Archive for the 'Destry' Category

Know

wrong

she don’t lie 
she don’t lie 
she don’t lie: ukraine

anyone who had a heart
they wouldn’t turn around and break it
and anyone who’s ever played a part
they wouldn’t turn around and hate it

they say: ukraine
sweet ukraine
oh: ukraine
sweet ukraine

We are all drowning in filth. When I talk to anyone or read the writings of anyone who has any axe to grind, I feel that intellectual honesty and balanced judgement have simply disappeared from the face of the earth. Everyone’s thought is forensic, everyone is simply putting a “case” with deliberate suppression of his opponent’s point of view, and, what is more, with complete insensitiveness to any sufferings except those of himself and his friends. The Indian nationalist is sunken in self pity and hatred of Britain and utterly indifferent to the miseries of China, the English pacifist works himself up into frenzies about concentration camps in the Isle of same as it ever wasMan and forgets about those in Germany etc. etc. One notices this in the case of people one disagrees with, such as Fascists or pacifists, but in fact everyone is the same, at least everyone who has definite opinions. Everyone is dishonest, and everyone is utterly heartless towards people who are outside the immediate range of his own interests and sympathies. What is most striking of all is the way sympathy can be turned on or off like a tap according to political expediency. All the pinks, or most of them, who flung themselves to and fro in their rage against Nazi atrocities before the war, forgot all about these atrocities and obviously lost their sympathy with the Jews etc as soon as the war began to bore them. Ditto with people who hated Russia like poison up to 22 June 1941 and then suddenly forgot about the purges, the GPU etc the moment Russia came into the war. I am not thinking of lying for political ends, but of actual changes in subjective feeling.

—George Orwell, April 27, 1942

i’ve been runnin’
from side to side
now i know for sure
that both sides lie

they’re going wild
the call came in
early morning predawn, then
the followers of chaos:
out of control

they’re numbering the monkeys
the monkeys and the monkeys
the followers of chaos:
out of control

the call came in to party central
meeting of the green and simple
try to tell us something we don’t know

they’re meeting at the monument
the call came in: the monument
to liberty and honor under the honor roll

disturbance at the heron house
a stampede at the monument
to liberty and honor under the honor roll

a gathering of grunts and greens
cogs and grunts and hirelings
a meeting of a mean idea to hold

feeding time has come and gone
they’ll lose their heart and head for home
try to tell us something we don’t know

we don’t know

we don’t know

know

know

know

know

Scrotum Displays Penis

As is now well known, at least to readers of red, Turtle Scrotum, titular head of the Confederate States of America, is the result of a hideous Dr. Moreau-like experiment in which some demented doctor sought to cross a human with both a turtle and a diseased and swollen scrotum.

Turtle Scrotum is a de-evolved yeehaw so terminally demented and depraved that the very idea that black people exist on this planet gives him the scrotum penis gunhives. And so, from the moment that the black man entered the White House, Turtle Scrotum has devoted every fiber of his malformed and mutant being to frustrating the president’s every effort, unto determining that if the black man says “Jesus is Lord,” the Scrotum will then vow: “I stand with Satan.”

But, alas for the Scrotum, the de-evolution of that diseased and useless appendix known as the Republican Party, it is proceeding at such a rapid pace that, now, it is no longer enough, in order to please the knuckledragging faithful, who have never once touched the monolith, to but hate and frustrate the black man. Now, it is necessary to want to kill him.

And so, last week, the Scrotum strode on stage at the annual convocation of CPAC—this outfit the primary reason why extraterrestrials have placed this planet off-limits—bearing a rifle. To let the ur-people know that, yea, verily, he was prepared, now, to actually shoot the black man.

It was required of the Scrotum to so declare himself after Rick Perry, a person who would be noted as the dumbest man on the planet if not for the fact that he is a farm animal, the result of a failed Moreau experiment to cross a man with a steer, whose brain contains a supermassive mini-black hole that swallows not only all rational thought but even light, had earlier jacked off those assembled by declaring it is “time for a black hole headlittle rebellion.” Meaning: “A ni**er is in the White House. And so it’s time to resume, with arms, the Civil War. And slap that rat bastard back into slave-chains, where he belongs.”

