Examples That Demonstrate a Written Rule’s Author

There are, it seems, Never enough examples to prove something that is not written into fact.
For studied conclusions, no matter how rare the enforcing example; Like Gassim in the Nefud Desert, it is written. For institutions, organizations or poor demonstrations of both who exploit the ‘written’ in writtens, There is a principle that many seem too eager to see everywhere and most see as reading too far into what is written.
Liberties take of actions written.
What I mean is both simple and nuanced. Returning to my initial flawed method to prove this. Take big business, or the more intellectual sounding corporations. (I can almost hear the economic conservatives reading throwing my pages to the ground with confident disgust.)
For these cretins I will nominate their usual fall guy. Coal please come to the stage.
The coal industry exists for two reasons: One to satisfy our lust for fluorescent blue lighting and two to make profit.
I could argue semantics of the later but I won’t. Brand is disposable and about as guided toward a morality as a flea is toward higher reasoning. I’ll trust you are not the same. The coal industry like most pertaining to the public is regulated. Some say too much, some say too little, flea sized perhaps; either way you will create elites of regulators or wealthy coal magnates, respectively.
Now the question becomes, which is more preferable? I believe there is a balance. For my original point of ‘liberties take of actions written.’ The later is more applicable. The sumation of the coal industry’s two functions is ‘sell you more coal.’
That is the singular directive of almost every corporation in the for profit sector without exception, though the product may vary.
Now, say, a particular politician wants to cut regulation on coal mining and sale of the product. Why? Because, simply, the magnates pay pretty bills for ones they’ve written, or influenced, to be past.
Or if you are more conservative in mindset, say it increased productivity of coal and increases GDP while the industry receives a tidy profit for the hard work.
Either liberty assumed to be taken from the action of this politician, has one result I have left out for the sake of suspense and respect of your intelligence, ‘aren’t I sly?’
It’s power transferring. ‘Anti-climactic, right?’ The unspoken and definitely not ‘written’ part of this bill is, in many cases, this deregulation makes it easier for the industry to follow its prime directive:
‘Sell More Coal.’
‘So what? The rich white guys get richer and buy obscene yachts to quell their small man syndrome. So what?’
Problem is this found obscene wealth is partially used for ‘efficiency expanding exersizes’ or in words of someone both literally and metaphorically less tongue tied. ‘cutting regulations.’
And so the politician takes the ‘campaign donations.’ or ‘gifts from friends.’ Etc etc, until we’re back two sentences again, only; ‘So what?’
‘The coal industry makes more money than there are stars, so what?’
Well with each of those regulations that is cut means lost jobs for coal miners, overtime, a for more extra unpaid shifts for the manager. I would mention the climate. Though I fear the fleas it would stur and the ranting and raging I would start.
Suffice to say. It’d be shit if there were no regulations and I’m sure you can tell why. The concern, to put it featherweight at best, I lay at corporations glass feet comes out of the fact that by their own modus operandi they will use any amount of money or manipulation to serve the goal of ‘Sell More Coal’ or generally profit acquisition.
As long as they are in the green the means are encouraged.
This would never make news.
This agreement between politician and coal magnate X would not have minutes, nor onlookers, nor taps, nor bugs, nor records. It would not be ‘written.’
So because of this two things are true the meetings take place outside the public sphere, never understood as ‘written’ it assures that everything that will be written on the subject of such a meeting is secondary or circumstantial. At best.
This is because the only first person evidence holder in such a meeting who must comment, has already been given what will become ‘written,’ law they are about to pass and compensation for that, or his is, more to a conservative read so believing that coal is cool as can be, that the talking points, are just their points. The latter way, to the corporations, even better, less cuts in the bottom-line or more capital to invest in convincing or smearing other politicians, the former ‘no worries. Good thing we cut regulations last time.’
None of this written or explicit, no book will elighten you with stats nor news story convince you with graphics because this no story in secondary or circumstantial, that isn’t sensationalisable. It is merely a logial liberty that could be taken of the possibilities of an action like deregulation contains in very definition. One can’t regulate the definition of deregulation. And there, is just one example that demonstrates there aren’t enough examples to prove, something that is not ‘written.’
This example is mirrored in many fields and industries so watch for what is not ‘written’
Seems I’ve written it.
Do you need another example?


