Three ante-chambers and then the bedroom, a valet rather than my wife sleeping in the same room as me... if this is a will to power, i'd rather see the Sunday menu of: a will to whatever's on offer, other than hereditary genetics... mind you, 20th century anti-hereditary genetics seemed like quite fun, all that eugenic stuff... i love the byproducts that came with that, weaklings to be sure, missing horse and engaged tractor, celeb culture and the next Raphael pickling a hammer-shark sidelined with Warhol's quote: knock knock - ah cheap, i know, but when wasn't sarcasm ever?
The famoud *will to power is a fable, there are too few words In between will and power, since both are rather antonymous In application, the argument - The will to power is a state of anonymity Rather than a dualism, In Versailles Louis XIV questions himself As both man and king, and the god appointed; Instead of duality there's an anonymity, A permanent height outreaching / out-qualifying The jumper, all pampers and demure, The mirror circus of poses that Louis XIV Was compared to his brother Gauging out an eye of a laughing man in A role of a Kafka play the nobles thirsted for And slyly forgot - there was once a prancing Lady of France, who donned the title As the king of France, but was overshadowed by His cock-sucking brother; there are indeed Arabia in the King to quench Africa, But not enough to go further, with his philandering Playboy boyishness to succumb to the womanising Artefact with brotherly jest as with a woman's Care for an up-kept boudoir... of matching stockings And his matching socks: never mind the places Cut first on the gauges of fear of the guillotine With the eyes turning all Newtonian searching For the next cake - the roles we keep are not the Identities we express, keeping the militant Populace ignorant and ourselves kept by The labyrinth sexed-up, keeping one pronoun A wall of denoted king and the rest A scramble which, whoever, we wish to choose - As ever, preferring a woman... Well i preferred animals, how's that for an argument From Sodom? oh wait, that's an argument from Eden... Ooh choo choo the pick-up truck never picked up steam, The democracy of nobles overtook the notion Of king as the psychiatric, philosophical rigidity Overtook the notion of ego... Well, weeners and winners here and there, Like salt and pepper... mm, push it! push it real Good! wait a minute, i thought that aristocracy kept Paris and subsequent Parisian a folded model ready for Corruption with adequate vices? When Communism came about the aristocracy was replaced With intelligentsia - the urban version of what was once Property owning now replaced with idea owning - It all gets a bit murky here, i write with a more detached Defacement in mind onto a head of a donkey to reveal The saintly cranium, but never mind the joke, There's still the papal yoke to keep us curbed, after all, The best whores travel to home to sing: love live papa, Love like papa. It just got me thinking, this obscure cannibal of Aristocracy could scare the king, no wonder the king In chess is just an extension of pawns, while the queen Is an extension of rook, knight, bishop - Reductionist Darwinism uncovered more than Darwinism per se, we were originally reduced to insects, Revolving past that and encouraging us to exhibit Mammalian tendencies made us into being unable to Choose which monkey was worthwhile to have originated from; But still the black widow, the mantis - Female reductions took her beyond mammals, Into pre-reptiles, Male reductions took him into pure mammal, We're both running treadmills now though, We're both rodents, hamsters, ha ha, it's funny how Equilibrium works, there's two opposites, both need To be pacified, no trans-gender changes will actually Objectify or personify, it'll just the other more even and the Other mode off / left in / left out. You never ask so much about art, you just say The magic Sesame words of Ali-Baba 'i don't get it' And it opens, but then you suddenly want poetry to read like Chemistry, what a fucking oddity, and say the words 'i get it', but all that opens is a can of tuna, wooh! What a fucking stink. imagine these words unlike what You'd might use buying a pint of beer at a pub, Grow up, you hit puberty with fifty shades of grey, Bestsellers this century, the last, Don Quixote... Believe me, these words will be around for not that long, Soon ingested by what the already aristocracy isn't, Modern aristocracy are mere inheritors, spongers, They overslept the mark of complicated phonetic encoding Being exhausted, hence the dissociation with politics, The apathy of the former lusts for war - Granny can write a tweet, but granny can't write an app. , Never mind if it's Buckingham Palace or The French Riviera mansion... Party Harry gives less shit Than the red squirrels when the grey Canadian squirrels Were introduced, and the next Prince of Wales Is wondering: did i really need to waste 20 minutes of my Life watching Head & Shoulders' adverts?!
Romantic moonlight edges over the mighty cupola; I stroll enchanted by the timeless beauty of St Peter's Square; I casually enquire of a passing nun whether she would consider Going down on me behind the marble columns.
After a brief but heated haggle over the price (I hitherto thought nuns were generous sisters of mercy) She gobbles me professionally but rather noisily Causing me to leave a generous donation on her dental plate.
