Saturday, January 10, 2009


A psychiatrist showed one Rorsharck ink blot card to a patient after another only to have the patient answer to everyone, that what he saw was dirty, filthy, disgusting, sex. The psychiatrist concluding the test informed the patient that he appeared to have sex on the mind. The patient answered rather irritably, "You're the one showing me the dirty pictures."

I am afraid to write of love in this society. I long to be a poet in a country free from the petty censorship of the perverted social bullies that lie to hold humanity in a petrie dish that they can keep locked away for their own masturbatory fantasies. There is no creativity at the end of a gun. The Song of Songs would be pissed on today by the eyes of censors and shat on by their twisted words. There is no love in this institutional world, just political correctness and whoring. Reduced to dollars and cents their marriages are just institutionalized prostitution. There is no romance. The sacred has gone out of the sterile room of their souless arrogance. They are above the law and are the lowest of law. They sell permits to peep holes claiming to be pure when purity is not a word in the vocabulary of their degenerate filth. Heartless they dribble, drool, and stink with the contagion of their own contempt. They are superior in their arrid loveless intellects dulled by power and misuse. They brand us all with numbers refusing to look at the code they carved on their own foreheads. The unhealed scabs of their own unconscious are projected willy nilly upon the innoscent. They claim to protect the children while children run from their two faced death grimace smiles. No child wants to be held hostage to a nightmare. They spend more money on bombs, abortion and euthansia than schools and hospitals. Their idea of a cuddly toy is an abacus. I am afraid to write of love in this society. Love can get one jailed or asylumed or shot for disobeying the law. Thou shalt not love. Love is not politically correct! There is no tiny slot for it in the compartmentalized brain of the beaurocrat and the beaurocrat kills anything that might bother their brain, a heartless plugged up urinal disconnected from the oceans of love and humanity. I am afraid to write of love in this society. It would be misconstrued as propanda, politically incorrect and I would be shot.

That said. I will write you and you alone a love poem, if only you keep it as a secret hidden in your heart. You must promise to whisper your response. And I will reply with a wink knowing that as yet the spy satellites aren't calibrated for a wink. And don't tell the children because they may be questioned one day. It is hard enough for them knowing that their parents and their parents parents are afraid. They're already too afraid to even know why they're afraid. Best to leave them that way until the loneliness makes them question why only television people are free.


Man was born free, and everywhere he is in chains. Jean-Jacques Rousseau 1712-78

What is freedom of expression? Without the freedom to offend, it ceases to exist. Salmon Rushdie 1947 -

If I can't love Hitler, I can't love at all. Rev. A. J. Muste 1885-1967

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind. John Dryden 1631-1700

No comments: