictates images)
               we're less bio-diverse than we think we are,
        i call it the ****** plateau, nirvana unplugged
said it better, but i find the hard case of social mobility
          being immovable in terms of
                         a Francis Shakespeare imitating his
great great great, great great grandfather
                                 or a Michael Faraday
                                 Jr. Jr. Jr. Jr., Jr. Jr.
                           securing a patent on a Dyson light-bulb...
****** happens all the ****** time,
               it's just the socially acceptable ****** that
doesn't require rammstein to write a song
         entitled Viennesse Blood
                                            (6-    -en- -ease:
         6 denoting the Welsh ***** to you and ****** to boot,
                                     and the universal *******)...
                                                      ­ was i shocked when
i heard about this story? i could have been...
                                           but then i've been reading
the mentality of the culprit that's kindred of the Marquis
de Sàde (alternatively Sadé... i.e. eh?)
                       and i figured: have you seen how local
  and uninformed the people surrounding the case are,
                  they would have hardly known that
a plebiscite was taking place...
               two carrots a beetroot and a cabbage broth
in their eyes translated the civilised world's shock...
                  but that's what's shocking about
our modern world: you can truly become a barbarian these
days by treating modern, socially progressive / civilised
          antics or behavioural patterns with an
anti-social tinge of revision: basically stating the truth:
      and truth is the newest form of brutality (oddly enough),
incubated by the phrase: brutal-honesty...
              so evidently that's counter to: civilised-deceit.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
/political correctness is a term used for people who have forgotten, near-archaic social formalities... oddly enough, social-formality is still obliterating political debate,  and is only existent, when met with political "dialectic"... since ancient Greece,  dialectics has been the enemy of politics, since it curbed the stampede of orchestrated, pristine, rhetoric... which is why politicians stutter, or mishandle... what was once a fact, has now become a statistic... which is... something you call: diluted ****, or diarrhoea...

political correctness?!
    what is "political"
about an ontological
focus of a priori
   social formalities?
   political correctness,
id est:
    satus quo prolongation?
as far as i know that
ship has sailed...
perhaps like the Titanic's
maiden voyage,
not blessed with a champagne
bottle christening...
a Kantian revival against
the Hegelian "dialectic"...
after all, he was the Copernicus
to what became the Marxist-
Galileo fiasco!
    if only Copernicus
became a martyr for looking
down the whirlpool of
a flushed toilet... who knows?!
*******... spaghetti
al fresco and Venitian blinds...
fatso mafiasos and
Marlon Brando dyslexia
due to cotton buds shoved
into his cheeks like
a ******* jerbal...
             gallows the schmuck,
hence came Zodiac Leo...
i'm actually apprehensive
about the fact that political
correctness is actually
an: apolitical statement...
seen that khaki attired king rat
scuttling about giving
shadow commands?!
me neither...
   but at least in a dictatorship...
some *******
doesn't have a choice,
but own up...
    illusion of the emperor's
new clothes...
you're right... the clothes
are rented...
   because there weren't any
to begin with!
   no wonder there's a shadow
spine to the "pristine"
idea of democracy...
chivaraly was also,
once upon a time, a novel idea
and an idea with a span of
history (ideology, vogue)...
      but came the undertaker
and buried that *******
with the maiden's hankerchief
he used as target practice for either
*****, or snot...
    political correctness is any ugly
term for what is otherwise
a root of social formality,
   laughable, even still...
  political correctness has no
a priori root to pivot on...
   political correctness attempts to
be a form of social formality,
but it's... kinda hard to
speak about an unspoken rule
that has been passed on
and is anti-political,
id est: intuitive... hardly the curious
child with a stick and a wasp hive...
      people feel unhinged...
no wonder!
        a social formality is within
the ontological a priori focus...
an inheritence that's silent...
but, politics, is never exactly
   an a priori focus...
              tinged with a posteriori
artifacts, it usually cites
Napoleon, ****** and Russia...
             to be "politically"
incorrect, is to what? what?!
                    momentarily relaxing
social formality?
                gender neutral pronouns
of the western world... ha ha!
a much older debate about
pronouns exists in the Slavic world...
made concise be the use of
the pronoun you...
     and of course,  i...
       which focuses on a loss of the title
herr und fraulein...
              ha ha...
told you that nag hammadi library
shepherd and pivotal St. Thomas' gospel
was going to be a hit...
              Chinese whispers in Judea...
the current... thrill of bi-cis-dunno...
doughnut?
    - only two people worth
admiring in the 20th century:
Lenon and Kennedy...
   the sort of people who true... fans!
i make a falsetto,
some Hannibal Lector will be
on my heels, thinking up
a ritual where, I'm actually eaten,
in a snippet of my body, akin
to the tender-bits of my liver...
   way to go... a sabbath encore
of those ***** ****-takes of beauty
Scotch banshees!
       fifth limb and the word: USURPER!
nope... make my tongue
into a ***- (yes, like
****** I might call the urban
of what is a renowned country's
worth of Billy, hence
the hyphen attaché)...

