Kashmir Delirium

Oh People Of Earth! Thankful are we,
For each act of benevolence shown to us.
Your gilded sweet words describing,
The beauty of Kasmir, land and people.

Mention in books and talks of it's riches,
Naming it the Sweet Paradise Of Earth.
The Lord has been bountiful to Kashmir,
Treasure of resources in every sphere.

To elevate each aspect, our wish for life,
As every acre of this land is worth millions.
Full of treasures and recreational value,
Forestry with grandeur and silvery rivers.

The outside world's view is so limited,
Simple folks living in the lap of rich bounty.
Mentioned in world forums and organizations,
But what of the goal of giving us freedom?

What has The UN established in our name?
To measure the pain and anguish we bear,
At the hands, of our supposed benefactors.
The saviours who has us fractured.

But in reality they train their enforcers,
In the art of creating oceans of tears.
The red blood now hidden in camouflage,
The spent shells now gathered and hidden.

The leaders we are told to elect in electoral shams,
Run publicity kiosks and swell friend lists.
Joint conferences to address personal interests
Dialogues that never address the root issues.

Just the formalities and no sympathy,
For the ones burnt in cruel sadistic reprisals.
The hypocrisy continues deliriously unabated,
More augmentation of the security forces.

For a first hand view of deep hypocrisy,
Walk this land, you know as beautiful.
Religious leaders will teach you  political artistry,
Sermons full of ambiguity and guile.

Waywardness and narrow mindedness on display,
Political apologists give great lessons.
Religion and religious ethnicity are tools,
That keep minds and bodies in total check.

Gamesmanship by leaders is the rule of thumb,
As promises are forgotten once office is obtained.
When writing of this succulent beautiful land,
Write of the air, pregnant with sadistic practices.

This land is being stripped of worldly treasures,
And the greatest treasure is mistreated daily.
The best of nation is the inhabitants,
Ignored are the real gems of this beautiful paradise.

By: Cedric McClester

Now the acolytes and apologists
Will no doubt come out and insist
That the mayor of Baltimore wasn’t remiss
I guess you could say ignorance is bliss
But the question remains who was in charge
When the mayor was absent by and large
And the duty of the office wasn’t discharged
While she was busy having her ego massaged

Acolytes and apologists
Have convenient answers for all of this
But those answers only make us ******
When we look back and reminisce
Although it may be an ominous sign
Dereliction of duty comes to mind
Or perhaps it was just blind leading the blind
But it shouldn’t have happened any time

Acolytes and apologist
Have ways of glossing over all of this
Try though we may to get their gist
They make us want to ball our fist
Who’s gonna help build the city back up
When the anger subsides the people are stuck
Because a callous few didn’t give a ****
Acolytes and apologist pass the buck

Acolytes and apologist
Are everywhere explaining this
But the salient fact they must have missed
Is the blame should be placed squarely on sis
What recourse do we have when our leaders fail
When looters and rioters don’t go to jail
Who should we look to, to assail
If not the mayor who's gone stale


© Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

TW: r#pe culture

anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:

i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.

scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.

although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no

all this is anything but
cathartic.

it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
  by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.

- 20210315

I am exhausted by the endless pontification from
Professional apologists for every form of
Bad behavior from the protected class of the day.

I am tired of hearing from people for whom
Race / *** / color / creed / disability / ****** orientation
Is a hammer and the whole world is a nail.

I am weary of politicians passing laws
They neither read nor understand
And of the media that gives them cover.

I am fatigued by the endless lecturing from talking heads
About the need to strictly adhere to political correctness
And their attempts to quash speech and rewrite history.

I am haggard from having to deflect the constant, blatant,
Insidious efforts at indoctrination from the self-appointed
Thought police peddling propaganda masquerading as news.

I am burned out from the galloping gall,
Of apologists portraying criminals as victims,
While ignoring the harm done to their actual victims.

I am tuckered out by the double standard,
Of some racists who hide behind a perpetual cry of racism,
As the only acceptable answer to every difficult question.

I am petered out by having to listen,
To the mad ravings of newly arrived Representatives,
Barely out of diapers proposing ideas from The Twilight Zone.

I am drained by the injustice of heroes attacked as monsters,
Monsters treated as heroes and proudly worn on T-shirts,
And those who stand for nothing but take a knee for the National Anthem.

I am sapped by traitors who marry terrorists,
Name their children after other terrorist warlords,
Then demand the right to to come home to the country they betrayed.

I am worn out by life in a world ruled by madness that expects me to
Nod, pump my fist in the air and march in lockstep to an imposed
Drumbeat while ignoring the man behind the curtain orchestrating the show.

Starving his people so that they eat off dumpsters is not enough;

Causing more than 3,000,000 of the best and brightest to emigrate is not enough;

An annual inflation rate of 60,324% today (source: Forbes) is not enough;

Rejecting at gun point foreign food and medicine to aid the sick and starving at the borders is not enough;

Trampling on the Constitution and establishing a dictatorship is not enough;

Billions of dollars stolen from the Venezuelan people by cronies is not enough;

Destroying hope, progress, and a leading world economy is not enough;

Today government thugs are literally running over protesters in armored vehicles.

A small group of rabid-left apologists in the U.S. telling us to ignore the man behind the curtain in an insane attempt to defend the indefensible must face reality.

Maduro must go.

His Marxist dystopia must be dismantled.

The Venezuelan people must regain the right of self determination through free and fair elections--not the sham elections all Communist nations use to show close to 100% approval of the ruling tyrant.

Enough is enough!

I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape

You're a red harp with veins painted on the side

When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words

Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands

I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor

You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design

I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor

When I fear the apologists

You fear the escapists

I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness

You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins

I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing

At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides

I am an island in a puddle of sand

when i woke up: are you ******* me?! or are you trying to tell a joke pretending to be Billy Crystal?

the word censored will hardly precipitate to
be a ****** of images,
you can censor as many words as you like,
to create this neurotically psychotic society,
enough warfare exposed to the populace of
civilians and you end up with civilians
internalising war, with not actual war taking
place, skirmishes, yes, but war on a
Napoleonic scale? no. you have to attack civilians
to such an extent that they internalise what would
have been otherwise cannon by the name of Howitzer,
or a Автомат Калашникова (awtomat kalaschnikowa);
attacking civilians rather than waging smooth transitions
between two elite armies created artificial peace,
a bit like the holy grail of seeking artificial intelligence
in inorganic chemistry, rather than seeking to
bank on intelligence in organic bodies... silicone v.
carbon... all the way! if you wage war by violating
the orthodoxy of warfare with the heresy of
attacking civilians, you'll get peace for sure,
externally all will appear peaceful, but internally
you'll be creating civilian berserkers, perfectly suited
to the cut-throat dynamics of capitalism,
"selfish" gene and all, they're as good apologists
as the *allahu akbar brigade, but instead of using
a whole ruler to smack you over the head with,
they just use a centimetre of it...
this peace we're seeing in our current times is due
to the unorthodoxy, the heresy of warfare,
you attack an unarmed civilian you will subsequently
usurp traditional fields of war, you will internalise
conflict, you will create renegades without army
or comrade or general, all against all, and eventually
culminating in a schizoid i against i...
the psychiatrist Laing was wrong to subscribe to reasons
of a post-colonial nature, he was already the *******
and self-defeating: only i'd would like to think more
of a Scot, but he's an example of a union that worked...
the Welsh were never kindred of the Scots in wanting
rebellion... no William Wallace among them...
it's this broken rule of warfare that exposed the public
to internalise it... but what were you expecting...
there we have guerilla warfare, random, chaotic free
and then we have the straight lines of regiments,
sitting turkeys firing 30 metres apart from each other...
how warfare became so idiotic the soldiers decided
it was necessary to shove war into civilians,
we have actually become impregnated without
really bothering to notice the impregnation disguised
in masquerade of what capitalism offers us:
the many distractions and chances to spend money
with even billionaires succumbing to philanthropy
given their 20 toilet to number mansions...
so if you find certain words offensive i'm asking you:
why did i build up a verbum account of a rich
vocabulary... when i see you readied to censor me
and then sit there, watching police violence
like a ******* touchdown in a football match?
well... if it ain't dementia, then it must be dyslexia.

