The Left Column

Politics for Poets

commmitted to excellence?

It is easy to get excited and upset during an election season because you hear the bloatatiousness of political burghars scoffing at the idea of democracy, as if it matters what truth is in this real world. They live, like rutting boars, which some of them look like too. They are probably very much fun to be with for real when they are on their romps. They have appitites that are obvious due to the sizes of their collars and the cut of their slacks. It's all too obvious what they are all about. It's clear to anyone who sees them that they are the burghars, a corrupt group of petty tyrants unwilling to allow the people to live without the constant sound of sucking, slurping, taking everything that is there, like feeding locusts. They have tiny faces. They don't do any thing more than eat what is there, as much of and as fast as they can. Ah. . . it makes us all want to go on a diet, take up fasting, get abstinant, stay away from television . . . because you don't want to see the smmarry face of the tilted fingers of the swine-class of hypocritician.

Ah, but the Dickonsonian view of these people, looters-at-the-public-trouth, is a parady at best. Try to see them at their sensitive side. They've murdered someone. Their exwife. They were hurt, troubled (if anyone doesn't understand that this document is satire, then go back to school) upset at the world, unable to be the person who they are sure they are now. And the person that they must have wanted to be something else back then, driving them to do the horror of what they did (snuff out some other poor souls life breath). Now they are in prison and they want to take up the cuff on their gender. A nip here. A tuck there. A judge is ruling. He measures the size of oak casements. New drapes with stimulating colors for the bounce, the push, no view in, job for life, running numbers up to heaven above, a steady stream of nickels flowing towards the heartbreak down there in Cape-crud (the land where all Corrupt pols have their summer homes, where they take their mail friends to and lick the backs of their stamps, very naughty.

Any one on Cape Cod, don't take offense. Cape Crude is a seeeecreettt cape. It's the one farther over. You, see, so the story goes (and this is a political fable, by gorash, this is Politics for Poets. Note: for poets. My dream sequence will continue now). These poltical bigwigs's wigs are so big, and they are so powerful, that they can rewrite laws of nature just for them. They are so powerful that they don't even have to follow the laws of nature! So, dream big, there ear-wigs, you got to metamorphisize into the mind set of someone who is fully deep down in side the Rabbit hole. Change into a butterfly and fly through this CG video game of a dream.

Within the dream he'd taken apart the fabrics of real things and was being yelled out by a House-woman (with an apron too) straight out of a TV show about Menninite Amish out-dare in the wild places of scripted television. Very handsome lady, though older now, noble. She has the broom and she scoots himalong. "Ya best not be messing with those hogs ya can''t contain out dare in the wild marshes of Warshing-town (in the swaamppy triple E marshes of the Pot-homic (homiopathic?) places of lost time (where dreams like this travel off to). So then it was over to the buerro to have them print me up some 'made in America' stickers. But the druppey eyed handsome guy (who runs the place, and is a good soul, I got this feeling, like you do in dreams) said that all the printing equipment been hauled off to places unknown under protocols of some such thing that aren't discussed and even making up fiction about it is frowned upon. So I was left there, at the flood banks and marsh places, with the idea of 'better not step in any goose guanna on my way over to photograph the monument to George the Best.' But it's unavoidible. So I make a mental note to myself too have the govern-geese come up with a way to do this for the world to make it all better for geese so that they don't feel all upset after they realize that they've been soiling up the Mall, and it isn't really a place to take kids. Let alone let them play there. In the water you see it floating. It bobs there in the rivulets of filth that fester in the place. There isn't any getting away from the fact of the birds leaving their presents everywhere. And these giantfeathered corruptocrapts are out there feathering everything up for everyone.