     whatever is politically correct
(mind you, german idealism,
rigidness of vocabulary,
only 3 definitions of a word
are utilised, the fourth
becomes a writers' scurvy
or a ***** tattoo in a thesaurus)...

whatever is politically "correct",
hence the ambiguity of -ness
is an orphan of both social
formality & informality...
who the **** would asked
for a political butcher,
let alone a member of parliament
take on a rabbi's son?!

nooooo....   oooooone....
       lovely,  ain't that
the pretty siht:
sight of a tightening
of a cravat prior to
the folded napkin in heavy cotton
before the state dinner...
minus the China and
the yardstick worth of... silverware...

came the ümlaut...  
the closing of the parabola...
the shy messiah...
the rollingpin of omicron,
the ******'s worth of omega.
   und?!
          ah...
    the siamese twins of H
in the tetragrammaton...
once a wave (W)...
     once a particle 3D (Y)...
jew counted matchsticks
   and read a book...
Pole has 1 to count,
       afro-boy has 20+ raps
for one gil scott-heron
  for every ****** factory
and for every if it came to:
this revolution, lardy lardy,
was televised...
now we're praying that it
could please! please! shut! up!
            
the toying with Greek and
a crucifix that became the tongue
of the golgotha-cranium?
   do the sons of light caste
a shadow?
       surely "we" read the light
from shadows...
   night, however...
is... without form....
        devoid of the triangle
and the square...
    the universe is ever expanding
is the closest they came to
giving it a geometry...
and then they finally settled on a:
linear proposition...
   came the "big" and the "bang"...
and then the, "supposed"
sparrow eater worth of vacuum...

there is an understanding
of social formality
  (a priori)
     as there is a knowledge
of social informality
      (a posteriori)...
    political "correctness":
a claim of being...
       politicians should learn this
mantra:
    to be politically "correct / incorrect"
is to be... apolitical...
   what?  
                just because
the church bred atheists...
a parliament can't breed apoliticians?
  granted...
     the parliament has a luxury
of a god on a string...
          and a suddenly materialised
"god"...
             the church is already a warm broth
of gurgling **** in the shadows...

for whatever the audacity of
youth apparent,
the fervour in me is hardly
as Dynamo for Alt.    
        in what remains an inherited
burgeon of power....
   than a plebiscite of gambling...

who speaks of political correctness
is only speaking of
a buffer zone to the ham trough...
yes, thank you,
I know there is no talk of
political correctness in the scenario
of a uniformed police officer
and me drinking a beer on a bench...
politicised bystanders...
****... me...
   can they flip and omelette like
a pancake?
        social formalities don't need
a stray dog's worth of tongue
to suddenly discover
the arithmetic of counting teeth!
Spirit of the age.
Which age?
Indifferent?
Explicit?
Aesthetics?

Art
Beauty
Film
Music
Li­terature

Modern
Classical
Ancient
Medieval
Contemporary

Greek
Chinese
Arabic
African
Indian

Limelight
Sun­light
Moonlight
Twilight
Candlelight

My spirit straddles two ages
20th and 21st
Can it be that I've surpassed my
own time?
Alas,

Goodnight from this plebiscite
Sleep tight
Don't let the zeitgeist bite.
© JLB
"no man can surpass his own time, for the spirit of his time is also his own spirit."
Joe Wilson Mar 2014
The rains seem to have finally subsided
At least it seems so for now
Mopping up the sodden devastation
Amid many an insurance row.