White, Grey, Black. (First Collection)

I create patterns with myself, building with my preconceived notions, in the hopes they are proven wrong. I find joy in golden-ratio-like-spiral-like problems; mental and emotional questions with no answers nor meaningful punctuation. I use my mind mindlessly, before I loose it to open oceans with no water.
I met a concreter who seemed as set in his ways as the result of his days. He told m,e with his several pints, that fewer words is better; a life lesson for a writer certainly.
I agree.
But lacking certainty in what is being said the notions I conceive and temporarily deceive myself with are better explained by choice words, moreover paragraphs if necessary.
By way of example, how do you explain a vibe by simply uttering ‘it was the vibe.’
That’s not particularly helpful. No, novels and tomes have been written, all incomplete on the topic of a simply happy ‘vibe’, let alone anything of substantive fact.
my question to fellows and concreters alike is; How much of the world have you seen recently, that behaves with certainty? So famously few of words? Seems fabulously sub-optimal to describe a human world where ‘vibe’ is as dispensable as a Facebook like and fact never more elusive in common conversation.

Liberal party: from the hearty

We rage for our generation in the hopes the old ways remember the immorality of inconsistent belief. The first world obligated to remain vigulent to demented ideas from within,  to evil orange sprites

What happened? When was our progress smeared by selfish uses of our gear?

I hope ignorance and greed of 18th White ‘rights’ can be healed, for the sake of our beloved, I do try to hope. Seems all too true, this vigilance we must keep as fire in our chests, lest we see a future coloured darkest blue. Not long till the rich twitch from nooses and catch nicks from pitchforks for their abuses.

Higher networth… Seems only a dirth, while we sit praised and punished in one boomer breath. Payback’s a bitch from those with sewn lips and scarred thighs, can’t help but question the motives of Liberal voters, despite a fear of dogma to their side, I see only self interest and no bother. So many arguments of scale starring ‘why bother.’

Does that bother you? Wouldn’t it do? That precious few decide it fine for you to get screwed, while nihil surprise their profits grew. Sick of the values of work from those least down to earth. Doesn’t this seem insane? Very least strange?

Wonder my distain to the billion or so heirs names? While they so seamlessly gain while other lay slain. Yet heirs would say those in pain are our bane.

Hit’s a nerve don’t it? Like the nerve of big profit to profligate such hate.

Hypocrisy that can’t be playcated. I maintain I simply wonder, simply wonder on an explaintion.

Pink Glaze :gM Sneak Peak

Beacons flag at a lit sky over the abstract symbol of production. Something gained for everything lost. John: ‘there are some people who are productive with their days.’ Magusto: ‘How do they get up this early on a Sunday morning?’ Slumping back onto the rail of the skate park.

Lost track of time, so it goes. With all our lives promised as day time creatures, we are restless. Asleep in the dim morning is the instinct of insects night the time of limited prospects and low regard for objects, pro’s suggest our early morning counter parts are due in their success but the dew is more than water for the eyes of early risers. It’s quenches the thrist of those who have been awake since dawn dawned the night before. Lost track of light, so it goes.

As the sky rises seems to give the only honest interactions between productive and wastrels. Smiles from dog walkers to bicycle riding hooligans, iris’ stretched, wired as they are. The one with the pooch may even turn home to tell their still waking husband of the wonder they saw of such early morning risers in such young faces! Though they didn’t see the bottle of bourbon stashed near that gum tree. No those details slip by anyone who has seen total black the night before… And is that a joint or a cigarette petard to their lips?

For everything gained something is lost, lost wonder, for them who couldn’t see the light through light thoughted routine, The streams of the sun through lastnight’s clouds or the inner fury to keep thrashed eyes open. Gained is that stability of thinking we’re probably layabouts about to fall of the rails, the plans of which their corporate emails entail. But always concrete cathedrals paile to a stars holy grail. Title all so fickle in the morning light. Nature has a prickly sense of justice, patience to match. While others catch rest the best will see no than sleep upon death. Twice as many breaths and a stretch. Nails hardened at this and hair grows long.

