The Left Column
They've got their heads inside the echo chamber. There seems to be no hope that they will snap out of it. Don't get victimized by them, don't approach them with a counter-narrative while they are in the throes of the trance. They chant who they hate. They all agree, in unison, as if that makes lies true. And they pander to all worst case conjecture as long as it conforms to the on-message narrative that they dare not reject because they craft a world with this, weave the thin threads of lies into a giant tapestry of false narrative and accusatory talking points. They know how to bully.
Aren't you glad that they are just a fiction and their their minds can be touched, at any time, and become aware of the cesspool into which they have dove, having dived, having been dived upon by mosquitoes of delusive narrative while in an inducedd state of ejubbulation, brought about, no doubt, by the imfamous, if only mythological, pill-pot, used within the derisively named pill-pot scrum, at the place of (political) emmergence whihc, in some languaged, tranlates into bawdy talking, a joke which the linguist may not have understood was being played upon them by the more clever than them , 'natives'.
Yes, Snowflake Anthropology, it's a useful topic for bawdy, ribald fictions. Drink up, you never know what delusions are on tap at the Amillia Pub.
dunt dun dunttt
What crisis do they think it is? That the Constitution might start to be enforced for a change?
blah blah blah blah
May 27, 2017
these can get you banned from school?!: 🔫 🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣 🚣🚣🚣 🚀 🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣 ⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
spinfont unicode-isms 🍀 Praise God! 🍀 🍀⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰🍀 🎠 🎠 🎠 🔫 🔨🔨 🍀 Praise God! 🍀
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Here is today's pretty poem:
mute no more
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♥♥? Blathertational 🖐🖑 🖑🖐
glossary of what's next♥♥? :
Be nice to yourself and others. What other choice?
What we have done What we have failed to do.
You never know what delusions are on tap at the Amillia Pub.Her pretty delusions glowing in the late day sun along the ridge line of her ruination the whaaabbb of over throttled molly coddled best damn dude in the city very rude calls himself a real-true whateva and spews of vitrol and delusion as a constant fowl narrative dare to disagree and he weighs too much, his doctor says and says to take the little pills he doesn't take the little pills and that is why she loves him sooo so very very much girl with a plan for an ambitious and well-landed man with a tracker and a plow who can make her life go 'wow' late day after the job she took her time inside her heart ache. He doesn't even see her. Dressed in her tight Italian dabbling in coregraphy and dance in sillohette which is a shot that is very hard to make if you do it at the very place because it's only some of the time if the sun's just right and the light is pretty on all of the sides of things that beautiful magic time it can always be her fat like he is if he could only see her as she struts along the briddle ways, way up high. Some grand-dame in a riding crop like from a Conneticuit movie from the '30s (the 1930's) beating the side of the beast with the lash and showing no mercy in her constant conquest and the fat farmer is in her thrall, our small tatters girl, hard working and intellegent though she is doesn't have a chance against such monied wealth and guile. So the plot thickens and our high school girl desires the fat rich framer who owns all the hills. how can she achieve her goal of being the lady of his house. The farmer tells his story My grandpa made a fortune in retail I'll spare you the details and when he worked on things they'd never fail master of all that entails. He found a strech of hill he liked it was a ten hour drive from the city. He like how hidden it was and how the sky at the dusk was so pretty. He liked how the lake was so clean way over there at the bottom of the sky and that you could see it from here, so far away, with a view like an egale that fly towards that part of the far away sky thinking it all as poetry standing there on that ridgeline so sure of the past being gone so sure of the future not coming out wrong so sure of walking away to a new place, a better day, away from the hate of the bustling hustle and the brutish assertion of bullying muscle where the water is clean and the buffalo roam and if he wants it that way he lives all alone he'd live all alone. all alone there in his lonely home standing on the empty deck at sunset the sound of the Hermit Trush doesn't consoul him anymore he see's such lust for sense to be a kind of pagonotic (paganontic was his own, made up, word) salivation He's wired like that in who he censored himself. But there a day, there a year, it gets old. In the Winter, in Vermont, it gets really really cold and there are critters aware of the heat that you make a vermon infested root cellar. Smells from behind a hidden door. And then, one day, when it was colder than the day before, and it would be even colder tomorrow (it's Autumn) he was walking one of his many fallow places. Stumps pulled out and thrown together in a giant pile. the stone walls, all along the edges of the parts, where the boundries used to be before someone so fabulously wealthy could buy it all up singing laaaa daa de da de da de daaa rumpatuck rumpatuck rumpatuck rue (to the tune of a Gershwin snippit from the very famous "I got Rythum"
the secret door in the hillsidehe finds a secret door It's a wierd old style door. He tries to do some archiology about it he stirs up the interst of some local know-it-alls one of the local know-it-alls ends up dead in a mysterious way. authors note: when Shakespeare dispatches with a character it's sudden like real death can be at times end of authors brain droppings about his delusions about Shakespeare the hills and rills and intervales you lumber through with workers pails hanging from a mast across your giant sholders they pay the cost for all your labours living within this highland dream his daughter (years later, the first wife had concoured the rich mans heart and they had a daughter) the duaghter married the laborer (who could haul the largest weights). They had a son who eventally grew up to be the fat farmer (with the cherry colored scruffy beard). Oh fat farmer fat farmer I know you aren't a harmer you really aren't even a charmer except for the charm of the cash your open and obvious stash and the secret way up on the mountain of a hidden doorway. doorway can translate to portal the author is so very mortal listen to the Hermit Thrush to-were-ttle
♥♥ Praise ♥♥ the ♥♥ Lord ♥♥ !! end of column
The Message Column
The statues represent the children lead to fight for a failing cause Violence in the name of politics is political failure
Know-it-all-will-tell ya goes on about how in a healthy forest the low parts are always boggy and swampish in the wet season . . .