And so the Scrotum, to keep up with the farm animals, drug his gun on to the stage, raised it above his head, and screeched: “The gun is good! The penis is evil!”

For, you see, as soon as a human male lays hand on a firearm, he becomes an agent of Thanatos. He is no longer of the body of Eros. He has amputated his penis. His new penis, it is a killing machine.

Poor Turtle Scrotum. His shameless penis-displaying attempt to keep up with the farm animals, it will do him no good. For, in his attempt to retain his US senate seat, he is going to be beaten like a gong. Where it appears that even Ashley Judd, or a raccoon, can send him down to defeat.

The people of Kentucky, you see, two years ago elected to send to the Senate Pawnd Rawl—the second coming of Pawn Rawl, noted slave-owner and Hebrew-fearer, doyen of Occupy Womb Street, whose singular goal in life is to ram his hands up every vagina in the land—a man who has the letters KKK tattooed on his chest, and who has actually publicly stated that he wants to use drones to kill black people coming out of liquor stores.

Not even the people of Kentucky, no matter how much meth they shoot up both arms before slapping raccoon corpses over their fences and then engaging in wild-eyed sexual congress where they demand that one another squeal like a pig, are comfortable with seating in the Senate two creatures who predate Cro-Magnon Man. With Pawnd Rawl already in there—and there has yet to be a definitive classification of his species; all that is known is that it is jaw-droppingly primitive—they feel compelled to elect to that second Senate seat someone who at least acknowledges the Age of Enlightenment, or even the wheel.

So, the Scrotum, he’s over.

This site revealed to the world that the 2012 Republican presidential primary season was owned and controlled by extraterrestrials, who assembled as candidates a stone-mad motley crew of pseudo-humans, just for laughs, to be fucking with us.

Apparently these beings had so much fun, that in 2016 they’re going to do it again. Because the 2016 Republican presidential field, smoke a bowlfrom all indications, is going to out-froot-loop the previous pork-pie.

Already there is the aforementioned brainless black-hole light-sucking farm animal Mr. Perry. And Rawl II, who will leap up from the lectern to wildly ejaculate drones at Negroes, whenever a debate gets slow. Also signed on is Ted Cruz, more a dingo than a human; a creature that not only lacks a brain, but has also had all the bones sucked out of his face. Then there is Sarah Palin, the demonic creation of some unknown nimrod who fashioned a golem from a disused Barbie doll and a quart of fermented moose semen. Here for another go-round is Rick Santorum, the 4th Century Don Quixote tilting at pleasure; a freaking grub in a skin-suit. No doubt his fellow insect, Newt Gingrich, a bedbug in a skin-suit, will not be able to resist the notion of bloating—and perhaps bursting—on stage. The meth monkey will, again, melt all our minds.

And so on.

The horror. The horror.

One cretin who will not be running for president is Turtle Scrotum. No matter how many peni he hoists above his head.

His day, it is done.

The Loser

Darth Cheney: jeebus: he’s pretty much a cartoon character these days, isn’t he? No longer really recognizable, much less acceptable, as an actual human being. He is simply fiction, and, I’m pretty sure, always has been. Somebody—fucking with us—just made the shit up. And then rolled it into Reality.

For what he really is, is Simon Legree, whuppin’ on them Negroes; Snidely he be loserWhiplash, tying Little Nell to the tracks; some ur-version of Ebenezer Scrooge, one that Dickens ultimately abandoned, papers fed to the fire, because he was way too creepy and Wrong for anyone, for even a moment, to Believe.

This we Know, most recently, because, when the black man announced some modest proposed reductions to the US death industry—which has grown swollen to the size of a thousand-million Harkonnens—Darth ran utterly wild, all over the land, preaching and screeching that the black man thereby means to rain down upon the nation Doom and Destruction.

“This really is over the top,” Darth Legree thundered. “It does enormous long-term damage to our military.”

“He would much rather spend the money on food stamps,” Ebenezer Cheney chundered, “than he would on a strong military.”

