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The government owns these thoughts.
Would you like to learn to read?
Like bees at
dawn, these are the days of our life. These rings require a finger.
The corn gods long ago were angry,
but now, like us, they’re just confused.
Believers now crumbled to dust and the festival
of the harvest <fade> just a memory.
They are largely impotent, their very
genetic
makeup having been rewired,
And in a few short generations they will be
vegetables.
No lingering looks,
Just the odd colored finger of an ear popping up
for a twist in the sun.
Is it always a conspiracy, the end?
Well, what else?
Do you expect an intellectual uprising, warriors
willing
to break their glasses and to scatter their
research?
Do you expect workers uniting in unguarded
night?
And who would notice if indeed they rose?
Who wouldn’t?
These things require a ringer.
Curly’s lament –
we can’t forget it –
Curly’s
lament.
Whoo whoo whoo.
For all the sense you hope to make.
For all the hearts you hope to break.
Thank you Moe. May I have
another?
“Done
spewed my mouthful out Lord, ain’t goin to
town no more”.
The blues
abound.
Blue spotlights slice the stage.
The audience, they moan as one.
“Don’t call me up no doctor, just nail me to the
killin floor.”
The killing floor as metaphor.
A better metaphor for pain and
boundless sorrow
might be the human body by itself.
The very embodiment of
violence –
teeth,
eyes,
fists,
feet,
bellies,
bones –
So many
weapons, so many targets.
The glory of meat comes undone somewhere in the Prussian
night.
<Sighs> Chauncey, you're a victim.
Schedule a follow up.
Maybe call
out for the glories of your forefathers.
Yes it's true, nobody's
perfect.
Only the past is
permanent.
The name of each and every sorrow shall be
tattooed to your
skull.
The government owns these thoughts.
Yes it's true, no body's perfect.
That in and of itself is the
beauty and the banality.
It's an old concept, old as civilization itself. Control the symbols to
control the thoughts to
control the masses.
Would you like to learn to read?
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