Well that was last week
& this is now
& yes …
it actually is
to him
This President of the United States
who has just endorsed
an accused
child-molestor …
…
THE PRESIDENT OF THESE HERE
UNITED STATES
HAS ENDORSED
AN ACCUSED
*******!
…
“He denied it”
says Trump,
of Roy Moore
this man who has 8,
yes …
8 women accusers …
together with witnesses
from the time,
& corroborative evidence
from the time,
& tears …
from the time,
& fear …
from the time,
…
& if there’s special
place in hell
let it house
Trump
& Moore
& Moore’s enablers
& Republican justifiers
& equivocating TV hosts
& the Evangelical apologists
…
& as for Trump
& as for Moore …
the moral bankruptcy here
leads me to simply say
in anger, disgust & horror …
may the dark pitiless depths
of a sulfurous burning pit
be their’s for eternity,
…
or close to.

Now I’m not usually into politics
But our nation's not a firm apologists of its actions
And it’s making me quite frustrated
Seeing homeless veterans on the street
Isn’t being this small minded just a little bit outdated?
The America that we’re living in has me completely surprised
Has no one in this country ever opened their eyes?
Because our skin tone still defines us
Yeah thats without a doubt
As if the darker your skin gets the less respect your given
Is that what you want America to be about?
Immigrants are given no trust
And now our  president wants to put a wall around us
I think that’s enough
Don’t you?
They say we’re in troubled paradise but all I see is trouble
Cause the number of suicides from last year to now has nearly doubled
And not to mention
That there have been just about 22 school shootings in just this past year
Ever wonder why our country is trembling in fear
Well here’s why
Because our school dress code matters more than our gun laws
Here's why
Because our skin tone determines our value and our worth
Here’s why
Because Gay marriage was only legal just a few years ago
Here’s why
Because poverty is spreading quicker than ever
Here’s why
Because now women get harrassed on the street
Here’s why
Because some people feeling like dying everyday and the only help they’re  given is prescribed medication
Here’s why
Because women are still paid less than men
Now I suggest you go ahead and look outside
And don’t try to hide away from it all
Don’t ignore the homeless man that is dying on the street
Don’t ignore the black woman being sexually assaulted on that corner
Don’t ignore the that gay couple being rejected from their church
Don’t ignore that little girl who has to measure her shorts for school
And we are told that young or old freedom will unfold
But If that’s so
Then why has nothing changed in the past century?
And now let me ask you
Did we make America great again?

There’s 2 regular Trump apologists
out in the chattering classes these dark
depressing days Paris Dennard & the lighter
skinned & white-quiffed Jeffrey Lord, both are
utterly intolerable to spend too much time with
both accepting no, quite literally no wrong-doing,
on the part of their sweet master Trump,

Paris has his gig I guess as the black guy
brought on to be the black Republican who
will defend Trump so the folks back home
can say: “See” …
& he is a smartly dressed dude, plays it well
I guess but jeez your boss isn’t infallible Paris,

& Jeffrey lord, oh god Jeffrey Lord …
where to start, well he’s usually bringing in
comparisons & history points from early
20th century speeches & such, while
actually ignoring the real issue & so he’s
good at what he does I’ll give him that,

I heard that he wrote a column praising Trump
early in the election & Trump called him to wax
magnificent & boy was Jeffrey chuffed & all
& thus has been so dedicated & loyal,

& since then he’s pretzeled himself so far
over to kiss his own heels & ends up the
lone Trump voice in every single discussion,
& nothing, absolutely nothing is questioned
or fault acknowledged.

Its a tough job but someone’s got to do it I
guess, but god these folks disgust.

You may all think Matthew is perhaps up all
night reading Das Capital for fun
& spending odd days in his chair
pondering class relations in
late 21st century Capitalism,

or just plain transfixed by newsreels,
earnest learned scholars,
smiling breezy interviewers,
fooled or entertained
by an opinion about
this, a diversion about
that,

& that Matthew sits hunched
over a computer screen
fuming at life's repugnancies,
odious & loathsome actors
in the Politics Game,
desperately berating liars,
despising sycophants, cursing
till the end of days the evil-doers,
ill-wishers, & apologists,

that Matthew in pure Bolshevik-
style takes no prisoners, accepts
no quarter, tidies up after the revolution
by filling shallow graves with the still
warm corpses of the enemies of the people,

well, actually you'd be on the right track
in some ways to be perfectly honest
but still ...

Matthew loves a good soccer game, caramel
ice cream, bananas, bacon sandwiches,
watching pelicans at the lake,
children playing,
old folks chilling ...

he's not really some kind of Iron Man of the
People all Medalled with the Order of
Proletariat First Class ...
fanatic, without humor, obsessed,
despairing & fuming & just plain
at his wits end,

he actually has faith & can take a step
back & curse the fool while enjoying
the wind upon his face,

Matthew loves the play but hates the
lead actors & in the Old English
tradition shouts out from the stalls
"Look out behind you!" as he takes
a lick from his sweet vanilla cornet.

expectant pike laughs
oafishly, snowdrift bragging
apologists eat

There is no grace with these decayed churches, only hate and ignorance in these pews

You wail of love and understanding, oh how wretched you can truly be

You'll burn the ground you stand on, and burn your own flesh, just so your ignorance is protected

The faith you hold is a very ****** thing, it's poison to the innocent that you say you love

The few who do not wish to partake these actions, who say it is not all of their congregation

It does not change the ignorance, if it bothers your soul as so, you are the few who must have the want to change it

Being apologists does not excuse you, you stand idly by while the other wolves cause suicide and self hatred

Oh how the church is a joyful thing, joy for their own greed and hatred, believing they will get to heaven

How very strange, and yet sad

WIKIPEDIA: Torture of Vietnamese citizens under the C.I.A.'s Operation Phoenix
Methods of torture used at the interrogation prisons included:
****, gang ****, **** using eels, snakes, or hard objects, and **** followed by ******; electric shock ('the Bell Telephone Hour') rendered by attaching wires to the genitals or other sensitive parts of the body, like the tongue; the 'water treatment'; the 'airplane' in which the prisoner's arms were tied behind the back, and the rope looped over a hook on the ceiling, suspending the prisoner in midair, after which he or she was beaten; beatings with rubber hoses and whips; the use of police dogs to maul prisoners. Military intelligence officer K. Milton Osborne witnessed the following use of torture: The use of the insertion of the 6-inch dowel into the canal of one of my prisoner's ears, and the tapping through the brain until dead. The starvation to death (in a cage), of a Vietnamese woman who was suspected of being part of the local political education cadre in one of the local villages. The use of electronic gear such as sealed telephones attached to both the women's vaginas and men's testicles [to] shock them into submission. According to one former C.I.A. officer few of the detainees who were interrogated survived—most of them were tortured to death, and those that survived the torture sessions were generally killed afterwards. The torture was usually carried out by South Vietnamese with the C.I.A. and special forces playing a supervisory role.

