The Road of Ignominy and the Lords of Parsimony

Smoking Mirrors – July 11, 2012

Dog Poet Transitioning…….
May your noses always be old and wet.
On and on it goes. It flies up your nose. It rips off your clothes, not the usual kleidung but the garments underneath. It comes in the night like a thief and steals your grief while you’re asleep; don’t know what I’m talking about? Me either. Warming up… one, two, one, two. Put yer back into it ye scum! and then some. Slogging away in the trenches here, Boss. Wishing and hoping for some saucers from the sky; aliens with serious weapons to kick some banker ass. They just won’t quit. These diabolical usury junkies. They need a fix every half an hour. They are zeppelin sized ticks; Rothschilds, Warburgs and Shiffs, oh my! They’d suck the moisture from a dead man’s eye. The crows are screaming cause these other carrion feeders got there first. Humanity doesn’t do a thing about it. They’re chasing the invisible cheese through a bramble maze. They got to like the stick so much they forgot about the carrot. They got whipped and hosed all up and down the road of ignominy by the Lords of Parsimony.
If Jesus does come back, I sincerely hope he’s pissed. I hope someone laces his communion wine with PCP. I’m looking for serious road rage on this highway to nowhere. Every time I look at a lamppost now, I immediately think about what is missing. Yo Shakespeare! A little editorial help here; ‘first we kill all the bankers’ Heh heh, I checked the quote at Google and one of the selections was, “first we kill all the bankers”. That’s some kind of serendipity but it’s got a low sperm count at the moment.
The lawyers aren’t the problem. The military isn’t the problem. None of these other problems are ‘the’ problem. The bankers are the problem. They say a stiff dick has no conscience, neither does money and no banker has one either. They kill more people in one day than any man with a gun could ever do. They cause depressions on purpose. They start wars just to make money and they admit it too; “If my sons did not want wars, there would be none”. Could you do something like this? Could you start a war and kill uncountable numbers of men, women and children just to make money? They do. They make charts and graphs and study the thing. They are monsters. Why do we tolerate monsters in our midst? Why do we permit this? Why is there no secret group of pissed off ex-military making the rounds?
The despotic kings of usury are preeminent. There used to be a death sentence for this kind of thing. Now the only death sentence is your own. However, your death is not enough unless you can be worked to death first. Then you can spend 90% plus of everything you saved all your life, in the last year of your life, on bogus medical treatments as many, many people do. Look it up. These heinous felons are committing capital murder every single day. Wait, that’s not entirely correct. Could be that on the weekends they just think about it. Of course, that speaks to premeditation. I’m wondering, if I premeditate, do I still have to meditate afterwards? What’s’ post-meditate? Is that when bankers think back on all the people they didn’t kill and get all poignant and nostalgic. Do they weep in their twilight years over all those missed opportunities? Well, bankers don’t weep do they? Not unless it’s in the way that crocodiles do; crocadoodle do!!!
Like Bush said, “if the American people knew what we have done, they would string us up from the lamp posts.” …speaking of lamp posts. Yes people, if you knew. What that means is, if you wanted to know. Meanwhile the Crass Media trumpets the offenses daily. How is it that you miss this? It’s a tossup as to whether you are simply bone dead stupid or just a craven coward, …possibly both? Your hearts and minds fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. You’re getting what you deserve, too bad they’re not. Eh?
Edge, cut, hurt bleed …the last to know are the first to scream and they just don’t understand what Emily was talking about in the cup of her small hand. Passing, I see the occasional brief flames of a chandelier, these lives detached from mine, with the smell of cabbage soup weaving through the cold Moscow night …all these places, clustered villages in Finland, the marketplace in Tangier, South Africa, South America …millions upon millions of lives, s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d from envelope to envelope, each envelope, a world of encompassing presence an, of itself, thing apart but connected to everything else in some mysterious unchanging way, love and sorrow exist everywhere, themselves a world of encompassing presence, jackboots and horns, explosions and screams, the sounds of feet running, the sounds of mortar and rocks falling in the aftermath, bit by bit the carrousel turns, chips scatter on the green baize, an elegant woman slouches and give the ancient stare, ten thousand years of mystery and longing, accommodation and regret, I can see the whole of human history in her eyes.Plunder and sacrifice, arm in arm, lockstepped in sequence of contiguous events, one person shattered into billions of fragments of mirror, thrown, dropped or smashed? we cannot know …the light plays off everywhere at once, the shadow waits, always behind the surface and between the shards, all this in passing, just a few moments reach, a dancing of thought in particular, touching upon nothing and no one, like the tiny lights of an unknown town seen from an airplane window at night.
What the Hell? …moving right along and so are the bankers. The bankers are moving; these porcine, sleek and deodorized landlords of Animal Farm. There’s going to be a lot of bacon one of these days on the barbecue grills of Hell. “C’mon visible, I don’t want to hear this shit. Where’s my Haldol”? The neighborhood ice cream trucks are being converted into pharmacy trucks, no change in the graphics or the music announcing the arrival, just the name is changed to signify the supplier.