And this is wrong . . . exactly how?

Food stamps feed people. Who would otherwise go hungry. They are implements of Eros.

The military is about killing people and breaking things. It is the apotheosis of Thanatos.

Weird. That this planet is still so primitive, that anyone, at all, would, ever, take seriously, a being who asserts that resources should be dedicated to death, rather than life.

Oh well. Darth is over, of course. He, and his, are like those soldiers in combat who, running, are shot and killed, but their legs continue to carry them on, sometimes for quite a number of paces, before they look down, and notice that they are dead.

Darth is an agent of Thanatos. And therefore The Loser.

Because Eros, always, is ascendant over Thanatos. This is the one thing I know. Always has been, is now, always will be. Else life would not continue. Though it has. And does. And will.

Sweet Jane

standin’ on the corner
suitcase in my hand

jack’s in his corset and jane’s in her vest, baby
me, i’m in a rocknroll band

ridin’ a stutz bear cat
those were different times
the poets studied sweet reedrules of verse
the ladies rolled their eyes

you know they’re sayin': 

ukraine
ah, sweet jane
sweet ukraine

I dream a lot.

Yeah. Well. Obviously.

But, I mean, I also dream, when I’m asleep.

Like, this afternoon, I awoke—like any cat, I sleep, and wake, all through the day, and all through the night—from a dream where I was at Lou Reed’s house.

Lou was there; there in his house. In the age and incarnation of the photo featured there just above. Settled; serene. Aged: experienced: passed. Beyond all the bullshit. In the clear.

There, in his house, Lou, he slung over his shoulder a guitar, and, naturally, effortlessly, clear as pure water, played for hisself, me just there hearing, “Sweet Jane.”

Then, he unslung the guitar. And passed it to me. So I could give it a try.

I commenced to fumbling with the strings. Trying to get it right.

Eventually, I hit, more or less correctly, the first couple chords (and in “Sweet Jane” there are really only two chords). And so began feeling a little better about myself.

Then I noticed Lou had settled himself into an easy chair. Had turned on a TV (and the sound was pretty dern loud). And was eating something like popcorn.

I felt kinda forlorn. Left behind.

I was playing his song. But he was paying me no mind.

I pass through these dreams, and they pass through me. But generally I have no idea what they might mean.

Sometimes I pass some crippled day-time gibbering verbal accounting of these dreams on to the wise—and these wise are always women—and, sometimes, through them, the light, it do shine.

For instance, in re the above-referenced Lou Reed dream, after I had cripple-jabbered it onto her, AvoMayor, she did say:

i think that is a perfect Lou Reed dream. How many times do you think he played Sweet Jane in the course of his career?? But he’s retired and trying to just relax now, so he has given it to you..

Use it wisely : ) No pressure or anything………

and jack he is a banker
and  jane she is a clerk
and both them save their moneys, honeys
all when they come home from work

sittin’ there by the fire
radio does play
a little classical music from
march of the wooden soldiers

you can hear jack say:
he says: sweet ukraine
ah now baby: sweet ukraine
ah: sweet ukraine

Ukraine is a little tiny baby country.

Appearing, under that name, within those borders, but in the afterbirth of the Russian Revolution of 1917.

During which Lenin & Co., in a new and dusky shiny Red way, carved out, and named, various territories that, for the most part, 2001_tool_smhad been subsumed, some decades, and even centuries, before, into the Russian Empire.

What is today, in these 24/7 times, causing ape-men to foam, from sea to shining to sea, rattling all and every saber, over “Ukraine,” is about a dirt-patch that, for most of recorded history, for about 500 years, was part of Poland.

People, these days, because it is nearly against the law to know history, do not understand that long before these was any Russian Empire—or even any Russia—Poland, like a colossus, did bestride, all and every, of its nearby earth.

But then, in the course of things, like all empires, Poland waxed, and waned, and, eventually, crumbled into dust.

Until it was no more.

Until there became no Poland.

Until, in the late 18th Century, Poland actually ceased to exist. What was once “Poland,” was divided between Russia, Prussia (read: crazed Germans), and the doomed Habsburgs of Austria.