Some now say that dredging will not work
But surely history proves that it’s right
Though never a complete solution
At least it reduces the plight.

But politics now comes into play
It’s crucial to be seen in the right
So decisions that were taken only yesterday
Can so easily be changed overnight.

Climate change is with us for good now
It’s become part of our way of life
And solid steps will need to be taken
To end frequent bad weather strife.

But Chancellor’s have always cut budgets
And none have done more so than this
In fact in all of the service programmes
People see themselves staring into the abyss.

It’s all about how they look to the voters
For we carry their careers in our cross
For otherwise I think most politicians
About the plebiscite just wouldn’t give a toss.

We have wards now closing down in our hospitals
There are schools that are never repaired
A benefit system, though flawed, is besieged
Yet the rich tax avoiders still get spared.

So the land, like these other things will lose out
The efforts will cease as will the rain
Till the next time that the heavens all open
And ordinary folk again feel the pain.

There are houses that are ruined forever
Some insurers refusing the bill
Flood defenses that seem barely adequate
Properties from before empty still.

On sodden fields where houses keep rising
And new concrete covers over flood plains
Where tenants often get such poor insurance
And the country just never sees the gain.

But it’s the ‘I’m alright Jack’ way of the politicos
Who mostly live in their ivory towers
They’re the ones who aren’t making decisions
Yet the ones wielding all of the powers.

So the’cross’ is our one powerful weapon
It’s the most powerful thing in the land
We should all make so sure that we use it
And make all of these fools understand.



©JRW2014
Ken Pepiton May 2020
2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?



Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.





Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.






quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.

---


Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.