WEB ~ Homosexuals are over-represented in child *** offenses: Individuals from the 1 to 3 percent of the population that is sexually attracted to the same *** are committing up to one-third of the *** crimes against children.


Some homosexual activists defend the historic connection between homosexuality and *******: Such activists consider the defense of "boy-lovers" to be a legitimate gay rights issue.

******* themes abound in homosexual literary culture: Gay fiction as well as serious academic treatises promote "intergenerational intimacy."

MALE HOMOSEXUALS COMMIT A DISPROPORTIONATE NUMBER OF CHILD *** ABUSE CASES ~ Homosexual apologists admit that some homosexuals sexually ****** children, but they deny that homosexuals are more likely to commit such offenses. After all, they argue, the majority of child molestation cases are heterosexual in nature. While this is correct in terms of absolute numbers, this argument ignores the fact that homosexuals comprise only a very small percentage of the population.

The evidence indicates that homosexual men ****** boys at rates grossly disproportionate to the rates at which heterosexual men ****** girls. To demonstrate this it is necessary to connect several statistics related to the problem of child *** abuse: (1) men are almost always the perpetrator; (2) up to one-third or more of child *** abuse cases are committed against boys; (3) less than three percent of the population are homosexuals. Thus, a tiny percentage of the population (homosexual men), commit one-third or more of the cases of child ****** molestation.

Many pedophiles, in fact, consider themselves to be homosexual. A study of 229 convicted child molesters in Archives of ****** Behavior found that "eighty-six percent of offenders against males described themselves as homosexual or bisexual."

******* Themes Abound in Gay Literature ~ The late "beat" poet Allen Ginsberg illustrates the seamless connection between homosexuality and *******. Many know Ginsberg as an illustrious "out" homosexual poet: fewer are aware that he was also a *******.


Homosexual marriage isn't illegal anywhere. It never has been and it never will be. Homosexual marriage isn't legal anywhere. It never has been and it never will be. It's not marriage as it defies the definition of the word marriage. Marriage is the act of normal ****** *******: the goal of which is to ******* ***** into a lubricated ******. A normal couple can annul a marriage contract if it's attested that normal ****** ******* has not taken place; the marriage is voided if it has not been consummated. Introducing an apple up one's ****** is not illegal, nor is it legal. ****** apple insertion (R.A.I.) is not within the canon of law. The law doesn't specify this activity. The overwhelming majority of endeavors have yet to be codified. Here are several human activities that are simultaneously not legal nor illegal as they are beyond the consideration of law: calling you dog Kitty; shutting an eye during a foot massage; lending your sister a cowboy hat; scratching your elbow with a pencil...

You ever notice how some of these "feminist" male apologists are more condescending in their apologies, than the men they are apologizing for?

invigorating punctuation marks via diacritical appellation of c# / ć comparison... how the ( ) can act as a semi-colon (;) - or how the colon (:) can act as both italic text, and a cascading postponement (cliffhanger). - musica est omnis - music is all. - as does the hyphen predate the paragraph... linearly, a paragraph within a paragraph... among other uses, notably in Irish or Polish texts, looks more like an authenticity of an author, who didn't say: he / she said, i.e.:
- i thought you were talking (boris)
- let me assure you, i wasn't (dalton)...
in english it would have been read
                   "i thought you..." boris said,
       "let me assure you..." dalton said.
and i know i shouldn't begin a sentence with
a conjunction but i must add:
              what's with words being isolated
   in inverted commas?
is this some ****** of idea
                    keeping thinking open to
speaking, or speaking open to thinking,
  in an ambiguous sense of tasting the freedom
and leisure of an aristocratic demand?
                      please, tell me,
                             you farting... or sneezing?

there's only one cure to jerking,
you actually reach a point
that you're simply "exhausted"
tugging a limp, ******* of a "glorified"
marble effigy of a *****,
that always seems to be mising
in greco-roman statues...
    an effigy of a ******* amputee...
****** don't help either...
       i can only imagine
Michelangelo sculpting a *****
like he might an urn...
         probably the best hand-job
in the world, ever...
              jokes are cheap,
keep the tap water running...
ever notice how men without ******
hair produce the most
  female offspring?
             just a wild guess that's
also a question that's also
in the wilderness of preferential
questions being asked
      of could possibly un-domesticate
a man,
   and find him re-emerging
                  from 100 years into: now...
and run amok in a frenzy
of ******* pride, and testosterone
     hummah hummah hummah -
boobbie boobbie clone wars...
                         me? as a man?
i retired from the ******* arguments
of english existentialism...
             i can't stomach it simply
because i find the french finding it
easier to **** in a cafe than an englishman
having a date...
                    but of course some people
will continue the legacy...
   but it's still going to be:
your genes... my ideas...
           i simply can't conjunction
a fathomable take on the necessity of
passing genes via conjecture...
                 gene what?
                            **** geneous?
             men are devalued for a reason
that a tissue exists, and the toilet...
      it really doesn't take scented
candles to march off into the sexless
wilderness as equating
  taking a **** with the "pleasurable"
rascal...
                   the english version
of existentialism has simply turned
into a feat of desperation...
               if you've read some german
or french existentialism you'd notice
that: the whole ******* universe needs
saving...
                i'll endure profane not
for reasons of respecting "etiquette" -
but because i like it...
           been sold **** all day,
might as well spree on ushering some **** out...
nonsense belongs to the youngster
brigade...
                   i'm a 31 year old
no-nonsense granny... trapped...
                  transgender being involved!
- i love, because i hate with a passion...
only because love is no *sorry,
anemic apologists, take a breather...
          - and what better revenge than leaving
a woman impregnated with
your spawn, after she did you ill?
                 then again,
i was always going to play an imitation
role of some, family member...
namely my father's mother,
who is less of a ghost in the memory
i have of my mother's grandfather,
who's a shade to me,
   in that one afternoon i spent with him,
he playing the piano, me playing
a mini-piano...
                    like **** i'm playing
a piano no...
             i graduated to play past
the diatonic alphabet...
i'll far and you'll whistle, ******...
   A B C D E F G...
seven! seven ******* letters to write me
some prokofiev!
              it's almost unbelievable that it
has to be enjoyed so much.
- ever read that one about
the beast of: lust, gluttony,
               greed, sloth, wrath,
           envy and pride?
  that hydra?
              my my,
                    the beautiful: parallel.

