The Left Column

Politics for Poets

politics of the here and now

immoral hive of worst case ideologically enslaved solans of the gret corruption

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'.

More Conjecture

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

Constitutional Crisis?

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

Sean!

  

Love
People!

    
    
🖐morning
clover🖐

these can get you banned from school?!:
🔫 🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣
🚣🚣🚣  🚀  🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣

spinfont unicode-isms
🍀 Praise God! 🍀
🍀⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰⏲⏱🔫⏰⏰🍀
🎠 
🎠 
🎠 
🔫
🔨🔨 
🍀 Praise God! 🍀

 

🚀 🚙🚤🚣c🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣🚣
🚣🚣🚣  🚀  🚀🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
🔨 🚙 🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨🔨⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣⏲⏱⏰🚣🚣
🖐

🖐🖑 🖑🖐

Here is today's pretty poem:

  

mute no more      

    

🖐 🌙 🖑
🖑🌛 🌜🖐
   
 🖐🖑

🖐🖑 🖑🖐

 ♥♥?
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.

Wake up!

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 hillside

he 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
 
 
 

wake up

♥♥ Praise ♥♥ the ♥♥ Lord ♥♥ !!

end of column