a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esq­uire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebisc­ite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; sciente­r; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizop­hrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."
This began when I noticed science is from the same root as all those old words for post digestion of chewed up stuff.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
they are to never find a path, akin to our,
an insomnia of the sun,
they are to be forever quasi-Eskimo
blonde...
               but the English are *******
prunes in that department... ******* prunes!
hawk-nosed liars!
                         pop and the great escape
of anger...
                      sheer me custard-skinned
and i'll do the tøtengruß salute...
Stasi... right to poach the "free" people,
simply meaning: the impolite people...
i too wish thing were different,
and we could summarise over tea and biscuits...
but some people have never experienced
the notion of the flux, or: change...
they're still strapped to the Mary Poppins
of imagining things...
had i a son or daughter, i'd never have either...
because i wish i had wanted either...
but never care to churn a cherishing of as said:
totalitarian memorisation in me overtook
thinking, i simply stopped thinking,
memory demoniac took over:
the renegade in a Swedish village was never to be,
the internet gave the public a moral compass,
and moral superiority, meaning
that artists had to agree to a public moral
consensus, or write no art at all...
ending in? ****-poor art, or no art at all:
hence, the applause... well done;
well done. you've just invented a ****** communism
that suffocates everyone... well done...
speaking as someone who's ancestors experienced it
first-hand with the Mongolians... no!
there isn't an advert involved! you ****** up!
you little ****** crazy squatting at university
born at 5 a.m. thinking is going into the bin!
that's where it belongs... ******.
i have to ways of saying tøtengruß... you,
i presume, have only one...
just you watch me mark you idiotic by a
non-existent plebiscite...
is it alright? first of all you'll soak me in honey,
then walk me into the desert, then the bees will
come... then you'll disperse...
as you have already... then you'll start to think:
who's y neighbour? should i ask him
for a spare cup of sugar?
then the neighbour will reply you:
that idiot is blasting music at 11 a.m. and
it's disrupting my sleep! lock him up!
and then you'll go among the throng and think
nothing, and comply, and just, shut, up;
like you were meant to.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
not much needs to be written these days,
i hardly ask to peer at the face
of god:
what, with all these full bodied
chinese ideograms or ancient egyptian
hieroglyphs - strenuous like
impromptu hindenburg explosions...
at least with these latin letters:
well: the hebrew revision -
skeletons... endless row of skeletons...
shackles of bone...
i never promised myself this...
but... upon seeing an open coffin
in the morgue: the detail beside walking
around town putting up necrolog posters...
the bureaucratic detail in
what culminates in the whole:
well attired in princey navy jacket...
cuffs and: remembering how to tie:
a tie...
the generic mass at a funeral:
family secrets... oh the bogus lot of:
an unhappy marriage...
only somehow saved by the prefix grand-
some ever summer for several years
from the womb of the daughter...
this unhappy marriage...
only 3 months ago:
i could see the eyes of resignation...
perhaps cancer finally matched up to:
his willingness to let go...
i'm writing this to justify his unwillingness
to live: after all... rosy whenever i
visited him: otherwise purgatory:
skinning of pigs for shoes...
a grandmother's tongue like a sting of a wasp...
it was not for anyone to live:
no wonder he recounted: he decided to
escape into memory...
and it wasn't like upon death:
all of life flashes before your eyes:
once you age and service up half a dozen
years, months, weeks and countless days:
an eternity of hours...
memory become cinema...
i've seen it myself...
to play the cameo...
            but i can't imagine
being married to someone who might
wish me dead or:
that i might die like a dog dies:
in my native tongue: zdechnąć...
which refers to animals...
people: people have the capacity (rather than
the potential) to... umrzeć..
to die like an animal is to
heave the last breath without
the ease of possessing a differential
sigma of all part concerned that
tells any naked eye the difference
between
an animate and an inanimate object...
well... further along...
that's a bad joke...
since most of the time...
something animate doesn't
necessarily have to become subjected
to our observation: filtering the amassing
grey fudge of pedestrians:
which is less... even though animate...
than the inanimate mountain...
then again... the earth is static by
illusion... suddenly broken
by the wind... hurried disillusionment
by a hurricane... hey presto!
i'm standing on a "levitating" orb...
- i promised something...  
ah... identifying a corpse in an open coffin
in a morgue before the funeral...
biting-the-quill-procedures of death:
death... i have to let you know...
is very well organised...
it's very bureaucratic...
hell for all it's insomniac democracy:
"veto"...
it's... impossible to suffer childish fears
when walking through a graveyard...
hours shy post the burial
i sat by the grave like a dutiful
dog and teased my eye with a candle
while burning the ridges of plastic
into a cascade of all things hot, molten...
- my new found source of "debate"?
not finishing a cigarette...
smoking... half of it...
extinguishing it... half an hour later...
with the filter already soaking wet
with wet nicotine from all my drags...
new found pleasure...
it's a ******* mirage:
the idea that there are inanimate
objects at hand for the eye to admire
and meditate on...
a mountain in all its grandiosity...
yes yes... esp. when slap-sticked to
a... magician'******that:
the tetragrammaton has a daughter:
who he calls the annum...
HH: for summer and winter: chiral entities...
Y for spring... W for autumn...
why that is so...
Nero could have told you...
my lyre! my liar! rome is afloat!
the waves are ablaze!
this english tongue would not be
recognised by either greeks or the romans!
yet i'm using the lettering
of qua quixote: qua ape borgia...
pope!         pope!
are all the protestant sovereigns rich?
guess it comes to quest with a question:
the catholic rich ****** of france or
spain... who are the pauper catholics?
by all means: i know all the orthodox
castratos are: grecian and challenging:
take turns concerning either Malta
or Cyprus...
- here's to! here's to not getting my "mojo"
back concerning writing:
it's not like there's a horizon of
a stephen king worth for me to play
jester with... it's not like i'm some clive barker
who explored narratives
and character studies in h'amsterdam's
underground play-toy-play-t'ing...
rubber ole! studding with nails
and a fetish for leather...
while having sioux...
kneecap fold at the elbow:
wave goo'-bye!
             none of that... no...
             meat 'n' tow veg unfathomable...
like testing the vernacular of
testicles of... five men, all blind...
and a whale to make jokes concerning
an elephant...
- now i am extending my "privy"...
i am making myself welcome by ****
and wilt alone...
i am playing solitaire and i am rearranging
chess and dominos of letters:
but all these fattenings that come back
to bite phonetic enclosures
of chinese ideograms and egyptian
hieroglyphics... bloat in my face like
sprouts of mushroom growth
and bulging pockets of **** of gangrene
and sickly sweet acne...
- you know... i expected any other
play on a hiatus... i see old people walk
around and i'm like: coming on 81...
bragging about pushing 120...
when i came back from the funeral
i felt a sense of relief...
there's the concept of the mother-tongue...
as the very central european concept
of the fatherland...
it's not german...
hardly... concerning that he died
a philosopher: i.e. married to an abomination
of a woman...
i'll sooner gamble on horses!
or... how i will have to stand alone...
or walk into the north sea one
day and drown... or head to the civilisation
crown of humanity's deity: the switz land
or the benelux and spend my last
halving of paper with
tsar nicholas II imprinted on it...
for a dosage of euthanasia...