After WWI, to punish the Austrians and Germans, who had been defeated, and the Russians, who had gone wild and gone Commie, the allied powers decided “Poland” should be reconstituted.

They also Made a new and different-one nation, out of what was once Poland, known as “Ukraine.”

Which was, quickly, and in the course of things, absorbed into the nascent Soviet Union.

This “Ukraine,” it yoked together a “western” stretch of people on soil that had, for millennia, yearned towards the west, and an “eastern” stretch of people on soil that had, for millennia, yearned towards the east.

Everybody, west or east, who ever wanted to grow shit, has always liked “Ukraine”—and lots. Because it features deep fertile soil, unmatched, anywhere on the planet, except in California’s central valley. Deep, unbelievably rich topsoil, 20 feet deep.

Of course, these days, the soil, that everybody for millennia has fought so over,  is all ruint. Because, there in Ukraine, in 1986, the Chernobyl nuclear reactor erupted, and scarred not only the near and far, but all the planet.

There were forty-one official deaths from the accident, and half a million unofficial.

An honest list would reach to the moon.

some people like to go out dancin’
then there’s other people, baby,  they gotta work
—you better watch me now—

there’s some evil mothers
they’ll just tell you that life’s just made out of dirt
that pretty women baby wrongthey never really faint
and villains always blink their eyes
that children are the only ones who blush
and that life—LIFE—that life is just to die

but i want to tell you somethin':

Bobby Hoffman and Yakov stood in the middle of the road facing a security wall decked with shiny coils of wire. Each man wore a yarmulke and a tasselled shawl. Arkady couldn’t make out what they were saying, though they rocked back and forth to its rhythm.

Beyond the wall was another wire-draped wall and, fifty meters farther on, the sarcophagus, as stained and massive as a windowless cathedral. Dim security lamps glowed here and there. A crane and a chimney stack towered over the sarcophagus, but compared to it, they were insignificant. The sarcophagus was apart, alone, alive.

Arkady didn’t need to use his dosimeter; he felt his hair rise.

The chanting wasn’t loud enough to carry far. Bobby’s voice was whispery. Yakov’s was deep and worn, and Arkady recognized the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead. Their voices overlapped, separated, joined again. Standing outside the corrupted shell of a nuclear disaster, rocking back and forth like human metronomes and intoning the same verses over and over, “Ose sholom himromov hu yaase sholom.” When they finished the prayer, they simply began again.

Arkady moved into their line of vision. Each step brought the sarcophagus closer, too, as if it had been waiting for the right hour to leap the wall, a hard sight to face without a prayer. Yakov acknowledged Arkady with the briefest nod, to say not to worry, that he and Bobby were fine. Bobby clutched a list of names that Arkady could see because of a rising moon that spilled over the station yard. The list looked long. Arkady remembered Eva saying that a complete list would reach the moon.

I loathe that I feel I have to step-by-step. I just want to play the chords.

Russia, the one place it has warm water, the one place it can sail its boats, is on the Black Sea. And the one place it can access that sea, is through the Crimea. Little strait. Through which the Russians can sail, and sail and sail, from the sea of Azov, to the sea of Black, and then into the Mediterranean. Where it can feel, at last, like it is a Real nation.

Russia, astrologically, is a Scorpio. Which means, at root, it believes that all and every are always out to get it.  Whether that is true or no.

Just sayin’.

Crimea. The Mongols swept into all and everywhere beginning in the 12th Century: no one, anywhere (except the Vietnamese), could stop them.

Centuries later, the last Mongol Khanate to be made to retreat was that in the Crimea, which was absorbed into the avidly advancing Russian Empire, only round about 1800.

Not that these mongols went into the great good night: they retreated into the mountains, and from there fought the stop this nowRussians, and, in the course of things, the Soviets.

Some of them, during WWII, allied themselves with the Germans.

And so, WWII concluded, Stalin decreed it was right and meet to export the entire population of the Crimea, to Central Asia.

When he was done, not a native inhabitant remained.

