Con-Scripted Victims

Word War III. Here it is, y’all asked for it. Ok, well you certainly didn’t not ask for it. In dropping that bombshell, to stoke a massive morale booster, like that of a heavy hit of panzerschokolade, y’all are probably fiending for it uncontrollably. Let me ramp up production upon steeping inclination. Being one not to disappoint, it is right on schedule, in the leap of that yearly bound – the ides of February plus two, literally just over halfway through the in-betweens terminus; a meaningful Remembrance Day on my parts, bearing, of mind, body & soul. By this rate, barring M.I.A. displacement, Word War V to March too, and in the shortest divisional allotment, to boot, in non goose-stepping fashion. Tank top battle fatigues from such an armchair general location, ordering a major promotion from that corporeal private life. Code read, an enigma machine gunning for a tracer bulletin. Strafing those muddied waters. Kablooey!

Gaslight rattle. Over the top. That antiquated tactic. Wordily, an alphabetical creeping barrage leading to not so friendly synaptic firings. A veritable No Man’s Land position, void of lecherously lascivious lesbian longitudinal lapping that is. A sole experience leading to clustered collective soul amalgamation: void, barren, anomalous, cut down, razed, a walking dead zone, that in-between, purgatory, a cratered existence, panic totality, gorging rodent free for all, that boulder and soft underbelly locale, maggot manifestation, sniped, bleeding hearts, pathologically pinned down, shellshocked in that metaphorical meat grinder. Injuriously trapped, psychologically snared, downward spiral, thousand yard stare of the millimetre viewed surroundings. Forget about rock bottom, how’s about a self drowned caisson concrete rift delineating one’s cavernous existential trenching. Fragging blunderful it must be in the Squad of squalor. Welcome to the 1984 + 40 division of their long equation of negative integers. Operation Affinity for expired mind-of-state servility interoperability into that drop zone. A compartmentalization departmentalization of disorganization. Brought to you by systemic disgracism. Woozy does it. Wow, to be Caught in the Lies, and not even be cognizant, or worse yet, carry on with the charade to such a personal stockade. Hooey!

No Man’s Land – A Fitting Societal Metaphor

This ain’t no singular baffle of one’s mono-the-is-tick battle, this is Word War III gosh darn it. Impersonable impersonator soul sucking standing armies line the salient front of the neolithic back, hill hiding surrounding. King shits, NUTS!, whoppers galore reign supreme of the formative construct drilling, literal cranial boring of recessive not so natural: pendulum, follow the watch, welcome to the scene obscene – Hypno-Script-Low. When a lie is not a lie, because it is the institutional basic training to craft an illogic killing machine of reflexive uttering. Having become second nature via a premiere institutional ideological drubbing. Trenched dwellers all around, confined to the dugout perversion, a hideous reality as they fall in single file line without a point man, a barbed synaptic wiring clambering for the oafish planking. A sucking head wound. Whoomf!

Welcome to the Empire Du Jour. Stealers of the free world. Shock and Awe, as in total disbelief as to such a dissociative FUBAR firestorm surpassing Dresdenesque neuronal encompassment of establishment disenfranchisement, yet guns a’ blazing with thoroughly misfired aggrandizement now calmly resisted by endless P.O.W puzzlement running the gauntlet of the full bodily assault embezzlement; odorous rot, audible cacophony, eviscerated sighting, tasteless consumption, touching off the era of catatonic dyspepsia. Blitzkrieg – intuitional ambush. SNAFU. Welcome to their ideological circumscribed death march, well within range of a bamboo chute lunular incursion camp. Jungle gin. Slink!

Dresden Past – The Neuronal Map of Institutional Power

In excessively profound analogical erectness; it grows, it grows, until it blows. Wow, is it ever going blow. The faces prematurely erupt, exposing the mess kit consumption full of the now limitless spoiled see ration gorging. A childish home guard. Rubble rubble spoils and troubles. That old self-battle fatigue, crawling face down posterior up in the production lying shallows. Hold the caving line. Fanatical not-sees heeling the furor. Mindless drones fly free, those regular D.C. buzzbombs deafly harken. War of attrition in the geriatric infirmary right down the incontinent line.  P.T.S.D. runs rampant through the ranks. Political Troglodytes Smell Defeat. Propaganda Misery. Spelunk!

That old omnipresent bloated societal corpse sure stinks to high heaven, on all beholden combatant sides of the historical Snakes & Ladders low rung delineated battle field. Just a sickly and putrid and pusillanimously macabre ping pong match of depravity evermore sliding none the less into an inescapable bloodbath geysered oblivion somehow passing as progressivism. Lie after lie after lie after lie is the ultimate truism. The array of bankruptcies reign supreme, yet the Empire Du Jour’s extravaganza of grifting uni-party tailored pickpocket organ grinder monkeys crank out the same old song and dance as the gravitational fleas itch for the circus antics, in turn endlessly doubling down on the ringmasters freak show. And somehow a poop-slinging orangutang locked in the same caged appearance is deemed by some as the saving grace. Insanity!

Operation Over-Extended Excrement – the supply line of ignorance has been severed by way of the sphincter delivery system’s failure to enact a regulatory pincer movement. Full on a-salt of the wretched supporting slugs. Enter the madness of the noncohesive scramble, a uniformed shedding – yes sir, yes sir, infinity bags full. Mass of inhumanity, a column of indoctrinated calamity. Slaves laboured in the cognitive gulag. Mind war profiteering upon the production line of ignorance. Crimes against humility, to say the least. Oops, treason too! Dereliction of societal duty the observational tribunal records. Awaiting the sigh-a-nighed relief of full capitulation. A grave situation. Blindfold!