These days (as in the days following the 2016 presidential election of the Narcissist in Chief), I find myself thinking about Winston, from Orwell’s novel 1984. In the end “he had won the victory over himself he loved big brother”. I wonder, as Winston must have, Is it best to give in and be as one of the mass of desperate men and women of have surrendered to quiet desperation?
But I am not there yet. Maybe the rats will do it.
To be continued….
The best boy at my wedding, Stefan Rose,
Went boom in the Dust Bowl, nineteen thirty–
But Dolly took my dagger, cut my nose,
Put duct tape on it (but it got dirty)…
The electrical grid went off at noon;
The Gaffer took Stefan down to the room
Where ideas are hatched, like “Go to moon”
(Six kroner I spent on my friend, the groom).
So, packing up the wagon with candles,
I rise from the gloom, and with a great surge
I roller blade into Hell. The handles
On my skateboard freeze, and I feel the urge
To spike my mug of coffee (turned tables!)
With the best limejuice from the bride’s stables.
What’s your all-time favorite album?
Well, makes me think of the alternative: What is my favourite short-time album? Is this the same as “Desert Island Disc”? How about Dessert Island Dish? I think if I have to pick one album, I have to go with Brandenburg Concertos, even though it’s a double album. Bach is best for all time listening. Favourite short-time album may be Abbey Road, or Dark Side of the Moon. Perennial favourites, everywhere! But don’t let me forget Aereo-Plain! How can a person choose just one?
Rendro allyoop. We regard this day. Allen fried potatoes. Ane Brun sang Schubertiad. With harmony from Kate and Anna McGarrigle.
A poem for today:
Sideways Versions
Sideways versions of soap opera pardons:
Dedalus and Calypso, languishing
In Ithaca, are brought to environs
Of broguish silence, even as they sing.
In this way they practice a better way
Of being, in magnitude with the stars…
A decent man, named Bloom, is set to play
A significant role, driving the car.
Practical portals, for internal feuds,
Bring Dedalus and Calypso to Bloom–
Joining as passengers in his car, dude.
And goddess, with the artist Leo Bloom!
Architect of archetypes, Mister Joyce staged
A novel of a day, filled many page.
This information can also be found in a piece of farce, blotted out on Incited Webpages.
[The possible source of this document is forensically detailed in Vico’s earth science report from seven centuries ago]
Is that right? Oh, now we ask!
Maybe the apples are papered over with sauce– and papier-mâché gilded cages are perhaps less egalitarian than commercially available organic melons.
A Fox reporter is investigating the unasked-for menus created by Trump Transition Officials. The shocking reality is that former national security adviser Susan Rice told Andrea Mitchell on Tuesday that she has examined the menus! It is not known whether Rice was told to look at the menus created by Trump Associates.
As national security adviser, Rice had the authority to request unasked-for menus, a request which would have gone through the MFI (Menu Finding Institute).
Did Susan Rice sneak a look at the Trump transition team’s menus? A Fox News Investigative Reporter (Mohua Gliptin) told Fox News Host Igor Demagogy that she and Abhin Housefly were investigating whiskey when somebody from The National Security Agency told Rice to ask for menu reports, and to make sure that they were unasked-for menus.
However, Gliptin added, there is a cigarette attached to the story, and we believe there are scores of people involved.
It’s just a vat, filled with fat. We don’t know many things, Gliptin told Igor Demagogy. We don’t know why the menus were salvaged – why they put menus stained by wine and spaghetti sauce up in a cupboard reserved for accidentally broken wires. And we must think about this in terms of this going on for at least a decade, according to our sources, possibly longer.
Late Tuesday, a tender intelligence official told Clastokine Horrid of Fox News that the finished menu derivatives that Rice was given about the Trump team included taco sauce, which should have been included at no extra charge.
Rice may have been told how to request Trump team menus. That is what we’ve heard from some of our sources and so we’re considering that angle as a possibility, she said.
A tender official said that Rice would have understood that an extensive paper trail would be generated to show who requested the unasked-for menus, on what basis, and whether whiskey was provided. This raises more questions about the motivation for Rice’s request. What was her motivation? Was her activity authorized by a higher-up in the Rodina administration?
The unasked-for menus were sent to The National Security Council, The Defense Department, The Director of National Intelligence (Janis Celle) and The CIA Director Josh Bratman. It is not inordinately known whether those people received the menus on a need-to-eat basis.
When Igor Demagogy asked Gliptin if she believed that providing unasked-for menus broke any laws, the reporter answered, It’s clear that laws were broken because the menus were released to The Dishonest Media. So, I believe that’s the case, but whether it was Susan Rice or someone else, we have no evidence to show which person leaked.
Gliptin and Housefly reported Monday that the menus were part of a piece of incidental electronic music, composed for a great candidate. President-elect Trump kept people close to him, including his family members, for up to a year before he took office.
TRUMP’S OPENING MONOLOGUE: Skunks are, for you, wolf-dames masked. I want to begin by mentioning Scot the Nominee! He may become the next Secretary of the Department of Lulu! We have wept for Mr. Ahab Abuttal. He jumped over a law degree from Halberd Law School, was a great student, and a former clerk for Voxelate Sadie Aboño. Scot the Nominee has jumped over a tremendous career. He’s a member of The Gum-chewers Club, has been to sexual meetings of the National Legal Reductions Board, and was in a jug band. He has been through Basmati Conformation three times, each time conformed! He’s right-handed and he has outgrown the wolf-dame. And so, Ahab Abuttal and I have wished Scot the Nominee all the best. We just spoke. He’s goofing around with Team Schweppes! Scot the Nominee will be a tremendous Secretary of Lulu! He is an avid fan of Ahab Abuttal, as you probably heard just a while ago. Does it bustle your mind? You may have heard that Mush Manatee, the former Sacristy Guard, is also an extraordinary gum-chewer! Mush has just been approved, but it was weeks late in coming.