Suddenly in flies in the Superdupper. The Supperdupper is a straw-dog who will later be burned on the trash heap. He will be thrown onto the burn pile so that the hoggasaurauses of the legislature and the courts and suck up as much more slop as possible before the duck gets healed (you see, that duck is lame and he will be in the hospital for three months unless people go and occupy some sense and do away with . . . but that's too political for poets)( do away with lame duck sessions). Superduper gives sings out platatudinous 'yess-we-can-isms' and the crowd marvels. They have been told that the level of their cheers is directly coorelated to the level of their bonuses. "I'm not a bad guy. I almost have perfect pitch." he smiles. His eyes move. He is just a terrence and phillip like mock up. What has happened to the real Furr-urrr. Oh, I should not just partially translate to the language of Goethe. It's not fair. I'm really not being a very nice poet here, ranting out these dumlings about some fictional goonish presidope, from the presidium, out there where they keep their sacred guns (guns that are only used for justice and mercy, perhaps never used or fired but necessary anyway).

Outside of the convention, he'd suddenly woken up. The crowd was en-gleed (they made up new words for this monumentocitous occasion, the more syllibles the better). Suddenly I noticed a small man there. He was getting tinyier by the minute. He was speaking, almost phropethically, about the use and purpose of image in a media campaign to elect a presiduck. He quacked on (in an ever higher pitched voice, but not fasster, like the speed was being increased on an Long-playing Record (LP) or on a Real-to-real tape machine (which were state-of-the-art for a very long time, and a very important storage medium for the great classic period of the muscial renasance of the last 100 years, so don't let them be lost to History.)

The protestors are pushing in and around the giant columns that en-front the state building. In the dream I rise up on a podium and tell the crowd that it is wrong to ruin and destroy these buildings. "This court is a Presidio against injustice. It stands at the head of the bay called Equality. There is a bridge that goes between the past and the future and that bridge is called honest goverance, and commitment to Liberty and limited pilforing of the public gardens. Surely you wouldn't all rush on over to the national arboreum and stomp over rare plant collections? Crush not the Liberties afforded by the Constitution." (but that's political)

So they backed off. Next it was just a sad-sap late shift guy with a broom (who was DL the talk show host) and he was the only one there. He was making quips as if they were funny, but they were just scurrilous barbulous insults directed at Republicans and anyone who thinks that Republicans could ever be nice or have important things to say.

Soon it was dawn. And the Conqouring Angel came through to poke at the snakes of people's intollerance and failure to ascend the Holy Mountain (which is theirs alone and fully contained with in their own sinular mind). "We've decided that these new creatures must have a place to live, these new species. So we've let them have this preserve. It is a way to give them a place to grow. Dante would have had to have added a new level in Hell. Swedenborg didn't get to see this. So, don't mow here anymore. Let the monuments and buildings grow over, luch forest, giant canopy of overhanging banyon. Let there be mountainous trees growing over all of this place so that all festorousness would be sucked deep down in it, be part of what is natural, the ecosystem will grow. You see, hogs, pigs, swine, some see them as an evil to be avoided, to shy away from. Other's wallow in the muck with the pigs and love every minute of it, raising them, feeding them . . . . eating them, and the what comes in between. Some see this as a horror. In any case, it's only a dream. No real politickle could ever be as ugly as that guy who was on the front of the website the other day lording over us that he is the political burghar and king-of Cape-Crude. Let him go back to his festorous marshlands filled in to build his emperious associations and condo-strausities. It's a ready made gettho for him and his minyons. They modeled it after that they think is paradise. Can't you just let them have it? It's a cage, they put themselves in it willingly. He's not harming anyone really by being a pig-at-the trouth pol and sucking all the gross dumplings from the waller-puddles of bad-governance. If it wasn't him doing it we'd have to invent somekind of robot to go and pick up all the goose droppings."

I soon realized that I wasn't really fully awake. I'd slipped back into dreaming. But it was not a dream world, but back to the national preserve of corrpulance that is a wild-life sanctuary outside of normal reality (that only very very very powerful political people can ever get to go to and even writing fictions about it is frowned upon, but now I am repeating myself.)