Stalin—heh—that’s just the way he be. A stone cold killer. With one hand on a vodka bottle. And another on a List.

I these days am only amused by those who burrow deep into dark and dank and-all-and-every all-encompassing theories. Where all is forever explained. By some nefarious puppet-stringing total control over everything.

The current ferment over Ukraine is a perfect example of how it is not so black/white, from however one approaches black/white, as it may seem.

Russia will never give up Crimea. That is the only place its Navy may flow from a warm-water port.

Crimea was part of Russia. Until 1954. When, Khrushchev gifted the Crimea to Ukraine. Why? Because Khrushchev was Ukrainian. He wanted to reward the homeboys. Against all logic. Against all history. But what did that matter? He did it. Because he could.

That’s all there is. There isn’t anymore. Except, again, I’ve wasted my time. I should, really, only have inscribed, these final eight lines. All the rest, in the long view, is either masturbation, or waste.

anyone who had a heart
they wouldn’t turn around and break it
and anyone who’s ever played a part
they wouldn’t turn around and hate it

they say: jane
sweet jane
oh: ukraine
sweet ukraine

Sign Of A Local Nigger Unravelin’

Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, blind pigprojectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.

Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”

Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”

And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.

Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.

Weak tea.

Hand-waving.

furthur=>

March Of The Wooden Soldiers

We now know the genesis of addled actor Clint Eastwood’s “talk to the chair” routine at the 2012 Republican National Convention.

Seems the man was arest in his hotel room, preparing his speech, when some puckish alien-being forcibly piped in over the radio Neil Diamond’s 1971 his faultemu-pop hit “I Am . . . I Said.”

This is the Diamond number that contains the notorious foursome:

i am, i said
to no one there
and no one heard at all
not even the chair

This last line is one of the great clunkers in all of songwriting. People active and practiced in the craft,  to this day they cannot understand why persons and/or sound machines emitting such a travesty are not pelted with tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and other rotting substances.

I mean, yeah, the guy needed a rhyme for “there.” And, in this tune, Diamond is deeply afunk in Bummertude. Because he ain’t being listened to. About the crushing burden of having to live in Los Angeles, rather than New York. In order to earn eleventy-billion dollars in the music business.

So sure, okay, we get it, nobody’s listening to him bleat.

And, among the nobodies, can be counted a chair.

But, like, had the chair ever heard him? When he was moaning about having to earn more money than Midas, out in LA, rather than in New York? Was it normal for the chair to give ear, when he was on about such things? Was this like . . . a magic chair?

Or, since we are talking 1971 here, a drug chair? A chair that, when Mr. Diamond delved into the many fine psychoactive substances of the time, heard and talked and danced and sang and otherwise engaged in all manner of merry wonderful weirdness?

We receive no information about any of this. All we know is that the chair doesn’t hear him.

And this is not surprising. Because a chair—unless it is a drug chair, and/or a quantum physics chair—is not equipped with drug chairaural apparati. Hearing is not what a chair is supposed to be about. The thing is there but to plant your butt on.

No. Sorry to say, what we must here reluctantly conclude, is that Diamond was a lazy-ass mofo. Who just settled on some “chair,” not hearing him, because he was too slothful and/or thickheaded to come up with any other rhyme for “there.”

And it is said that the man spent four months writing that song.

And in all that time the best he could up with was “not even the chair”? The mind: it reels.

Today, while driving, it took me about four minutes to come up with about fourteen alternatives.

For instance, if Diamond had not been suffering from a city-disability, and were singing instead from or about some country place Normal, then various and sundry animals could have been mustered not to hear him. We could have had “not even the bear” or “not even the hare” or “not even the mare.” Who were not hearing the guy.

Or he could have complained “not even Aunt Clare,” which would also have allowed him to go wild with banjos in the break. Or “in all County Klare,” which would have permitted him to pour a thundering wall of bagpipes into the song.

Since Diamond at the time was riding a wave of songs in which he praised unrestrained bibulation—”Cracklin’ Rosie,” “Red, Red Wine,” etc.—he could have referenced his ongoing rednoseness by admitting “and no one heard at all/when I tripped on the stair.”