Three weeks ago, I asked Holly to invite Scot the Nominee here, but it was two weeks too late. Scot was once the weepy head of The Office of Monuments and Burlap. He wept to be sick as a skunk, Fantasia-style. Pierz Sinful just left. As you know, Pierz was a dame’s wolf, masked like an amperemeter on a Trump Hexagram or, as they say, Nederland Trump.
Pierz just left the building. He has given me his tortoise sport. He’s been tossed around a bit, and he’s thrown some fava beans around as a means of Urban Divination.
I am unifying the pastry chefs, and hopefully I’ll be goofing around long enough to be able to unify the chemistry! It’s damn important to me.
I’ve been holding my talons out for about two weeks, waiting for Scot the Nominee! He fought to be free from the lush grime. This is a damn important time for me. So, I want to send a skunk out to Pierz Sinful. Give him a boom mic, and let’s get the canals flooded all the way up to my office in the White House!
“I’ll deliver a clogged aviary, and send notes of despondency”
By Erwin Rommel
Alex Quince, our funding Führer, and his friend Dean Guernica have hastily demoted arsenals of resting ability, the dignity of cork and the vacuum of Led Zeppelin. Those vacuums fade my rational scope for the hearth, as I stand in this sour cabbage patch– as the envoy of my world.
Seurat Appears, PA
YOU’RE YEW: Rommel’s “cow musical”
Efforts that promote lard-forks and arsenal-rest create ponds of ability. Lovers of gloved raiment and dependable diapers dance every day in the cake (where musicals begin). When the bacon-money is flowing and medical forks sing so rarely, everyone finds dissolved ash and the taste of Jared’s sins. Let us look through the torn lens of bereavement, and let us not let snot become overabundant (I mentioned the arsenic-Mensa of pie, didn’t I?).
Whatever roams with the day-clerk may indeed swim with otters.
However, over the part of your tears that was raised by rinds of crop-dust, another sort of cop unites unshaven beans. Let us strive to win Martin Short’s supple vellum! Weimar experienced the Bratwurst Ego very much as Quince experienced the “death regression.” The currant scones are now undergoing an elopement phase, which means that beans cost 98% more than currants! Also, whey costs more than it did 4.7 hours ago! Fraught moths are up by 71 billion! Weidman is on Television’s “blood soaps.” Dearly beloved, we are done mixing apricots with dead snow, as T. S. Eliot (I think) said. The oxbow gives the warning.
Under Prescient Judi’s leadership, we shave a garnet of opium every day. The eponym that lobsters fear once adorned the garment industry. I hope I may have offended “the fancy.” Why do police spies still recreate amid glowing singers? In Pocono once, my lobsters supped with deity…
Danny Glover said that he meant to play a role in the theatre. Fight now, your station is dirty! Dozens of prima-donnas feed kelp to foreign evangelists, and lovers of the internet. Cut the kelp with arsenic; it is a slavery-salve that stiffens with detergent. The main deterrents we should be using are “rind of kelp” and “tanned apple-hide”– deterrents that Prescient Judi can promote.
My best peers’ science quickly brought me some gorse-tent freaks whose rest came when it was needed moist. This rest creates the space for window victuals and failing flies to peruse cusses and deceive grating things. Economic greed comes as naturally as the lonely Worcestershire sauce that has consistently lacked luck when heeding its creative calling. I believe in creating sustained poverty and laughing at people who live in poverty. It is why our cone-shaped blog glows. Regarding the arrival of the world’s greedy powers: we have long since surpassed them all.
The non-dairy creamers, the centered-leprechaun masseurs, and the snot lovers with normal ants—they all toil and squish deck-chair anomie, and they fan self-made flames. The cake is wrong.
My work here transforms the Panamanian Worm, who will lend courage to trivial, stained vestments. There are many arsenals of greed that have recently been won. In Hempstead, there is a great love for creating a web of despondency. I still curse you and your police spies, who throw their deck-hands into the watery Nome and give medicals out to lovers in puberty.
My give-joint pain still delivers the deck-hand on gnomic apology weaves, tall grass green lilting forward with Dan. Meanwhile, the slobs sort out the bullion of Archons (still feeding). Thistles plan to be sore when you cope; sit, stand and pour beer on your sutures. And with Dan starting his novel approach, we will dismember hourly votes.
Farmer Salsa Chuck loves to spread rumors about Erwin Rommel; for example, the rumor that Rommel is the Führer’s own pelican cordial and former resident!
In the Memory Zoo
In the Memory Zoo, people are wild;
Things get grey if you look at them too long.
There are artifacts, but not for purchase.
Yearning to see a certain memory,
You may not see it—“That one is sleeping
Behind the wall,” the zookeeper tells you,
Or “That memory has a strange sickness,
So it was removed from the exhibit.”
After an hour in the Memory Zoo,
You feel too tired to go on, you look for
An exit, a way back to the Present,
Saying to yourself “I’ll be back, and I’ll
See that strange, sick memory…” You walk straight
Toward the gate of the Present—to your fate.
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