I hear a half-strangled cry of "Bejasus" from a passing Paddy priest As he gives himself a quick one off the wrist Into his already badly stained cassock Before hurrying off to keep a hot date with a choirboy.
Vertigo in the vatican / guinness? only in a pint glass
. mono automaton Q u a s i o m n i; In to root of the crux I will Invoke, A black cardinal, That challenges All self-righteous popes, And all self-imposing Popes; Are my words not bread? Are my words not wine? Then who claims authority Over the justification Of the authenticity of Recruiting people Toward the position of "power"? Who's if not the dead borthers Feed your near cannibalistic mouths? Who feeds the living, When who feeds the living, Are dead?! Necrophilia; rampant!!! Cry... asylum! asylum! Who's over-reacting? Some irish will tell ye'... I hate the irish... I have a fetish for hating them; Esp. those Settled in england; Those fuckers i hate the most; Why? I was wearing a german army Shirt in an irish pub, and What did the bartender say? I can't serve you. You engaged in the second World war, paddy?! Fucking potato harvester Ginger-dangle-bell of A hope... that never comes... Just the drowning ginger ass Who's abode was and will Be the belfast dim-wit Known as The titanic; Fuck me, i'm not even born & Bred english and i already find The irish worthy of considering Genocidal tendencies... Scots? fuck me, shoot me To a pub for a whisk, And some 'aggis neeps 'n' tatties... The welsh? What, the ultra-german spelling Machine that's not even Comparable to germans? I'll just talk to charlie prince, y'all... Rrrr... (i just had to make it obvious)... The ear-ish? I fucking hate the cunts... And i'm not even english to begin with... Some people you immediately get To love... Aussies, the finns... And some people you Immediately get to hate... The irish, the germans; It's a shame though, I learned this pathos From acquiring the english language... I. e. "assimilating" into The culture, p. s. the i. r. a. attacks, So yeah, peedee pi dee p'oh, And a paedo to ring The bell for friday's mass... F Uck Me, Coming off the rocking chair, Next you'll find me so much so Assimilated that i'll be calling It the irish and the northern monkeys... Vs. the loondish And the southern fairies / Pansies; I suppose if you're ever Going to assimilate, hold to the local Customs (when in rome, Do as the romans do), Fuck me, it's great, At least i can finally realise that There's no greater "racism" than in The intra- realm, as oppossed to The inter- realm... Once again... it's not racism, It's "racism"... or a way to get along; S. j. w. b. g. l. t. q. t. + sycophant? Drunk like a skunk... you walked Into my bedroom, you'd get an aura Of a brewery... I can't believe i had To learn english, and have to succumb To outer-london prooper english Stereotypes, that i was trying to avoid; But at least the irish made it plainly Obvious for me to establish, Giving my transcendental approach To diacritical marks, which made me sound Posh english, and them, My synthetically inherited enemy; Which is nice, breaking away from Hating the russians and the germans; If i go to a pub? I only drink guinness... Why? it doesn't taste the same in a can Or in an export bottle... You need to drink guinness in a pint glass.
Ain't it true that a woman is a temple? That you cleanse yourself of excess pride before you enter, Bring soft hands around her marble walls, and Have David's fervent faith when you sip from her chalice?
Be silent inside her; or sing that your eyes have seen her glory. Tiny cracks in her exterior are borne from time, like anything constructed: but she stands, Due to underground foundations and nations Peter birthed.
With Thomas' trembling fingers you waver before embracing her, Now your water hath been poured & blessed. Leave her arms with your demons distracted, dizzy from her incense.
What a shame you hadn't converted before: For when your woman's body is a temple, she ain't no false religion.
My mom came in and caught me Playing with my bone She said ‘my God! oh Jesus! Won't you leave that thing alone! ' I said ‘I'm sorry mother But you really should have knocked. Instead you barged right in here And you caught me with my cock'.
She said ‘I guess I shouldn't have Just walked right through the door But honestly I had no clue Of what you had in store I think you need to find a girl Who's pretty and refined I think that if you keep this up You're liable to go blind
I told her that was non-sense An old religious lie She said 'get dressed And come with me And Christ pull up your fly I'm taking you to see the priest He'll fix your problem quick' I said 'it's him who taught me How to fiddle with my prick'.
My mother gasped in horror Then she boxed my little ears She put me flat across her lap And spanked my little rear She said 'how dare you say Such things about a man of God I hope that when he sees you That he doesn't spare the rod'.
I said 'I doubt that mother And I think it is a sin That all us little altar boys Should take it on the chin But either way it matters not Whatever may transpire For a man of God is never wrong While a boy is just a liar'
