And Do You Feel *Secure,* Penance Asks (in Its Thuggish Blackletter)

Postponed if not >> deleted << bleggalgaze

2020 December 14

Pjoepf of Vriecyh

I still believe fool
me always faith's taproot hope's
baitless hook, won't look

right side up or wrong
sideways with bleach or lye or
hint of ghosticide

I like my gods fine
I leave them alone and back
My desk is dead trees

• Shitlords, lordy. The Wicked Seven.
• No, our shitlords will not contribute to the common good.
• The Top 25 Censored Stories of 2019-2020
  
• The point of the lesson is that GloboCap — the entire global-capitalist system acting as a single global entity — can, virtually any time it wants, suspend the Simulation of Democracy, and crack down on us with despotic force. It can (a) declare a “global pandemic” or some other type of “global emergency,” (b) cancel our so-called “rights,” (c) have the corporate media bombard us with lies and propaganda for months, (d) have the Internet companies censor any and all forms of dissent and evidence challenging said propaganda, (e) implement all kinds of new intrusive “safety” and “security” measures, including but not limited to the physical violation of our bodies … and so on. 
• The most lethal virus
• Stumbling and mumbling: One good objection to Soviet communism was that enforced widespread dishonesty. People had to deny fundamental truths which thwarted their true natures and hence their freedom. That’s why the right side lost the cold war. But capitalism does the same thing. Which is why the wrong side won.
• Anthology apocalypse
• I am incapable of sustained clusterfuckfreelessness
  
• Musical cryptology
• I am capable of unlimited whatthefuckfulness
  

 

UNTITLED (DRONE POEM)

G.C. Waldrep

The general grief possesses us,
a desert music.

And the spirit of the frontier?

Pause and remember
the day we struck the movie set,
winter's wet planks.

You can buy
your own Rothko, penance signs.

Capitalism stumbles,
a bit,
in Democracy's black chapel.

It sounds better as a duet.

We have created a city
for our best gods.
We have fed it our blue stories.

In the desert,
a honey clings
to isolation's woody branch.

Make your secret
classical, so that the bees
will bear it
out of Plato's cave.

How we select our leaders
persuades
faith's broad arroyo
in which a small church stands.

Its door is locked.

Bodies depart
from what is actual, the
molecular tithe.

This is how democracy happens,

on the bridge
overlooking
the former missile silo.

It's a private movie,
playing in the old bank vault

over which
a prisoner of war
has painted a Western landscape.

The myth
is a symbolic anecdote,
Rothko wrote

from inside the war's
broad phylacteries, its distal
tracking shot:

- Christ's many secret deaths.

And do you feel
secure, penance asks
(in its thuggish blackletter).

Let me be gift to the gift-
makers,

a praying surface.

My hand among the lilacs,
my hand within the living Art.