She was angry
But now she is resigned
Like an ocean with remaining shells and sounds
He was in the mud,the swine
He threw some on her
Thinking that she will get *****
But the dirtiness was always in his mind
Everyone told her he might have ugliness beneath his beauty
But she thought maybe there was some tenderness hidden behind hard lines
Or That it might be the exception
Or maybe she just got lured
Shiny things attract us
And don't we go bumping in them all the time
But you can't tame a beast,MAN
It will bite you the moment it gets a chance
It will show you its ugliness
Much deeper than the ***** mud on the skin
An incurable....disease of the mind
And make you believe that ...maybe maybe it's just how he is
Or maybe its you....bringing out the beast in him
But let's be honest
Most of the time he is a calculated,conniving,cold hearted monster planning his sinister deeds,well in advance
He requires no apologists
Because All he is ....
is a heartless cold blooded Swine

By: Cedric McClester

Now that the tea’s been spilt
It’s conscientiousness of guilt
Like a game machine you tilt
His image can’t be rebuilt
Although his many apologists
Will no doubt still insist
While balling up their fists
Simply, he must resist

Now that the tea’s been spilt
We see a patchwork quilt
The knife’s in to the hilt
In time we’ll watch him wilt
By now we all should know
The rules of quid-pro-quo
His nose is bound to grow
Remember who told you so

Now that the tea’s been spilt
We see him walking on a stilt
So we know what’s under his kilt
And he isn’t that well built
So let me take time to expand
By asking what manner of man?
He’s used to having the upper hand
But they’ll impeach him on demand

Now that the tea’s been spilt
And everything’s atilt
His voice has a weary lilt
Who else must he try to jilt?
All his sycophants
Must be peeing in their pants
As he carries on and rants
They may not get a second chance





           Cedric McClester, copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

By: Cedric McClester

They’re like a colony of ants
Those feckless sycophants
Who do the Trumpian dance
While afraid to take a chance
That he might be displeased
So they stay on their knees
And refuse to eat the cheese
They just shoot the breeze

They sell their integrity
For an audience of one, ya see
Pleasing him for them is key
To the future they hope will be
People like Michael Pence
Who never had much sense
Or the Secretary of state we know
That coward Pompeo

And then there’s Wilbur Ross
Who’s servile to the boss
Also Steven Minuchin
Whose head is so far in
The President’s great big ***
See, he volunteered for the task
And while we’re at it, let’s unmask
Betsy De Voss and her *******

Then there’s the rest of his coterie
Of apologists we regularly see
Like that Kelly-Ann Conway chick
Who lays it on real thick
Then there’s that housing guy we see
Who should have stuck with brain surgery
What’s the point in saying more?
About Donald Trump's revolving door!


       Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

Her dad was an intelligence operative. The plot for her assassination was finalized after she sang on May 27, '89 for 300,000 fans at the "Democratic Songs Dedicated to China" concert at the Happy Valley Race Course in Hong Kong on behalf of Tiananmen Square's democracy movement. She warned: "...never to compromise with autocracy, never to succumb to tyranny." Also, in '89, Teresa, 36, was paired with drifter Quilery Paul Stephane. He played a role in her declining health which would serve as the cover for her fatal "asthma" attack. The story was: At 5 p.m. on 8 May '95 Teresa Teng, 42, died in hospital. She'd been staying in the Imperial Mae Ping Hotel, Chiang Mai, Thailand. Given the gaping holes in the initial "asthma" story, the latest speculation (from "nothing-to-see-here" apologists) is that Miss Teng died of a heart attack precipitated by an overdose of adrenergic agonists (her prescription-strength asthma medicine).

By: Cedric McClester

Whites have always had
Their black apologists
And South Carolina’s Tim Scott
Fits nicely into this
He’s a prime example of why
They say ignorance is bliss
If he truly believes
That America is not racist

He sites a few examples of
Him being stopped
By white police officers
That was over the top
But this notwithstanding
His world wasn’t rocked
He was quite accepting
And so he wasn’t shocked

He’d do anything to stay
Inside his master’s house
Where he could eat crumbs
Off the table and not even grouse
In fact he’d stay as quiet as
A  proverbial church mouse
Articulating the master’s virtues
That he’s so quick to espouse

He has no qualms at all
About being used
He stands six feet tall
But he must be confused
And if this notion is one
That he would disabuse
I wouldn’t be surprised at al
I’d simply be amused


Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2021.  All rights reserved.

somehow drunk on language: a jazz impromptu...
nothing is ever to be orchestrated
or read from a script...
    
               and drinking besides...
               a manifesto on the sly?
               i hardly think: or rather:
               i hardly want to...
               compose one...

but i am sure to find some freedom... it's not
that much... it will do: working from the confines
of a dickensian paragraph is all the rage:
of all - but not these days, to be exact...

crumbs from the table of "muse"...
   it's a low-hanging fruit...
   something of the sort of worth than can only
   be worth: merely passing the time...
    by the mortal "adventure" circuit of events...
   this is me: not being present when
   beer, or flour... or ketchup...
   or mayonnaise... or the method of frying
   using oil... or poaching an egg...
   or the litany of respective spices
   being used in a curry...
  something grand... the moderns and their:
darwinistic slyly sliding into every narrative:
ideologues of darwinism...
who are they?
the history of man...
a back and forth:
starting with / from today...
   all the way back to... primodial times...
hunters: we were...
gatherers: we were...
foragers: oh for ****'s sake: WE WOZ!

i'm tired of the monkey veil...
               at least under the iron curtain...
something of freedom trickled through
the sieve, the cracks...
      where to? given this silicon curtain:
freedom on... zee fekkin mond?
apparently very little "history" happened:
or has had to happen...

there's only now: the 20th century...
   and then... nibbles of the 19th century's zenith
of... thomas ddison and george westinghouse,
alexander bell...
       but prior to all that...
the 19th century inventors and pioneers...
the 20th century pop culture...
all those ignorant ***** prior to the grand: "US"...

when darwinism: which is an ideology...
goes beyond biology... and... like leftism...
like communism... spreads its tentackles
into all things unattached with it...
i can hardly see a consolidation argument:
an omnipresent "needle work thread-through"...
am i in denial or do i simply think that
darwinism has robbed history of time...
as a linear motivation for moving forward:
by a poppy seed's volume per year...
on one's knees: up to climb mt. megiddo?

i am pretty sure darwinism...
        doesn't have the capacity to dictate
a branch of history that stresses its presence
via etymology -
how... the word cool: is currently out
of vogue... and in decline...
               back to the reality of:
having a cold beer...
           which is cool... because a room temp.
beer is... choice:
bad-manners... crass... puke-juice...
and some others i'm tired to conjure...

  but this jumping from: primodial man:
to the current, modern man...
and leaving no traces for the middle-men...
a philip augustus of france: the capetian...
      
     pompeii: circa 70ad...
                 sometimes the gods would visit...
hermes trismegistus...
       because it was: so...
                   then again:
the darwinistic historogical reflections are
a bit like saying: we've been hoarding...
there's no brain without a fever to store all
the past claims of vanity...
but a complete whitewash...
a blank slate... to work with barely nothing...
and to dress it up to...
the language and fashionable attire...

    it's like jumping from the big bang:
a lot of banging happens in a vacuum...
              oh yeah... you can hear a needle drop
in a vacuum of space...
what a name: genesis: big bang...
big hole bang black: is the way forward...
let's breed us a middle-ground of
the copper / cinnamon royalty...
                     i start from the north...
you start from the south...
we're bound to create a new equation
for where the equator should be...
on the 23.5°N line...
that story: all out of africa...
                    who brought the albinos?!
but do you come across a copper cinnamon
people quickly?
   it's mongrel of... black words on white paper...
there's even a name for it... tropical:
and cancerous...
    because you were never to witness...
what happens...
when there's a first investment in mixed-race
coupling...
   come the second generation and the bleaching
is continued:
               there pops up a curiosity:
like afghani blue eyes...
              
perfectly matched-up insomniac journalism
and darwinistic historiology...
   oh: everything that came prior...
insignificant...
  but i am sure i wasn't there... when...
flour first came into "being" and when eggs
were first harvested for the mass production
of cakes... and when there came about
a domestication of a mountain goat...
or how the cow decided: two stomachs best...
and a... digestion process that...
well: it's pretty much an imitation
of that of a fly... which is why: let man conjure
up elves, orcs... and let the gods mind
conjuring up: elephants and... sloths...
and... the man who invested in trans-genderism:
consciously ingested a tapeworm embryo...
to feel: what a "foetus" would feel like...
what is the tapeworm... if not the placenta
without a mouth?
                      
    islam and hair... though...
               is hair all, that?
                   what about: the manic pixie haircut...
tomboyish... slanting almost shredded
in look...
                  what about:
a fly in a champagne flute...
    or... there's a hair in my soup!
       i know that some people react to hair...
in soups... with... a... 'get it away from me!
poltergeist! poltergeist!'
          hair... long hair... does it have
to be about hair?
   i don't seem to be lacking in this grace...
                               but a perfect skin...
   oh sure... said the bearded-lady...
or the french: au naturel propagators...
   but why is fair such a must: must... fancy?
was there this 6th century affair for bad
teeth as there might have been for...
greasy wigs?
            