The Rothschilds and their inbred associates; cue the banjo boy in Deliverance, are serial killers. That’s right. They are serial killers. Why are they out walking around? Why are they not locked up in cages for transport to every small town in the west for purposes of display? Why are they not in a zoo (not a petting zoo) with a wooden plate in front of the cage that describes what they are and where they come from? Why ask why? Mr. and Mrs. Stupid are on the couch eating Cheetos and watching TV; bullshit, keep spreading it, spread it neck high, over land and sea and sky, yeah keep on spreading it, never quit cover everything in shit. If the GOP were an asshole and it made a giant whoosh, everything that came out of it would look like genus Bush, oh you can’t make out the details, when it covers everything, standing in the midst, I know why the caged cowpies sing (transpose the words of another bad poet who made a whole lot of money), I love the smell of bullshit in the morning, it climbs down my mouth as soon as I start yawning, it climbs back out and into the conversation, it may be inanimate but its a blood relation. Rumsfeld in the hopper and Cheney in the can, Bush can spread more toxic shit than any other man …but you ain’t seen the half of it, until it hits the fan, Rice is mixed in with the corn and the undigested poor, Wolfowitz and Pearle have left a real unpleasant spoor, oh cover me with bullshit and point me toward the polls, I feel a big one coming on, let’s see those voter rolls. Did I leave out Obama? Oh that will never do. He’s a banker catamite; Captain Pissgum’s cabin boy. He’s proud of it. All of them are proud of it. They preen in front of the adoring public who deserve what they get. People actually flock around to shake his hand. Welcome to Dumbass Junction.
The bankers are a pestilence. The bankers are low to the ground blood sucking weasels. The bankers are the problem. The bankers are laughing at you and, what do you know? You’re laughing too. Isn’t that special? You’re special too aren’t you? Come on, you know you’re special. Do you ride to school in the little yellow bus? It’s a really big bus now, isn’t it. It’s a fleet of buses. Why not take a train? Isn’t your daughter pulling it?
I come to bury Bwak!
And not to praise him
the good that men do,
{“shit! what the fuck was that?”}
where was I?
is oft interred with their trombones
but the bad shit is either Trading Places
or that movie Faceoff
more than once or twice I offered him a glass
of Lupercal but I think the colon inflamation has gone down now
friends, victims and drag queens
lend me your tights
there is no wider patrimony
not here nor
even in the ruined Acropolis
but brutal is an honest love
and we all know brutal
we have bent over for him here
again and betwixt times
whether we be dressed as cleofuckingpatra
or merely imagined in a dress before our betters
this Caesar was a dressing and
this salad old before it’s time
so let it be with Bwak!
the noble Brutal has told us that
the door of history should slam into
his behind
yet there be couch kittens and suckups who will
forever hope their failed careers will live indexed
and pressed
between the leaves of some alone time
No editor can press this inky semen like grapes
into a table for four
forget the candlelight
even the queen must be a whore
I would not be Bwak! though his star
will perforce rise in the temporary tinsel world of manufactured life
I would not be a mover
a shaker
or a hard heartbreaker
so let it be with Bwak! that
the slings and arrows of the wheel of fortune
grant him first name exchanges with the rat-faced man
whose name I cannot remember but he did that show with the Jessica Simpson grandmother girl holding up
the cue cards that made this world
the land of the stupids
it is Brutal to be ambitious
and, let’s face it
you’re not going to be an honorable man
and even the chicks here are
honorable men
the cat spray of these times
is like a bad taste in the alcoholic’s mouth
as he wakes in the backseat of that old car
with the broken window
tastes like what it is
no mistake
I do not wish to unbrutal what Brutal says
rather to say Cry on Zion and
Babbleon too
for truly they have said he was born to run
and raise some hell
and has a thing for the crack in the Liberty Bell
He’s bad news (and the black girls sing-fill in the blanks)
oh brutal beasts and surely men without reason
have dimmed the lights at the high school prom
so let it be with Bwak! and extra brutal
his passing upon your ungifted tongues
for him a job and it no pleasure
to slog his way through tedious display
of endless pointing out that you are present
and he can’t wait for you to go away
so let it be (cue the Beatles)
with the noble Bwak!
his passage from this tattered caravansary
that dogs at his heels must be his betters
and he toasts you with a fine champagne
There is no Bwak!
but surely there is Brutal
daggers like little swords
as cocktail umbrellas in the salad tossed
with Parmesan to hell
we all do wish we had the Bwak! power
I doubt that we would ever do so well
there is a reason we are left in dreaming
upon some hopeful windowsill
the parade outside is passing
the car dealer waves from the float
and the bridge is detached from the moat
shall I lie in the coffin here with Bwak!
Shall this become my final place of rest?
Your brain in the coffin there with Bwak!
You must pause till it comes back to you.
Not my best work but who has the time to be careful enough to get it done right? Not me. Ah well, every now and then something like this happens. I don’t know why, I’m just glad it’s over. Now I think I’ll go get all spiritual and back to pretending that somehow the material isn’t. If everything is made out of the same thing then everywhere is holy ground.
End Transmission…….
Song: ♫I’m in my Car♫


Smoking Mirrors looks at much of what the mainstream media ignores. While in Profiles in Evil, he seeks to expose those shrouded in darkness to nature’s most powerful disinfectant, light.

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