Plague Doctor

Intelligence is hard; moreover, it’s a weak gene. There’s not just recessive nature to it, it’s an often, and quietly despised virtue. Regularly people seem to associate it with snobbery; I can’t deny the association exists. Through it peculiar that people imagine this as the only virtue that is susceptible. To quote a larrikin comedian who optimizes my point
‘I would take a nice idiot over a smart ass-hole any day of fucking the week, ladies and gentlemen.’
True; but what of the idiotic ass-hole or the kind hearted intelligentsia?
In a limited experience smart people aren’t always, exactly intelligent, more often these people we believe are clever cats could tell you tomes about their profession, while being lost in any words that they consider pointless, beneath them, or uninteresting seeing them as the dialect of fools. These are the ‘smart ass-holes’
I prefer people who are ‘sharp,’ willing to entertain thoughts that seem redundant in efforts of expanding their perspective. This is the intelligence that is hard; the kind that requires a will to learn. The kind of intelligence that is recessive. That is kind that Loral’s cannot be rested on. It is the kind that prizes being wrong as a necessary part of being right.
Speaking from power when you can and relinquishing it when you must learn.


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?

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


Revel in Your Rebels

I find myself in a heterotopia looking for a new wave to wash over me with a gentle rhythm and quiet I haven’t felt in years. Bitter wine has washed me down and the feeling of recognising the blood running through my veins is a feeling all too rare in a lust for wall of plastic toys. I look upon my floor, laden with trash and thrust dusty garments alike, put there with a child’s delighted eyes. I dream of riches in sweet memories I have deposited to gain intrigue and collect under my bed.

The fusion within my soul that my heart inclines me we all pulse toward, is tangible! We’re all blending and it’s beautiful, though those years we have drowned in damages and trauma in an attempt to deny the life we truly could live. We’ve bobbed like boeys in this water, dripping with sarcasm drinking in and away our comforts.

I find myself on a crest gazing toward what is to come, a period of frantic change to be sure; if nothing else.

It’s sure to be marked my shells on the beach miles of unknown souls like the memories under my bed. Truly. They will be alone with no being to listen. All those moments discarded as the mass of water pulls back, pinning us to our final motif.

While the crest lingers I scan my floor only guessing the routes that month old candy wrapper could have traveled to land there, stranded forgotten.

I begin to hear whispers from quiet birds this is to be our place, as memories stranded in a purgatory where there is no pain, no fulfillment, simply a moment when one day the wave surge on back, an insumountable coulda-water-shoulda-didn’t. While the waves call like sirens I seek not a comfortable crepuscular cocaine high nor do I wish to lay on the shore with the din of old Eden’s colliding, to surrender to a fate I did not create.
I think on countless momentoes momentarily lost, to be found deep in the linings lint.

We see our path ahead only through accomodation and the fusion within us to temper the waves to come. But no force nor any other entity could pull from suits a stop the bathing bloody flood
The cranes take their roost soon and the migration is cancelled we must choose fusion with ourselves and our planet, our only perfect planet! Or let ourselves was away with shells, dirty socks and candy wrappers in a drunken binge. Human sacrifices to our legacy, ones with no living heirs and few suitable successors.

We must have final and ultimate respect for fused memories and hope in accomodation and by no other means. Lest that accomodation be held at extortion till the price is too high bar some slim few in deboutched pleasures. While most sit in the jaws of hell’s firey urban jungle long before we are swept to sea the beauty of which we will never set eyes upon again.

But ahead plotting in futures in a peak of pleasures and miracle tonics we are yet to notice our coming pergatury. Remember the blood running through you.

The blood of slim miracles.

The blood of unspoken changes.

The blood of our mortality.

The blood from the wave that will smear or smooth us.

The blood of us.

The small, the powerful, the pointless, pointy headed, red, deaded, the living, the lifeless, the meaningful, the mental, sentimental, fundimental, unintellegable, surreal, women of steel, men of carefree zeal.

Remember the blood you inherited from the slimmest of chances to Beatles to pussy pimples. Remember the blood that rebels with loving hatred to the entropy that came before you could have ever enjoyed a breath. Remember the blood that will one day lay with you at the end, stilling with the last pumps of your heart. Remember the blood cycling within our view to be taken or shared in good faith. Remember the blood of us, rebels defiant to the impossible void and oncoming waves. Rebel accomodating the infinite who coulda-shoulda-and-did.