                        now wouldn't wearing
a hat like a hebrew might wear a kippah...
notably in those 1950s movies...
    and prior... to have to be always attired
with some headgear...
                and... the trousers whereby...
they reached up... to the mid-torso...
     and would never be... worn like today...
under the bellybutton...
  
   hair... hair in my soup = there's a fly in my
champagne flute...
   i'd probably gag less at the fly...
     spawn of the disinfecting maggot brains
that would sooner feed on dead-flesh
than...

   maggot bullets for every zombie apocalypse...
a maggot bazooka...
maggots grown as g.m. crops...
fused with... piranha d.n.a. branches so that...
they could bite exponentially: quicker...
like jigsaws for jaws: or
                   super-slurper-vacuum openings...

this menacing: over-arching... shadow of time...
if there's no past worth to remember:
or its picked-and-mixed like penny sheets
or like extracts from the goodbook
for the apologists...
                                        but talk about...
the time it takes to boil a litre of water...
and the time it takes to... produce a bottle of wine...
jumping down from a tree:
huddling in a cave...
coming from the ***-side of Versailles...
then moving into... a communist concrete
chicken-shack...

                 and now:
journalistic-insomnia...
                                and... the forgotten fire
with exception to the candle:
               U.V. and poltergeists of neon...
always to be given... reiterations of reality...
while also... attempting to digest...
a thinning ice of fiction: narrations per se...
      
      i call for the federation of niqabs
and foreskins...
              at least a ******* is that sort veil:
that veils the least...
there are those ***** hairs
i call a beard...
and come: the story of the moon...
and there's artificial lightning:
i can actually compete with mel gibson's
"gibbon"...

            otherwise for me: the niqab of the soul...
or: why is he so: "ouch-tistic" rummaging
with his schizoid eyes:
averting the look of what's become:
the mini-skirt: perpetuated *****...
if only i had lived to have lived:
an aborted foetus...

    thank god for bulgarian prostitutes!
than god for bulgarian prostitutes!
a whole lot of them that just want
to ****!
the double-twist of: there's a ******
tux for every uncircumcised male: waiting...
liberal socialist democracy has:
zilch on the matter...

i'm still more bothered about how
darwinism made its plug-hole manoeuvre...
an apple a day: keeps the doctor away...
a poem a day: keeps the psychiatrist at bay...
for such advances in medicine and science:
that these branches still allow
sadists armed with pharmacological weapons:
calling the brain a... chemical soup...
i am not that much half-... Brian ist tod...
but i'm also hardly the
cucumber schumacher...
                 when skiing: just because:
and the snow forcaste is like what?
a burning tire exercise?!

                    if i was truly angry: i wouldn't be writing...
to invest in a boxing duvet wrapped up
in clingfilm... not my thing...
i like to see anger... evaporate at my fingertips:
rather than clenched into a fist
for a knuckle arithmetic...

how can i become: silly / angry about
english girls groomed and gang-***** by pakistani
men...
   remember: i'm the abortion that didn't
happen that somehow wrote this:
i wouldn't be touched: or ****** or...
                    all because: this one time...
at band-camp... there was a girlfriend and i
should have known better...
and for all i know: roulette and blackjack...
and if not mine...
then his... and that's 5 children squeezed
out from her ****: when i would have
advised for a caesarean section because:
a toddler's head would not be anything:
quiet close to... my ***** envy of...
a 12" **** of a roach...
and a kim kardashian ***...
which would be necessary...
                   to... wade through all that
gelatin bubbling and trembling!

my ideas concerning homosexual ***:
thank you, the kiss was great
is the gaybar...
but... i am confined to...
enjoy taking a ****...
esp. diarrhea consistency type:
i sometimes catch myself with an onomatopoeia
of a groan...
    something is always supposed
to come out... rather than in...

i'm still not angry... if i weren't an abortion...
then i'm expected to be...
eyes-darting autistic...
hardly able to read into
a physiognomy...
   i must be: unable to: interpret a smile...
i am drying up on finding new music...
so i must be outside the compensation
parameters of an "in-crowd"...

                i have to... most probably...
start working a genesis with a niqab...
or i have to make donning sunglasses
mandatory for men...
like... oh god: don't invite stiching
the eyes shut and the cenobite Butterbite...
what's a butterbite?
a butterbite mistakes oral *** performed
on a ******* for an oyster...
sooner: rather than later...
the **** becomes the oyster...
the oyster becomes a tulip...
the tulip becomes a slab of butter!

because: we're expert at this...
schumacher is still a ******* cucumber...
and it's not like, death:
this instant... a tweet...
or a telegraph...
it's a bureaucratic "backwards and forwards"...
watching paint dry...
or catching a snail on the nod...
an itching spider without a web:
a very abled... sportartenspinne-mann...
     spandex galore: clue?

hell... i was thinking about...
how more agile:
when darwinistic ideology would come
to ruffle the feathers and sieve...
and what became of existnetialism...
headaches and minor indigestion faults
from the 19th century: Denmark
would: or could become more apparent...
ruffle the feathers...
pluck them from a chicken...
poach it for a soup...
       perhaps roast another one...
skin the pig and cure and later
curate the skin that would become
a leather for a belt...
                
   darwinism and historiology...
heidegger might have summoned the term...
but he wasn't "battling" with english:
islander-thinking...
           "solipsism"... or for that grandiosity
of: the great h'america:
our best kept: interlude...
constantly revived: beside the confines
of Idaho...

          and the modern "question"
of islamic religiosity...
i call the same...
the mind is less obviously tinged
with... markers...
akin to... isoprene and atomic chlorine...
after chernobyll:
why was liquid iodine prescribed
to pregnant women?
markers: like dyes...
  to invigorate the "sedation"
of... an otherwise invisible reaction taking
root: or place...

islamic religiosity is...
very much akin to darwinistic historiology...
the study of history via monkey-dough
and brains and somehow also the ****:
the building block of aztecian flat-top
pyramids...
                islamic religiosity is...
the 17th century looking at 21st century...
darwinistic historiology is...
the 21st century...
looking at totem and the primodial man...
encompassing him in the present...
the 2nd through to the 18th century
are a bit of an amnesia...
better call it a lobotomy...

               there's knitting! there's picking!
there's the apologetics...
history taught from the perspective of darwinism:
is very much akin to history:
taught from the perspective of communism...
i'm sorry: one ape one world...
i do see the fullness... from the perspective
of a microscope... that becomes
the bottle-stump... once i'm finished with it!
having drank my fill!

to romance the vampire is to also
romance h.i.v.
                how does darwinism fare against
the backdrop of: orthodox: strict...
since there is no true darwinism in nature:
and nature: vetos... whatever are the opinions
of the ideologues:
the sieve... the harvest... and the discarded...

