Friday, November 04, 2011
The Uptown Pepperoni for your Pizza from Hell.
Dog Poet Transmitting…….
May your noses always be cold and wet.
“Oh, a storm is threat'ning
My very life today
If I don't get some shelter
Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away
War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away”.
The dominoes are trembling. The politicians are dissembling. The bankers are coalescing. The people are emerging. The waters are surging. The impacted colon of a dense material culture is rumbling from the dietary obscenities of epidemic obesity and the double wide, sloth-mind of the TV watching potato heads are going to need two airline seats to fly out of something they have no intention of leaving. The cosmic mother is grieving for the Winnebago warriors with all four wheels trapped in the unmapped sands of the wrong road they got lost on. Cries of “Je suis perdu” are alerting the predators waiting on the results of fatigue and hunger to do their work. Khadaffi was a hero and Netanyahu is a jerk.
Billionaires are lying and used condoms are drying on the media washlines like latex jerky; Rocky Mountain hiking treats for the monsters running into the wild of their hidden fortresses to be surrounded by Nature who despises them. Where did all these ZioNazis get the money from? They got it from you because you let them whip your appetites and delusions into the fecal Dairy Queen soft ice cream cones you’ve acquired the taste for. It’s all good to the last drop and the last thing to drop is you.
Weird shit has become the order of the day; the house special of the Kali Yuga age. You want flies with that? What else is going on? What other mad, strange exhaust fume highs are fueling the dark behaviors of poisoned men and women, doing the demon tango behind closed doors? We can only imagine and hope not to. How crazy are they? The evidence is in front of you everywhere. They press and press onward into a greater and more uniformed darkness. The transparent lies continue, only occasionally accompanied by the names of authors, because most of the lies are written by shills from the Gollum nation of Israel. Reuters and AP are warehousing factories of nothing but lies for the mass ranks of the sleeping people tossing in fear and nightmare on their burning beds. Wake up you sleepyheads, wake up!
Everywhere you look the information tells the tale. The moment approaches. The cosmic Sarajevo awaits and Arch Duke Ferdinand stands in the crosshairs of destiny in spades. Fort Sumter is in barricade like David Koresh surrounded by propane tanks and thirteen year old girls. Janet Reno has morphed into Janet Napolitano groping children for pornographic effect. Butch Napolitano and John Pistole are raping the people with hungry hands. The back story on Napolitano is revealing in heavy, innuendo dripping with irony. Does it matter what she is Behind the Green Door? Does Pistole’s name imply the same? It’s a murder of crows on a crumbling highway lined with corpses, Budweiser beer cans and McDonald’s Styrofoam containers blowing in the wind, with Bob Dylan missing because the angels left his head. He’s at a fashion show with Paul McCartney counting their bread. There are armies marching, I can hear the footsteps. I cannot see the insignia. I don’t know who they work for and neither do they.
You can see what has been and what is to be, if you have the time to study the process and progression of long term satanic intention. Who has the time when you are running out of time? Who has the time when you are running in place? You are the faceless consumers of trivia and superficial crap. You are a disgrace and an embarrassment to your promise and potential. What is coming for you is not incidental.
The forces of the underworld are massing in the side streets with their black bloc instigators, seeking to kill the uprising of the small mass awakening of the few who occupy the parks, hoping the world will see and hear them over the roar of the Jerry Springer show they inhabit, to the distress of their better angels. It is a time of darkness. It is a time of unfortunate sleep. It is a time of denial and refusal to see what might prove to be their salvation from the coming tribulation. It is a time of dense blindfolds and digital cattle prods. It is a time of running panic when the transformation and transition knocks upon their door. It is a time of who am I and what did I come here for, only too few are asking and too few even care. It is a time of wonder and confusion. What is here and where is there?
Quo Vadis America? Quo Vadis Europe and The West. The drug lords are a Coca Cola plant in Tijuana and the White House is a subsidiary of Taco Bell. You can tell what’s cooking in the salmonella kitchens by walking around back and standing by the vents. You can tell it by the smell. It’s the end result of what we wanted, the mystery meat from the flaming dumpsters. We’ve sliced the pig nostrils really thin. It’s that proscuitto from the hog lagoons of Italy and North Carolina. It’s the uptown pepperoni for your pizza from Hell. It’s the antipasto from Purgatory. It’s the Rockefeller oysters wrapped in the flesh of our animal god; the totem animal of our times and the mask upon our humanity in this Animal Farm where life imitates art. It’s that bang that ends with a whimper. It’s the wind tunnels of shaping plastic. It’s not an air kiss, it’s a fart.
Somewhere Cool Hand Luke is cutting the heads off of parking meters with no failure to communicate. Somewhere the time holes are opening in the real life Time Bandits sequel and someone has the map. The Supreme Being is getting ready to gather up the evil and the toaster oven is going to explode in the hands of the clueless parents who will touch it anyway. The moment it goes off the blender will start working again. Somewhere, like right here, it is still to have and have not and somewhere the enduring among us asks “Is that all you got”? Somewhere Lon Chaney is going to get his hands on Dick Cheney. Somewhere the Bush’s will be burning and a thundering voice will speak from the flames. Somewhere John the Baptist gets his head back and Salome will be returned to the dark streets, blowing sailors for small change. Somewhere the sages are communing on a distant mountain range. Somewhere Love lies bleeding from the wounded hearts of the few. That true suffering and sorrow is our redemption and the substance of the Holy Grail.
Longing and desire never end. It’s what we long for that marks our fate. It is our capacity to turn down the flame into a blue white concentration of our essential nature and reveal the cornucopia of good things beyond imagining. It is where the windows of heaven open and pour out a blessing too big for you to receive; the memory of a quote from the last book of The Old Testament for those who are into that kind of thing.
We have come to the precipice, surrounded by the edifice of Ozymandias. We are in the returning wreckage of the Colossus of Rhodes. We are the lost ashes of the burning of the library of Alexandria, reforming by invisible decree. We are the prophecy of the long forgotten, you and me.