What is the purpose of finding? everyone ought to have an answer to this when they are looking. looking? looking for an answer? looking for an answer? what is the purpose of your answer? looking? just to find? if you don't know what you are looking for . . . then how do you know it when you find it? Obvously people know. Such confusion is merely a polemic. It's a bit. Some people fall into it. They get confused. They follow a 'cause'. Later on, those who promote such a cause dump them for rich foreigners who they bring in with great dreams of happy future and call you a racist for noticing. When there is enough for everyone why do some people still try to take it all for themselves?
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Oh tiny font nonsense, just because your letters are smaller doesn't mean you have some alternative importance.
Praise Praise Praise the the the Lord Lord Lord! for because Easter He's so awesome! welcome to The Message Column!
Is it obvious parody or News or both?
Vote Once One Vote here is a fresh link, a new path to some older content:
Kafka was a dillhole, Orwell was a submissive? depends on who you ask. . .
Tear down the ugly statues of your own delusions, stop the obcession with the dead past.
Sept. 1, 2017
delight in the delete.
Remember the Sultana!
April 27, 1865© 2016 © 2017 ©
Praise Praise Praise the the the Lord Lord Lord for his for his for his unfailing unfailing unfailing love! love! love! well, little else now.
The Right Column
12:06 PM Sept 25, 2017 Purpose and relevance. Shedding bad habits. Picking off burdock. choose your velcro. Mitigate the tildal collecting, shed the dead skin. Begin again. Somethings never change nothing need stay the same
Catch the Cure!
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🌛 Wind Rain Mist Snow
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Live your life in constant resurrection! ⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰ ~ ; )
Praise the Lord!
I got nothing more
Poem Shards Eulogy I met him in the fog of war after he was already dead his visage in videos speaking dread and how the public is mislead. If only I could have known you before you gave up the ghost to haunt the crossing ferry off to places unknown, an undiscovered . . . virtue. A new country! A new type of people who respect the things that work that ferry churning through the fogs and mists and dank smelling out-gassings of these many foul rethorics spewed plausible no one knows who is sure? Which shore does your ferry pull up to to let out the ghost, so the story goes, the one that gets told . . . better be one that people can hear when their kids are there outside the house at the top of the stair. She can't hear that story if he is but a ghost now she knew him he was her friend and told her how he had been destroyed, remorsed, fallowed, wasted, lost abandoned on the battlefield of soul blow up your fallacies, this war needs to be taken way down inside those dark-thought places where hate channels freely destroy the hate by sending it off to unthought rhyme unspoken words unkind unthought hate. We try not to think of it, what the plausible story can be he's off on that Platsburgh ferry a shroud of fog the mists and fowl outgassings must some how be endured one last time to say good bye, come back to me come back to me you friend now gone and lost never known all hopes of how to write this story . . . his story . . . if he had asked me . . . I'd start the book: "He faked his death to escape . . ." from Unipoems She asked " If you get across can you take this to the King of Nowhere and tell him, plead to him to think of her and the way that she needs him? but he won't come home so she goes out looking for him went down to The Flatiron Building asking anyone wrote a card mailed it home. I imagine her collapsed on a bench people shuffle through she feels the lonely loss why won't he come home? I imagine her. She wrote it like that on her card. But it was all for sympathy, just an expression of her drama and she felt lost because of it and didn't know how to proceed the tricks didn't work with him he'd gotten willful, run off with a different girl who doesn't go to church. Hear the steam whistle of an approaching ferry turning to make a smooth connect. Moving back from the railing and the ropes she notes the impatience of the people at the dock and how the other women really like to talk. the crowd rushes forward have your nickel ready she gets swept along now she is way out there in the ferry out past the jetty. Ferry to Red Bank 1906 🚦 🚧 🚨 🚩 🚪 🚫 🚬 🚭 🚮 🚯 🚰 🚱 🚲 🌛 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥 sometimes there is beauty within the fragments . . . 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛 Sprongg . . . onng . . . ongg ga Her tired morning seems more like poetry than anything you can find on a blog. Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Tree Bark Bark. Bark Bark. Dog 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥 Woof and woe🌝 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝. 🚤 🚥
who da thought?thought is sequential the end of it is never flood on, river of wise neglect let the bough break let the wind blow removed the baby from that cradle long ago and took him somewhere safe. Thought is over rated when it's thought for being mean to be mean being mean what you mean when you are mean when you 'mean what you say'. Memory is overrated there is joy in the person even when they don't know who you are anymore they still love you they usually don't forget that they love you usually. It was cold that day he'd driven all the way there and plodded through the snow to face the sorrow of his loved-one who didn't remember him but thought him to be someone else as thwarted. Memory is overrated when it's hard hurt of past tragedy as if it happened yesterday from the long ago. Bill Perilli, writer of all of the things on this blog. 🌜🌜🌜🌝🌛🌛🌛
What does one do with old software books? I'm packing them into bankers boxes. I'm going to stack them against a wall. Some of them were very useful. It serves no purpose to throw these away. Some of them are still useful, though it's easier to do it on line now.
May 10, 2017
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