there's always an alternative:
etymological... in that...
prior to the written word...
there was the reasoining abounding in...
what came thirst:
the "d" of Δ... or the Δ: a triangle?
               can a sound akin to "d":
occupy... a sound... geometric tool for
exploring... O... omicron...
what came first? "o" and oh...
the phonetic encoding: O...
OΔ...
                      just a suppose...
                                  
   what letters: from greek... could have been
borrowed from the natural world?
O: moon and sun...
         Δ: the mountain...
                 β - a ***** and an ***...
          ζ and ξ - a serpent...
               ι: the fraction stick... and arithmetic
counter to a • or an apostrophe '''''''''''
                waves of omega and the mu(se)...
   prior to the key and the lock and
a door: φ (key inserted)...
              θ (key turned)...
            ψ (door opened)...
           i.e. Ug (Yγ): a tree...
                         applied to the key and door?
it's not a hammer... there's no nail...
                      eta (H): rugby goalposts...
    
etymology doesn't suffice...
      the words will become morphed...
the letters are a priori...
   as numbers are...
but... whereas numbers remain intact
within the confines of a priori:
letters take on a posteriori meanings...
notsably eta (H): the rugby goalposts...
or the "vector":  (φ, θ, ψ)...
rho implies: an amputee sysiphus...
but rho is a P... hence...
the lost thrill of a R put against
the wall: and shot to a trill!
a rattlesnake ramble! mein gott!
what loss: in english and tarantula
numbed! i walked down a road:
that almost became: woad;
sly little *******...
give me a universal language...
and i'm pretty sure that it will not
be one... with a skeleton of ancient
roman to master and craft with!
donkers... plump plums in "origin"...
a Baghdad...

since the full mechanisation of the key
and lock are not represented:
but rather: insinuated...
                        
                        but there is a door...
imagine, to boot...
that there's, also, somehow...
a necessity of a doormat!

- because in vestern europa: it's about time for:
"zee... pudding-reis-poodle-tops!"
much easier laughing at german
with some "vikings" in tow...

i just abhor how darwinism has become
the neu-ego of history: "abided" by...
like... this be the zenith and 100 years
from now... people will not laugh...
or... i much prefer: scold and frown at...
because i much prefer to be baptißed
using boiling...
         using water... that might allow
me to escape... the confines
of a couch: the comforts of a skin...
and all matter of leather: thus concerning...

i am happy to allow myself the following
sentence: the rats and the moon will always
tell the better "story"...
  liberal hard-ons that are hardly quantified
as matchsticks...

you're looking for communits in your current
"conundrum"...
looking for "them" leeching and lurking
from beneath the eisenvorhang?!
          ostenberlin?!
                       i had the impression...
that... your comforts... your dickens...
your semi-detached bogus heavens...
and that's what was required...
for you... to breed your own...
without having to...
outsource the idealists:
                     your... 'aggis neeps and tatties:
roots of "origins"...
you have your own sort of communists...
mostly t-shirt print enterprises...
and... whatever...
looking for communist from under
the iron curtain...
is about like scounting for both
rats and cockroaches...
and a honing idea of the hive...
because rats wouldn't eat roaches
and the two could, somehow...
fashion of symbiotic vogue affair...

you know what ****** me off...
the most... about not being english...
leverage of pompous audacity to state
the most: infantile opinion...
worded: i know:
you cough... i sneeze...
we'll reach an equilibrium, at some point:
to make references to:
and a past...

precedence: to "think" is to:
th(ought i)... and all that's counter-productive of
"i labyrinth" and: thought and i...
or... scalpel: nurse!
grammar! genius! ******* rollerskating chimpmucks...
and... h. p. lovecraftian odes to...
squids... in less than the already:
"murky" waters of... perfect the... widespread
genius of comedy...
via... ridicule... via... bulimia...
via... cooking a steak: well-done...
over-cooking pasta:
the diet of al dente...
                             burning a mushroom:
not being to: not being able to:
and that: to Baghdad... from Loon'don...
                  virtue signalling:
a clap is... 1/100 of a fraction of...
someone... being deaf and having to resolve
the matter: sign-language about to be translated
into... braille!

the islamic religiosity of "today" is about as
mcuh equivalent as the "today":
under darwinistic historiology...

looking for communists from under the once
former iron curtain divide?
good luck: i'm wishing it unto myself:
about to find Mongols in... Kiev!

came across some burden of a sourdough:
and it's like in england:
it's "theirs": never the agony of eating...
a bread... designated to be toasted...
when it just had to be... eaten... "raw"...

what's the fan-base for raw herrings...
within the confines of Nippon...
or these... grandeours of the:
only isles... my ideas to make
metaphors of the crucifix?
a ******'s riddle...

we're looking for communist: y'all!
i'm looking for Belze...
                  and: mādégehirn-verrotten
         und rätsel: ungezieferfreude...
zylinderanziehen: der großartig:
     schwule -            
der: scrumptious...
                                               fladenbrotmann!
bessermann: das englisch...
                   herr portillo... chuckles should
it come to:
   steam-trains and replicas...
and politics: was never really...
about harems and hard-ons...
                                       really?
ask a Baghdadi then: if you pleaz...
Lawrence!

chance of me being spoken to in russian...
and being: reciprocate...
are all yours: slim jim!
  no... seriously...
a ***** of a language that is...
english: i am... most astounded that...
there are some peoples of this world
that have not: yet... allowed themselves
to translate this:
bellybutton orientation of the world
via genus: greenwichus...
to be: unifying versed: et al.

        i must bees the retardedwoz... kin:
and oops some year later...
or: to hell with keeping up...
anything beside the appearing so...
i:  "for the love of the countrymen"...
of which i have none:
are 9 my commuter friends:
and with the romanians...
and the bulagrian ******...
the polish plumbers...
the english... could have their catwalk
of opinions!
who skinned the chickens
and who did what: my shadow lacked
or i slacked over with?

i want to forget because
i just don't want to unravel in...
i would work an honest's day... of worth...
if i could work for a: get together...
or none...
             it's so disorientating...
and... lacking in motivational bravado...
to have to find one man: working...
and the other: *******!

   talk about... having to resort to mind:
the manners to count jack'oh the ol' keeper...
because: abortion signification is
burning a foot in the sole
of my shoe...
and i'm about to make do with
walking a ******* mile...

               and there i was... conjuring
the fetish fancy:
all it would ever take...
was to pretend to... attire oneself /
i.e. make pretences of: pweeety pretty!
i like being governed by:
you have to be wrong...
for the mushroom and tapeworm
and the cuckoldry muppets to be: oinking:
and with a nodding:
the holy approval as: no other route...
other than them being "white".... Rrrrrrridle
no?
                     no -ight then!