let the africans and the arabs come...
i am tired of having to jest
not suffering from bouts of
lethargy... let them i don't mind...
i'm of the mind concerning the belief
in shadows and in volcanoes...
the larva of the lava needs new:
sprouts!
copper-skinned "i" and R: further! US!
but not from this boring set of
stale ideas!

- a grandfather died: sorry... was i supposed
to be more... more estranged from
the concept of family?!
grandfather is pushing it?
but that Poland has reached
a mythological status entry for past...
hell... England is on par...
concerning Ilford... Gants Hill...
Barkingside... and sooner or later...
Romford...
white-flight... well no **** sherlock!
we're not going to fit onto
the Faroe Islands like a bunch
of hiding oysters!

- again... was this at all offensive
or am i just too grief stricken to mind
the already apolitical "political correctness"
sort of ******* that's reserved
for the retards that: will hardly
envision actual bridges and actual rivers...
no... "society"... is their... ******* disneyland
of concerns!

money is a social construct...
pay 'em in either pebbles or peanuts!
how else?!
- and what of still stalling of bulging
"anger" from a "erectile dysfunction":
glad you asked...
i... simply don't know...
why it works a charm with prostitutes...
but... fails... whenever i have to
date someone from
a mythos of the 1950s: bidding for a
housewife... thank you...
i can... or rather: i much prefer
to cook for myself...
i need no **** or **** in that department...

- because it's that nagging sensation
surround: only recently the parisian police
burned another migrant camp...
not in calais...
in some underpass...
i was in Paris circa 2004 - 2007 and
it was that city of Hemingway et al.,
now... it's the city where
there's a mausoleum of a bonaparte...
if that...
in a sunday newspaper magazine
a book review concerning Idi Amin...
attempted to portray him
in good faith... turns out!
****** gassed... Idi Amin performed
miraculous surgery...

- believe it or now: i'm on my way out...
thank **** and god to boot for
having inherited such fuckery of
grandmothers... and paternal... blah blah...
synchronised fuckery of a Tolstoy's
Anna Karenina opening - with the world
as a whole...
and i... poor ****-wit...
a cameo narrative-ist...

- in this tongue alone: "borrowed":
lent, acquired... why should "i"...
the dumb polacks were graced with a pope?
as instrument... let my fellow countrymen
gloat in a darkness of: that's already
easily manipulated...
saint my *** on a peddle-stool!
- what do i owe... "europe":
exactly what it owes me...
privy to the image of... salvaging...
tank-tops and ******...
even when it was grizzly ritzy and **** on
you:
the same foundation:
how plagued could we have become...
gorging on the same load of
masochism yet feeling no inclination
for: the colonial adventures that
landed "us" on the moon...

how there is a past for some...
but not for others: "my" people ought to
regress to the grievances bestowed
to them by the teutonic knights: failed 4th crusade...
the mongols, the swedes concerning
the deluge...
the ottomans... the ukranian nationalists...
oh.. "multicultural" society... "worked"...
in the polish-lithuanian commonwealth:
so well that what was required
was a foreign king...

i too... own... my body my land...
mythological as it might still be:
leaving school i do know how to dictate
the last of the anglo--saxon king's "whereabouts"
in history... the angevin empire...
the normie 'orms... and europe
can go **** itself...

           why? grief bespoke... i'm on
an "angry" hiatus...
  i write skeletons of letters and i'm peering
at the house of god...
all that's missing is what's hidden in 'ebrew...
i.e. the niqab vowels...
which would make words arrive
back at a reading:
LK S...
        S Y MGHT S
   like so
so you might see...
               - charles dickens called it
orthography... i just call it bad spelling...
i would call it orthography if...
english entertained the concept and use of
diacritical markers...
i.e. ó vs. u...
               does... english (as a language)
even bother to... no... it doesn't...
matter desiring to dictate: ******* stark naked...
a CH from a SH otherwise
hiding the foot of the tetragrammaton
in a caron, i.e. Č or Š...
oh... right... still pandering to the cannibals
of the pacific isles...
- what the **** are we... philandering
as: fiddlin with: as... escapee ******* / tattoo?!
it's not "orthography": mr. dickness...
it's either bad spelling or outright dyslexia...

