Tuesday, 14 April 2009


-- YOU’RE very quiet underneath that ski mask. Something bothering you?

-- Well, when Vietnam came, and the Kennedy assassination,
and everything, the liberal Democratic consensus F.D.R. had built rapidly bled the South,
the minority yuppie and much of the white working class over to the G.O.P.
so in 68 Nixon won and in 72 Nixon won every state save Mass..
Reagan radicalised Nixon’s G.O.P., a.k.a. the yank Tory party; in 92
Clinton won back blue collar voters and big stretches of the South,
but Clinton’s doveish wars were named in the M.E. for his cock,
and Republicans twice shut his Federal Government down and impeached him for his suckjob lies.
In 08 when he thanks the Democrat Conference to hold their applause they just don’t.
The Supreme Court voted along party lines to award the 00 election to Bush’s son
over Clinton’s vice Gore. Bush was a cipher with an aura of illegitimacy
till kamikaze Islamist terrorists destroyed the Twin Towers and part of the Pentagon
and the jock, stricken jingoism prevailed. “USA! USA!” Of course neoconservatism
seized the state apparatus proper, Cheney and his puppet, and his reluctant puppet Blair.
By 08, too fractured to unite behind the C.E.O. Romney or the preacher Huckabee,
conservatives appointed the maverick McCain their unlikely saviour. At odds with his party
over soft money, etc. Brush ya shoulders off. Dream ticket. “Yes we can”
video on Youtube by will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas. McCain in his Straight Talk Express.
Campaign strategists said too straight. Mittens. Really nice hair.
David Foster-Wallace dead. I didn’t really follow this.
I guess that’s what’s bothering me, if at all. Dr. No.
Always “Barack Hussein Obama” on Fox News.
Both he and McCain wanted fairer and franker campaigns.
Both pandered to the base for the nomination,
to the swing voter for election. Terrorist fist job. Jab.
Dad. Vera. The race card. Articulate and bright and clean. Obama girl. Bomb
bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran. Palin. McCain ahead in the polls.
Then the credit crunch. The sub-prime mortgage crisis. The businessmen
lined up in height order so the smallest ones were sheltered,
moving the bail-out bill around in their robes. The bail-out bill,
opposed by a coalition of opportunists and cocorosie,
laissez-faire conservatives with a bad understanding
of the political economy they called their own.
This was about when you were meeting Michael and I Jessica.
Palin not a credible president. A woman and an idiot.
The right of the House of Representatives
demolished McCain’s economic leadership credibility.
Heart of gold, gold of rose. McCain,
McCain hushing the booing at his concession speech.
As high up as those arms get. Things had finally started
to happen to me in my career and in terms of relationships
and the last thing I wanted was someone to rock the boat.
But then I lost interest, I was never really following it to begin with.
Let me give you an example of my individual success.
My beloved Jessica’s pussy is very isolated and quiet.
The pussy consists of several cabins hidden throughout the woods,
only connected by small mulch walking paths. They are all named after
various trees, plants, and flowers. My eyes were glued to yours though.
Always you.
I wonder by my troth, what thou and I did, till we loved?
In other words, what is it about dry land
that means Michel Foucault emerged there and not elsewhere?
Some spawning stocks, such as the west of Scotland archaeology,
now are on the verge of collapse, but in 1926,
the year of Foucault's birth, the discrepency was much less marked.
Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be; if ever any beauty I did see,
which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee,
even though I am incredibly close with some of my exes,
and now good-morrow to my waking dead. They had the Squid of Intelligibility,
as agitated to Ink Pledge by a whole generation of geneelologists
in the grip of Fishfinger School influence. One remembers
the Donne one, "That, moan'd in zombie women's arms were
/ But formless mouthsings of thy unknown name
/ which was 'Samantha Walton'
/ My eyes were glued to thine [...]" I knew the drill.
I was on edge. An irridescence
homogenised with Mer-Barthes had begun work on his monogram
"On Guppimentality" published ultimately as "On Grunionmentality"
in Spring of 1932. But it wasn't just about
what the shallow seas of the Continental shelf didn't have.
It was also about what they did,
namely, the "Panoctopus" penitentiary system.
Thou know'st the drill. I locked my arm in yours.
She stroked the line of her jaw. There was
no end in sight of this heat wave,
as at the end of Do The Right Thing, and –
oh shit, but Michael must have thought
he was playing footsie with Vera! I swallowed heavily.

I didn’t want to blow this for Vera. I had to stroke.
But what if Vera thought I was flirting with Michael?
Vera kicked me under the table. I crept under the tablecloth.
I didn’t want to blow this for Vera. I swallowed heavily.
My boss knitted into a little spool that goes:

security, on edge already,
the easier to deceive, has
his luxury with my proxy
while I’ve your world wired
with weird explosives