what the hell is happening... i've just put in a 12 hour shift...
well...
getting picked up at 9:45am at a Covid vaccination
centre... woke up at 7:30am... drank a coffee smoked two
cigarettes... brought in Saturday's newspaper...
****** off proper at around 9am for the meeting...
managed to get another coffee and a sausage egg muffin
from McDonald's, smoked another cigarette...
slightly hangover, but most certainly pampered myself
with some stuff... after having taken a shower...
bubble-gum on the ready after having brushed my teeth
like a dentist:
- garnier body intesive care cream on my face,
   hands, the nether-regions, feet...
- diesel, fuel for life, two hits of the spray
   on the area below my beard and smeared across my collar
   bone,
- avon skin so soft, airbrush spray on the face,
- nzuri argan oil on hair & beard...
- then some style expertise wax 04
(flexible hold) so your hair still looks naturally held
together.... you can actually put your hand through it
and you will not get any residue...
- MORFORE OSSION beard care balsam...
   turkish... all the best products for beard are
turkish... like the barbers: the best barbers are...
turkish!
- some deodorant under the armpits,
the ***-crack... the groin region and all over the torso...
shirt-ironed, trousers ironed, clip-on tie firm set...
shoes polished... thermal socks donned...
off to Oxford for Oxford United vs. Wigan Athletic...
first job... enter the turnstile cage... lock myself in...
the ticket reader wasn't working...
got a tally clicker...
supervisor came back with a working ticket reader...
but i still used the tally clicker...
managed to allow passage of 218 people into
the stadium... the children looked amazingly...
sincere with regards to authority of sorts...
caged man... some boy asked... why is that man
in that cage? has he been naughty?
so i endeared him... yeah... i've been a very naughty man...
i still find it weird when women tell their children:
give your ticket to the MAN...
mind what... the MAN is telling you to do...
in my 20s i never reached that level... i was still a boy then...
everything went smoothly...
the tickets i scanned went through...
the tickets the scanner wouldn't scan i just brush aside
with the clicker... most were season ticket holders...
10 minutes into the match, one or two late-comers
and then we shut the turnstile gates...
next? pitch-side duty... this time i got a seat...
watched the crowd... my god... the football crowd in
London... tame *******...
go anywhere outside of London and you're getting
fanatics! the Wigan Athletic crowd...
i mean: men in their 40s / 50s... on the face of it...
yet deep down... teenagers...
drunk, mad, chanting... by the end of the match
losing their voices...
one father was more of a kid than the kid he was
with: was... spotted this one guy smoking,
another jumped the barrier...
for once i didn't actually watch the match...
i had an eye on this one... classical English beauty...
i'm guessing a single mum who came with two of
her children, her father and mother...
the mother didn't look that bad either...
sometimes you can isolate a woman's face in a crowd
and... a war might be happening...
you sort of become oblivious to everything beside
the serenity such a face imbues and translates onto
you something... Sophia-esque... Athena...
she might not be... but... appearances are appearances...
12 hours from since i left the house to when
i returned... i tried to eat something...
first that chicken burger on my way home...
3 chips... i couldn't eat more...
my stomach had shrunk to the point that i might as well
have done a day of Ramadam...
bought some whiskey and pepsi on the way...
hanged it on the fence at the back of my garden:
i am only drinking... because i smuggle the alcohol in...
then tried to eat some rice & a chickpea / spinach curry
i made a day prior...
couldn't lodge that into my shrunk stomach...
i decided to get some calories
by drinking a glass of milk infused with
some Nesquik straberry powder...
worked a miracle...
then one cider & now some whiskey & pepsi...
i was falling asleep watching some
Masterchef professionals...
sorry... nothing can compare the Australian
amateurs...
they're such a new culture: and i look at them,
as a people: drawn into civilization building
from the ground-up, beginning with a cuisine
that's unique to them...
all the old European cuisines seem rather stale
by comparison...
i jolted myself: tired, restless...
******* i lay in my underwear on the floor
of my bedroom having placed my feet on
the radiator...
i don't care what anyone says...
you always feel cold from the feet up...
if your feet are cold... the rest of your body feels
cold... warmed my feet... still restless...
tired... really tired... but that's the problem with
my tiredness... i also somehow to feel... *****...
i had to do two no. 3s in a row...
tame *******... recently... what's her name...
that singer of BAD GUY was celebrated
by journalists for coming out against
******* apologists...
i'm sorry... what sort of ******* are, "you" watching?
the freakiest i ever allowed myself to become
was watching a ******* gloryhole compilation
of women jerking off a ***** that started shooting
custard... probably while listening to E Nomine's
song angst...
i'm tired but also too *****... i need to calm down
a little...
and perhaps the Hebrews have a fair point about
this "taboo"... of the solipsist Onan...
the Arabic religion isn't so strict... after all...
their mother was a concubine of Abraham...
   it's not like i 'm doing it in a ******* armchair,
with scented candles, with a ******...
or have a webcam active recording myself for a larger
public... or that i might have a ******* toy...
just this boney-**** of a hand...
yeah... it really does feel small...
that's perhaps why i have allowed myself to see
the female hand as the most ****** part of a woman's
body... i look at women's hands and think...
i'd need to sacrifice my pinky + knuckle...
if i can hold a basketball with one hand...
i don't think my phallus is small...
my hands are just big...
never in a million years would i want to watch
"sacrificial *******": the Italian classics...
sure... something classy... edgy...
not this ****** modern crap...
show me something that invokes latex... thrill!
thrill-e-he!
last time i heard women were into gang-bangs,
choking... ****...
come to think of it... paycheck is coming up...
i "wonder": how will i spend, that money?
new trousers, gamble with going on a date?
sure... a "date" in a brothel... where, EVERY-THING
is, transparent...
no one is there for milk & cookies...
i like to keep things transparent like that...
one hour of ******* and perhaps talking in between...
what's the Romanian word / Turkish word for eyes?
nose? lips? freckles?
**** a little, take a break, smoke a cigarette...
blah blah...
of course the Hebrews would think that *******
is a taboo on the male part, historically:
religiously... well i have a taboo for the Hebrews too:
circumcision...
  the act wouldn't really be a taboo is the Hebrews didn't
begin cutting off "excess" skin of the fore-,
if i keep a high hygienic standard: prior and after the act...
sometimes... it just eases taking a ****...
relaxes the **** muscles a little...
but i have no qualms, when it's done hygienically...
after all... "sword" & "sheath"...
for my boney elephant **** of a hand... skin on...
for actual *******... skin off...
it's not exactly rocket science...
but imagine the scenario when... i would be circumcised...
i'd be mad...
looking for that fleshy pouch of a woman's ******...
because my own protective layer would be
"missing"... sometimes i'm tired after a shift
in the cold & i still want to...
but my "would be" partner wouldn't be in the mood...
what then?
i'm tired, i'm *****... but she's not in the mood...
what do i do? think about, *******: carp fishing?!
no... since i have the "excess" i do two in a row over
really tame, wholesome *** and i'm ready to doodle
these words, drink... i concentrate my energy
on the mind having absolutely gotten rid of any remaining
****** impulses... the end...
oh... but that weak-spot of mine...
Asian models, notably the Japanese models...
there's a whole genre... GRAVURE...
*** is always insinuated... it's never explicit...
a photography of a girl showing her underwear...
the Eden of those inner-thighs...
the world is standing on its head:
with women thinking that men enjoy shaming ***,
violent ***... sorry, honey... those are
exclusively the pornographers: men who have
too much ***... most men don't get enough enough...
men might... have a fetish for...
say... a step-mother ******* her step-son...
obviously women will subsequently insinuate
their fantasy of: ******... ******!
ha! they should Marquis de Sade's masterpiece
of a novella... the one in which he's concise, genius...
hardly making waffles of speech...
i wish i was ****** more... but what's a boy to do
if not getting as much as his libido would allow
him to... men express... women explore...
i'd rather ******* to some Bronzino...
i'm thinking... a borderline taboo... she's 16... 18...
it's a momentary idea...
a momentary bulge... soon i digress toward thinking
about... fuller-forms... women in their 30s... 40s... 50s...
i think about... a well aired bottle of red wine...
fully-formed... none of this lazily available fetish
for matchstick, pseudo-anorexic:
under-developed... dolls...
i like to think of a woman like i might think
about sitting in a very comfortable leather arm-chair...
or... reading a very old... 19th century
hardback, leather-bound book...
the type of woman that might kiss her children
goodnight... but an hour later... do the complete opposite
with her lips...
it's a nice thought...
while men starve & women explore...
it's good to starve... somehow... so many less consequences...
but as long as you're hygienic about it...
all the better for the GRAVURE medium
from Japan... finally! *** can be insinuated...
it doesn't require for you to be "excited" over something:
so explicit that you get a LIMPY for simply not
being involved... *** as something "forbidden"...
since not readily available...
no longer the sort of *** of the western canon that
invokes... *** isn't to be "forbidden":
it ought to be shamed & "shamed"...
that's how schizophrenics are bred...
via a double-negation...
   via mis-wiring of messages, *** constructed from
a contradiction....
oh the English are the best at this...
they enjoy it so much that they have to lie about
enjoy it... they sort of flagellate themselves over
the whole affair... in the open they are:
such prim labourers of puritanism...
yet, give them the right sort of opportunity to
express their sexuality in private...
talkies... the ******* is rife with...
"too much talk during ***, too much: **** me daddy,
**** me mummy... oh yeah, you want it rough..."
the list is seemingly endless...
in the beginning there was the word,
and the word was (with) god...
yeah... so talking during *** is such a good idea?
i can boast about herr stumm...
i can boast about... an "alphabet" of onomatopoeias...
something akin to eating laughter with
sighs and oh: really?
talk ruins ***... a body ought to speak to body...
the tongue is reserved for something more
than being more than a vehicle for syllables...
words are best kept outside the medium of ***...
eyes ought to eat up the other's body;
mirror should most certainly be used.

