- These three songs been sitting in draft for a week. I just listened to them again, here.
- Forgive me, I enjoy the latest trumpster-fire episodes.
- What do you do with Trump when his usefulness ends and they tell him get out? He serves at Triskelion pleasure. He can't be let loose to talk into microphones, give speeches, form a party.
- Trump's usefulness has many days ahead.
- Kayfabe is still Kayfabe even broken, soon enough. Those flashes get appropriated almost instantaneously, almost, but were yours once, are still, are stale to all but you.
- When over, poof, stroke - he is a stroke walking. Our nation mourns.
- (Even if they don't off him, I am telling you three times: he is a stroke walking.)
- When he does have a stroke and is disappeared, no one will believe it's a stroke.
- As my avatar's nemesis 86 says: The old bring in the old white square-headed jowly Corporate grandpa as Neutral Observer Trick. Fell for it twice this week.
- Kayfabe WILL be reestablished, session by session.
BOTTLES IN THE BOMBED CITY
They gave the city a stroke. Its memories
are cordoned off. They could collapse on you.
Water leaks into bricks of the Workers’ century
and every meaning is blurred. No word in Roget
now squares with another. If the word is Manchester
it may be Australia, where that means sheets and towels.
To give the city a stroke, they mixed a lorryload
of henbane and meadowsweet oil and countrified her.
Now Engels supports Max, and the British Union
of beautiful ceramics is being shovelled up,
blue-green tiles of the Corn Exchange,
umber gloss bricks of the Royal Midlands Hotel.
Unmelting ice everywhere, and loosened molecules.
When the stroke came, every bottle winked at its neighbour.