Monthly Archives: April 2015


I bare all,


In utter astonishment,

Witness to the perversion of the Social Contract,

As the triumph of the Leviathan nears completion,

In stark contrast and direct defiance to the true principles,

Derived from Smith’s Wealth of Nations,

Where the enemies of the state,

And thus the collective will,

Have become the protectorates of the powers and principalities,

That are duty and law bound to defend the collective good,

Through perversion and perseverance the rally cry,

Of an insidious few has been to create acquiescence to austerity,

To steadily demoralize, propagandize, enslave and imprison,

First minds, then souls and if necessary bodies,

Creating a complex labyrinth of infinitely repeating concentric circles,

Invisible shackles to the dollar, yen or rouble incarcerated,

A paradigm shift that so deftly reasoned Mill;

They grow richer, as it were in their sleep, without working, risking, or economizing.”

The sleeping portion…
While at every step the lower classes,

Indeed the collective masses,

Work through sickness and in health,

Racing to the grave,

Fraught with imaginary numbers,

On very real papers, screens and servers,

Signed on the dotted line,

Outwitted by armies of sleek and savvy salesman,

Protected by officers of the law and court,

Sycophants, dilettantes and auctioned off representatives,

Creating you,

Debt slaves from the moment you are born,

Intergenerational tyranny mandated through force of law,

While the sleeping portion ever spreads,

Greedily held in tight fists,

Repeatedly demanding yet more pounds of flesh,

From an already and quickly increasing emaciated people,

Robin Hood in reverse,

Stealing from the tired, poor, huddled masses,


Through systems and institutions supposedly for your benefit,

Without regard or recompense for the extinction level event approaching,

Privatize, Privatize, Privatize…

I beseech you,

Do not hear these solemn words,

Let them pass through your mind,

Believing for a moment that this outcry,

Is anything new but indeed,

A story retold,

A crime of centuries,

Committed by those who by sleep command an ever greater share,

Of your blood, sweat and tears,

Of your efforts,

Of your short life,

Committed by those who through inheritance or iniquity,

Have come to gain rights without responsibilities,

Have time and again fought tooth and nail,

panem et circenses,

Through bread and circuses,

Inadequate education,
Devoid of the gymnasium principles,

That freed us from the shadows,

Delivered us from the cave,
Disinformation, deliberately dedicated to disillusion,

Creating a permeable apathy that serves them while you sweat

And again while they sleep.

Let this not be revelation,

But instead eureka,

For what is true in the USA, is just as true, if not more,

In the lower developed economies,

Where the sleeping portion increases through manipulation,

Lies, deceit and theft,

Under the guise of improving impoverished communities,

With scraps from the golden plate,

Of a limited few in Ivory towers,
Who as masters with invisible strings,

(to you),

For their strings are the bought and paid for slaves,

Leaders who can be corrupted celebrating the slow pace of progress,

And their minions,


Concerned with convincing completely the fallacy of

The so called trickle down economics,

Whereby trickle is the key word,

Urine trickles too,

While the lifeblood of the sleeping portion,

Soars above your every breath,

Right to the nearest tower,

For remittance to the corrupters.

I too know why the caged bird sings,

And proverbially the greatest trick the devil ever pulled,

For as I sit in the white walls of my own incarceration,

I sing mightily,

Standing opposed to the obvious oppression,

Longing for the succession of the minds, souls and bodies,

Of those teeming huddled masses,

To unite,

In overwhelming universal before its too late outcry,

Demanding the changes,

For without the trickle will become less,

The upstream torrent to Ivory towers of glass, cement and steel more,

And the scraps will no longer be familiar,

More empire of dirt,

Less tasty throwaway morsel,

Of the sleeping portions.

In what would they have been wronged if society had, from the beginning, reserved the right of taxing the spontaneous increase of rent, to the highest amount required by financial exigencies?”
John Stuart Mill


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Love Denied: The Whole Hole

Abatement of attritions seized,

Long winded encapsulations of flicking fingers,

On keys that respond though not in kind,

Whirling fascinations of presupposed indifferences,

To the untrained eye,

Of I and I and I,

Three parts of self,

Detached from the Id, Ego and Super Ego,

Instead a delicious Freudian dilemma,

Where Pandora’s box opened,

Revealing several demons lurking inside my shadows,

Dark companions,

Those that invite libation,

Yet never liberation,

A secret secreted through ill defined words,

Plentiful though, indeed,

Scattered thoughts,

Manic suppression of fatal tendencies,

Hidden behind cheers of one more,

Uno mas,

Sante’s and Nok’s.

Prolific wanderings,

Wailings and whatevers,

Yet never a might have, could have or should have,

For I rise to challenges epically,

Instead these illuminated bastions,

Of a soul redux,

Cast aspersions of an inimitable kind,

Desperate longings of oft fulfilled dreams,

Set adrift on unsafe mechanisms,

Deities of defense,

My own,

As I and I and I battle for the supremacy of one,


Almighty love,

That which whilst I bask in the glow of its resplendence doth know,

Unmercifully my deepest and darkest hallucinations,

Bellow for my ultimate demise,

The champions of my decades long search,

Poking, pleading, presenting,

Obstinate objections to my outwardly manifestations,


Simple protestations that I will not go quietly,

Into any night, good nor bad,

To satiate the desires of my imaginary companions.

Here I stand,

On the precipice of something new,

Precisely poised to push past the penultimate pantheon,

Of Black Dogs and empty bottles,

Surpassing the shattering sound of a shotgun blast,

Straight into the den of my own iniquity,

Analyzing antiquated efforts at assumed acquiescence,

Smashing that something not quite right,

Writing it with something not quite wrong,

Too long Poncho to Quixote,

That now I must steady my stead,

Right my resolve,

Resist my resistance,


In accepting that the whole hole,

Is not love denied,

But instead love accepted, ascended and awesome,

In transforming the broken emotional I and I and I,

Suicides committed daily,

That I now stand corrected,



And I.

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