Photo Credits: Blythe Allan




Vile Rage

Boys will be boys will not be good enough. In the grips of violence and vile pretense. EThe Rock apes dance like ungrateful cannon fodder, the physic of wretched fools. Fancy it’s time to stop these crimes and quit the Nancy reactions like ‘It’s just a of fun’ till someone cops a flare to the face.

But really that is no care to me, I worry the more than insidious. That hideous tale boys tell their boys ‘winner is the only one that deserves respect and to all others neglect.’

No I don’t respect your victories. I don’t respect the misery you claim mirrors nothing you do. No I don’t respect any dialect that protects fools who remain foolish. I don’t accept differing opinions when it comes to this position, not when children are the victims. I don’t care for the size of your car’s Pistons. I don’t care for ‘no such thing as rape’ 

In truth I’d duck tape you down so you can’t make a sound, put a round to your head and break  your legs.

No, I have no mercy for your lack of curtiousy. Actually you deserve me the vulgar queen. Your sins aren’t yours, no simply your flaws, no clause of law will save you. You’re just a slave too. Pity where pity is due but litanies and mantras do not excuse you, I can match any vigor for belligerency. There is no such thing as a dress too short that you ought abuse.

‘So what’s up buttercup?’ Utter scum, I won’t stop at one, not done till no son is left dumb and no daughter ought to fear the smear of an XY peer.

Let’s be clear, rear Devils, I will level you.


Dart Hearts

Today you try once again to leg go of a crutch you’ve held for far too long. So write this in honour to the longest love of your life, she was there always no matter where your heart would roam, you would come back to her battered and she’d be all the more willing to make you happier, but not without the sharp dry wind that subtly reminds you.
‘You dun fucked up.’
She would seem like the perfect lover but she’ll deceive you, I suppose it’s only fair when you’ve felt her hair so many times while another is sitting right there, you felt her kiss and assumed no remiss, so it’s not surprising she’s cheating on you and with that other girl too.
Then she’s not so special sitting there on the mantel but she’s got her sting in you, now try go a second without asking when you’re gonna see her again.
Then you walking into an alley and she’s dallied out and you’re tongue tied, you won’t bide your time any longer.
‘I thought you were mine?’
But in the end were all trying to pleasure this mistress.

And we all have our little tricks just to make her wink in our vicinity and stroll up casually and plant a light hearted and headed kiss on us.

And for an instant we remember why started it, this cruel love affair, there everywhere you go. But you wake the next morning and you’ll tell her it’s over, that she’s bad for you throw her across the room, and beat her, but when she’s shoots you a stare and you’re right back there, lying in bed with her on top.
Subconsciously beg her to stop, but your hand drops limp while the other remains to hold her in cause you’re so scared to lose her.
What a fuckless comfort.

You push her of when she’s done; you tried your ways to make her more playful even though the lord our saviour already knows missionary is the only thing that fills thee. Blimey you got in this again.
‘fuck how did it happen again’
you see you’re friends who steered clear of her and you remember telling them, how much she soothes your worries and cares on through.

Now how they gaze at you so glued to the alleys and lanes, hell even windows just for a chance to dance with her again. She has MJ’s moves just not his voice.
Eventually you realise reality, you’re addicted to the she-devil, you’d admit it but all attempt to level yourself and keep your distance fail. Even when you work in your butts and spliffs and your move on has just begun she don’t just begone because she misses you and your clothes still smell like her, from all those late nights when she was the only one at the end lying in your arms, locking palms.
All those threesomes she was only so gleesome to bring you to, or bring her to, can’t really tell can you?
You’ll rinse your clothes a thousand times and your hair a thousand more, but smell you will, evermore.
Everybody gave you the warnings boy.
‘Don’t toy with her! She’s poison to your mental and toxic from the first kiss silly.’
But she seems to appear everywhere now just as her musk cloud that surrounds you has dissipated; you smell it on every second cunt…
‘Oh fuck it.’
‘You’re a fucking bitch, I thought we swore an oath at the start of this shit, you promised me I’d be cool, you forced me over boundary lines to many times and I’m sick in the stomach and sick of your shit.
Your breath is rancid anyway and while you’re fucking my friends you’re mind fucking me with glee because you know you got me, harhar Tartar.
Aren’t you funny you stupid gateway whore, the fuck do I pay you for?’
‘Why do you pay me so handsomely?’
‘Because deep down I’m still addicted to the way you bring me to my knees, praying, please make this train.’
When we kiss in the rain, nothing could ever be the same.
‘Sorry I’m leaving before you ruin my brain.’
‘I hope you do the same.’

👘 🍙 🐾