And then, there he was, and he was just as piggy as I'd almost imagined him. And I realized that I could pitty him in dream. And scratch his big thick neck, this beast just needs love. And put him on a tredmill. And send him back to Church (he claims to be a good [some Christian denomination] ). See the glow in his eyes. He really does want to share. See. He's laid it out, right there for you, on a tiny mirror that screws into the bottom of an umbrella. Oh, no, still the dream.

I finally awaken feeling just a slight bit of shame for all the dreaming and secret attractions to people that could really use a lot of time on a tredmill and who seem to be the kind to stomp through the sacred aboretums of good-governance, trampling over the forests of tradition as if laws and constitutions are to be used as pool lining for a hippopotmous tank for the realitives of elected officials (who show up and want to be fed and cared-for for free). Brushing my teeth I worry that the sink is clogged. I'm still allowed to pour drain cleaner into the drain. Not today. It drains slow, but it will drain.

If you are afraid of heights then why take a job at the pinnicle factory where you place the top on the the tippity-top?

please note, all of you code heads who look at the document code, the colored text in this file is colored with span elements and associated styles to set the desired color. I amy post up some things about this in Coders edge (or maybe not). So, if I do, read all about it.

Aug 31, 2012

A vote for unity is a vote for America. Vote for America.

well . . .

I think I've blogged enough today.

Life goes on.

Thank You Veterans!

~ OK Now.

 
 Some poems were long
   he wrote them like a song
 he sang them on the bus
    no one made a fuss (ouch)

  Some songs are for singing
    others are for ringing

  Good bye. Good bye my love.
    go down and do 
          the best job that you can.
  You look good, 
            happy though flushed.
    You always were a worthy man.

  I see you've been bedazzled 
                 by power and fame
    given over to habits 
             that people 
                rail against as lame
 you pay in one-dollar 
             bills that 
              you stuff down in a G
   and you even pay more 
       to have some one take a . . . *

     Ah, but that isn't 
              to print for 
                the public to know.
   they made a secret film 
             which you hope 
                    they never show.
       It's all about you, a 
                     broom and a mop
     and if it ever gets 
               out your career 
                       will go flop.

  So it's off to the races
   to bet on a looser
    it's not the horse you pick
  you have somebody else choose her.
   It's a filly that will loose
    guarenteed like a bank
       and for this sad 
               state of affairs
 you have only yourself to thank.
    So now, Mr. remover 
           you are fully in the tank.

 Ah, redemption,
   salvation,
 then go to the church.
  What did you think you'd find here
   when the matre'd is a lurch?
  Do you think they want to?
    Do they have to?
 the things that they steal?
 Do you fear someone will pinch you
    and then none of this is real?
  Well you don't know
    enough about it
 to understand how they deal.
    And it isn't for you to po-po
                    how people feel.

  Oh to be deeply in love 
                 with the 
             obeese pig of a pol
   and want to have secret 
                romps with 
               him running and all
     him to chaase me   
                and make me 
                and tell me what to do
  it's all a dream he 
           has that he makes 
                     and he includes you.

  Even the corpulance
     needs to be loved and hugged and cured.
   Once when he was younger even he had alured.
    He had some who did love him 
               even when they thought him a popper.
 
    Ah, but this bad dream poem must end
  and I tell you if I didn't even 
                   a little bit offend
      then I might need to do a rewrite
 because offense at bad-governance 
                    might just not be right.
  You might not know all the facts.
    The herd of pigs might turn back
         suddenly into a band of sworthy lovers
   Sailors with kind hearts who, 
                  under their leader, 
                   who has defeated 
                      the sirens who sing
       'free free free it's all 
                     free for me and me'
 has turned his crew back into men.

  So turn back into men all of you 
                         crew of the pols.
    

        
 Today is rainy
     and thus the gloom
  
  

Wake up!

Peace to all who have read
this far and to everyone who didn't!