Skin rubbed raw and claws rake faces that have endure beats and bludgeons to stay trudging on.

The insects instincts and reactions strain outward from high eyes, as euphoria fades to splayed soul, in love with all. Small trash matching clutching schedules residual value

I’m telling, you know little of sleeping rough, drivel, no bluff neither do we. But those staining tired eyes shed light on plights they feel dry toward. Only difference is the shades. Only difference is our parents made it, while they fade with no fresh pink glaze.

That’s probably what they think it’s why we’re doing this. So what can we do but keep sleepless nights contemplating corporate slights, for insects with no swarm aren’t long warm. Yet their utopia is out dystopia reality, ignorance is a privilege see we got the choice so did you, they choose both of two for the other to suffer the later. For everything gained something is lost.

But we the dreamless dream of heterotopia the beautifully plain middle ground that contains in spaces our fires glazed pink from just. letting. go. 

Truely rose coloured even when we remove or sunglasses




Dear Rupert

Every off decision I’ve made forms craters and cuts on my face. I wonder how your pores aren’t excavated. I wonder how your flaws don’t flip you in your bed.

I wonder how you reach ‘the current plan’ did you care? Did you know? Could you show me so? Where does your sole land and where does your soiled soul sleep? Does it weep? Is it a slug like monster that coils in a ball sucking the light from your eyes for sustinance? Behind those thick rimmed glasses can you make out anything but your singular goals? Do you not see our nooses or have you forgotten you have one too? The higher the tower you build in life, the further you fall limp and lifeless at the end falling of breakneck till you break your neck.

Do those glasses shield your eyes up there? Do you expect what you are given? Do you believe you deserve it? Do you think you earnt shit? Do you believe what you preach? do you want free speech? Can you accept your open concete? Have you realised your own demise? Do you know your history? Or is it just another sound mystery?

How can you remain so blissfully unaware betting with others lives without care?


The G Figure

In the name I find myself longing after there is only an echo, a little tinny voice that speaks back at me, mockingly in my own voice as if to say ‘that’s what you sound like.’ As I call the name of a deity that allows famine, with our free will as their only defence I hear only the wind reply. As I feel myself forgetting my own lessons. Their messengers sit cross legged in the trees passing my voice along with billions more; sheparding us toward it. The plees woft on, hurded with the others to their ears. While all we hear are echoes of our own voices.

Reminding us of what we sound like. Do we starve to our sorrow? Do we find shelter in that cheque, Do we feel parched for our possessions? Did Fyodor play a fickle fancy fiddle or did his riddle make God giggle


Blue Rosey Jazz

The instrument has a swing to it, but underneath the lilting rhythms it plays there is a sadness only music could conceal under such bombastic noise.

It’s the sadness of walking the streets in that blue late night air. It’s in the gazes one could shoot down alleys, knowing in one of them a addict is using up the last of their stash.
The tune of that brass curve will follow you round the bends of concrete and bitchumen, fluctuating it’s strength like the wind that sheers off your chipped shoulder on a gusty day.
It’ll saunter alone, drifting through the clouds as you ask a God on high to stop you from the terror you’re about to unleash.
One could sit transfixed in it’s melody passing off everyone, and all else, to pluck that sadness from it.
It sounds so beautiful when you’ve done no wrong.
Yet will make you clutch for the bottle while you lay in the clutches of regret.
It will make you scream for salvation from a nail bed of your own making, or cause you to relish a beating.
It brings those with hollow halos down to swig from lucifers chalice.
It makes turning the cheek possibl and will even call some to noir murder. It wil touch the fire in your belly till you bellow forth your true self or a flame so violent it will shred you raw.
At which point ‘where do you turn?’ With such beautiful self hatred in your palms ‘where do you turn?’
Do you project to the world a softly stoic rapsady? Or do you trumpet an inferno of rage, a jet fuel candle soul to leave a memory tarnished with no one.
With no one around who would care to correct the reputation of an arsonist.
For you see these are no vocals from an unknown sorrow, these floating clouds, these dingy alleys, these terrors or that fire.
This is not lucifers chalice, this is blue rosey Jazz.
This is my soul screaming at itself as the sax screeches at me
This is my holy horned self loathing.