dunno...

   i just love the sound
of the title...

like the idea...
about my midnight snack....

i'm thinking about noodles,
i'm thinking of
something encompassing
the posit
of carbohydrates...

whatever the criticism...
          democracy and its loveless,
hushed voices...
point being;
   conspiring against no one....
or at least...
no identifiable object...
a mass contra mass
objective...
                       total, unadulterated
statement of:
chaos.

                as long as there's no
figure-head,
but a mob-contra-mob
mentality in the political sphere....
all become pristine
Brutus-apologists...

and? all are just that...
          i have more trust
in a burglar... not hurting me...
while robbing my house...
than in a politician...
running a country....

simple(s)!

She was a Kuomintang army spy, a spy for the Republic of China (Taiwan). Her father was a Kuomintang army intelligence operative. The plot for her assassination was finalized after she performed on May 27, 1989 for 300,000 fans at the "Democratic Songs Dedicated to China" concert at the Happy Valley Race Course in Hong Kong. on behalf of Tiananmen Square's democracy movement. She warned the people: "...never to compromise with autocracy, never to succumb to tyranny." Also, in 1989, the 36-year-old singer was paired with drifter/photographer Quilery Paul Puel Stephane, a 23-year-old French-born stooge for the Peoples Republic of China. He played a critical role in her declining health which would serve as the cover for, & lead-up-to, her fatal "asthma" attack. The official story was: At 5 p.m. on Monday, May 8, 1995 Miss Teresa Teng, age 42, died in hospital. She had been staying in the Imperial Mae Ping Hotel (Royal Prince Suite 1502) 153 Sridonchai Road, Changklan District, Amphur Muang, Chiang Mai 50100 Thailand. Given the gaping holes in the initial "asthma" story, the latest speculation (from "nothing-to-see-here" apologists) is that Miss Teng died of a heart attack precipitated by an overdose of adrenergic agonists (her prescription-strength asthma medicine).

By: Cedric McClester

If he says it out loud
It must be legal
But he’s the same man
Who’s killing our eagle
And he sees himself
As being quite regal
He’s missing the point
Cuz his numbers are feeble

If he says it in public
That makes it okay,
No matter the subject
Or, what he has to say
Which  shows  ignorance
Is on clear display
Or is it efficacy
That’s really in play

It’s just a joke,
That should be dismissed
Or, so we hear,
From his apologists
But how many of us
Are really buying this?
And how many of us
Continue to be ******

Then there’s his tweets,
And yes I know
There’s nothing to see
Like a quid-pro-quo
If you’re asking me
But even so
It appears to be
That on the low



          Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

This feud among Abraham's sons
Has the goyim all loading their guns
To defend godless Zionists.
Prudent apologists
Will not take sides--anyone's.

Ashkenazis are claiming the land
To promote a new Globalist brand.
Though their zeal is Davidic,
An antisemitic
Reaction may soon be at hand.

Unprovoked is the term that you use
To disparage alternative views.
You oppressed them for years.
Now the worst of your fears
Has exploded the Middle East news.

When the terrorist thugs take control,
It's a challenge to see that their role
Is divine retribution;
Such ****** confusion
Should cause you concern for your soul.

I beg to keep on talking
with the dead. How are you, they say.
Some emotions create a soothing effect.

From evening neoclassical
pain starts. The sun apologists and
disappears. You try to see your hands.

Can you look back to
analyse the muse of Buddha times?
Let the requiem shake the listeners.

Her dad was an intelligence operative. The plot for her assassination was finalized after she sang on May 27, '89 for 300,000 fans at the "Democratic Songs Dedicated to China" concert at the Happy Valley Race Course in Hong Kong on behalf of Tiananmen Square's democracy movement. She warned: "...never to compromise with autocracy, never to succumb to tyranny." Also, in '89, Teresa, 36, was paired with drifter Quilery Paul Stephane. He played a role in her declining health which would serve as the cover for her fatal "asthma" attack. The story was: At 5 p.m. on 8 May '95 Teresa Teng, 42, died in hospital. She'd been staying in the Imperial Mae Ping Hotel, Chiang Mai, Thailand. Given the gaping holes in the initial "asthma" story, the latest speculation (from "nothing-to-see-here" apologists) is that Miss Teng died of a heart attack precipitated by an overdose of adrenergic agonists (her prescription-strength asthma medicine).

Teresa Teng was a Kuomintang army spy, a spy for the Republic of China (Taiwan). Her father was a Kuomintang army intelligence operative. The plot for her assassination was finalized after she performed on May 27, 1989 for 300,000 fans at the "Democratic Songs Dedicated to China" concert at the Happy Valley Race Course in Hong Kong. on behalf of Tiananmen Square's democracy movement. She warned the people: "...never to compromise with autocracy, never to succumb to tyranny." Also, in 1989, the 36-year-old singer was paired with drifter/photographer Quilery Paul Puel Stephane, a 23-year-old French-born stooge for the Peoples Republic of China. He played a critical role in her declining health which would serve as the cover for, & lead-up-to, her fatal "asthma" attack. The official story was: At 5 p.m. on Monday, May 8, 1995 Miss Teresa Teng, age 42, died in hospital. She had been staying in the Imperial Mae Ping Hotel (Royal Prince Suite 1502) 153 Sridonchai Road, Changklan District, Amphur Muang, Chiang Mai 50100 Thailand. Given the gaping holes in the initial "asthma" story, the latest speculation (from "nothing-to-see-here" apologists) is that Miss Teng died of a heart attack precipitated by an overdose of adrenergic agonists (her prescription-strength asthma medicine).

Flags are bound by some
historical obligation to which
inclusion is a cultural necessity.

Rainbows need no apologists
hence they have more variations
than any of our national banners.

Besides, they have pots of gold
at either end, in Ireland, providing
both sides are in the republic.

This is why vexillologists maintain
the Trick Colour is but a metaphor
for colour blind Presbyterians.