orthography implores the application of
diacritical markers...
the russians: employ them...
however subtle...
so subtle... but english doesn't permit
an entire letter to be fathomable...
for a compound...
Ч (Č) - CH - you hide the heb' god...
no? no... you expose 'im... no?

    Ш (Š) - SH... oi 'rew! 'rew! i find the wind...
caressing... the Faroe isles most inviting:
i was so very close to the concept
of how...
                  ш + ц ≠ щ
   given ч... i might have wished...

- here;s too giving myself to too much greek
or the hebrew counter: these letters...
the new testament...
here's to europe: yur-op!
my pondering a  burning of a scarf:
the summoning of a wind...
the necropolis hybrid... a skinning
of a... believe them greeks,
believe them hebrews:
sooner or later they become ottomans...
whether asked or being in want...

- such that the closet of your kin leave you
being hindered...
and that all: that remains...
is a **** flinging fest of lobotomy creasure...
you take your pick: whether i've
disused or under achieved
usage of a certain: verbiage - attache...
told the point... the laughing dolphin...
when "arrayed" with a display of
a butterfly's quest...
as one: ibn: might be left demanding:
no camel jockey who afre you...
no yacht... a dolphin giggling...
flapping at makeshift:
feathers...

           i cleave to... a hybrid...
what has to become the genius
of BARR... **** it... capital lettering...
the IRN BRU sod...
the 18--... fuckety-fuckety...
    history impromptu!

hello comparisons BARR "conctra"
KRUPPS...

such that i might drink: h'american
ice-cream / cream soda...
all of that jingle...
bubble-gum what's-not-to-like?!
all the synthetic soda-creamed-up
pie...
all that curated...
bukakke and gloryhole...
and **** on me **** on you,..

- so who's left... *******, pretend one is...
smiling?!
nairobi ping-pong quest old german
boring toothache too?!

i sorta think i've served a purpose...
if it wasn't enough:
well? then i can become most hurried and
harried in giving all the necessary
exaltations...
w.d.y.f.o.
  in acronyms and in a slapping
of hands by the deaf i learned from my youth
in a country i was last felt welcome in.

but please! go on! do... your... ****-most with!
keeping your most similar least involved!
to hell with you!
to hell with you!
i can't sacrifice imploring...
your already disguised hyper-tensioned
phrase for keeping up with
demands for tourism:
your nay bother... you ******* deaf-counter-quip
of a ******* fidget of a forgotten use
of a whip!

strap them to an island,
arm them with a gimp's shame...
yet still they persist in their...
monolingual plebiscite!
the afghan peoples of the ancient world...
no wonder! "afghans"...
that they are.. stubborn
integral follow up to how the french
also didn't.
Yenson Mar 2022
Like the comprehension and sage analysis
of D. Trump is without doubt convinced
he won the election
our home-grown morons are convinced
plebiscite inane machinations of fools
impacts the sublime
Plato's Republic lives down my locality
the effect of education and the lack of it
on our nature
see how ideas and perception differs
from actual reality of life
the sleep walkers in ghost democracy
all see white in the dark
do not wake them for they are convinced
they are rulers in the rye
chaffs can dream do you not comprehend
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2020
If people can vote in referendum
giving someone else the decision
to terminate a pregnancy, surely it
is their own choice to be permitted
a plebiscite on personal expiration
without consent from any majority.
Ryan O'Leary Sep 19
.          Heaven is a republic,
           the sitting incumbent
           is God but Satan who
           happens to be a cross
           dresser is challenging
           this years plebiscite in
           female guise, she calls
           herself Lucy Ferocious.

           She has a sooty ashen
           face like Cinder-Ella.

           Beware, she is a friend
           of the evil ones, some
           are known assassin's.
        
           Ps.

           If God dies, who is left to
           Make America Great Again,
           who, but he, can we trust in?

— The End —