He could have been all stoic, and defiantly proclaimed: “and I did not care.” He could have gone dada, and pronounced: “so I ate a pear.” Or strayed into Isaac Hayes territory, with “so I porked the au pair.” He could have envisioned the onrushing cult of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and come out as a crossdresser, boasting “so I shaved with Nair.”

And so on.

Anywho. Clint—fast-forward to 2012—is there in his hotel room, when suddenly the extraterrestrials—who, as has previously been documented here on red, owned and controlled the GOoPer portion of the 2012 presidential campaign—bring to him over clint chairthe radio Diamond declaiming about the obdurate chair that will not hear.

And  Clint, he experiences a truly massive brainshower. He will go on stage, with a chair, and pretend it is President Obama. And, like the Diamond chair, the Obama chair, when Clint pours out upon it his complaints, it will just sit there; it will neither hear, nor respond.

This brainshower, it will be remembered, when it was spewed out across the land, was considered a laff riot by that 23% of the American population that occupies what is today the equivalent of Dogpatch.

“Way to put it to the black man, Clint!” the Dogpatchians, they squealed like a pig. “Yeehaw!”

However, those of us who have not married or otherwise had sexual congress with our sisters, and/or other blood relatives, we had quite a different reaction.

Not even the Captain Underpants people, it developed, not even they, could easily stomach the chair scene. Literally, they could not stomach it. Senior Underpants advisor Stuart Stevens, it is said, vomited. While the Neil-inspired Eastwood, he was dying there, on stage, with the chair. Stevens, he wished that, like in the Diamond song, no one would hear Clint. At all. Not even the chair.

It was the astute AvoWoman who first pointed out to me that this speech was not the first time that Eastwood had publicly addressed wood products.

Oh no. For way back in 1969, Eastwood wandered around on screen, “singing,” in the film Paint Your Wagon, “I Talk To The Trees.”

And even back then, the wood gave ol’ Clint the deaf ear.

And it was not only the trees. But every other blessed natural element, as well.

I talk to the trees
But they don’t listen to me
I talk to the stars
But they never hear me
The breeze hasn’t time
To stop and hear what I say
I talk to them all in vain

Be warned. Beyond the furthur, I shall embed Mr. Eastwood. “Singing.” Not only that, I shall also embed, from the same film, Lee Marvin, also “singing.” And this last, some say, is the aural equivalent of the Holocaust.

furthur=>

Oh, Ashley

In one of her most recent meth-mouth ejaculations, Sarah Palin, the tundra termagant, decreed that a number of sitting Republican US senators shall soon have their heads cut off at the ballot box.

This fate they shall suffer because the witless Panzer Powder aficionado, and her confederates, have determined senior senator, south carolinathat said men are insufficiently committed to the complete and total destruction of the United States, in the name of Getting The Black Man.

One of the termagant’s targets was identified as Lindsey Graham, senior senator from the Confederate state of South Carolina.

Graham has long frenzied the nightriders galloping at the outer edges of the GOoPer herd of the unsane. This is first because he is a closeted gay man. And second because he is so often joined at the hip to John McCain. A loose cannon anathema to the nightriders, because he first primary-challenged once and future favorite son George II for the presidency (McCain’s campaign effectively scuttled right there in South Carolina, when Rove & Co let it be known (falsely) that McCain had fathered a black child; though such is a South Carolina tradition, see Strom Thurmond, it is one that is supposed to remain delicately concealed until after the white rapist’s death). And then, when McCain had his own shot at the presidency, he refused to center his campaign around the fact that his opponent was black, and therefore an unacceptable existential threat to all that is Good and Godly.

Graham periodically attempts to woo the nightriders by dragging his knuckles right down to the ground. Such as his July 2013 scratching and hooting that the United States should boycott the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, because of “what the Russian government is doing throughout the world.”

And so, within hours of Palin recently mustering the riders, Graham was flapping across all the televisions and tubes in the land, thundering that he shall not allow the black man to appoint anyone to a job in the federal government until he, Graham, “gets some answers on Benghazi.”

furthur=>


When I Worked

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