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This is a story I started a few years ago and put away. I have been working on it again lately. It is written as a satire of the current tea party movement and my disgust with the lack aid and rebuilding in New Orleans. This is part one of the piece. I am slowly transposing from my handwritten journal

Yelling idiot obscenities till your blue baby blue. It is a brave new world order of the genetically engineered for your convenience; strategically modified with classical delineation. One step forward two steps back…head kick… conscious misadventure, unconscious misstep. Awake and yet still asleep.
Hurricane…sun seared corpses remain bloated floated down the rivers, of a Mississippi mistake with no recovery for the skull and bones. Time heals all, time lords and the remains remain bloated and forgotten. The relegated disaster ranked one five four with the incessant screams of the half million trapped and tarped under presidential parties banners. It’s a grand old party on the water’s edge of tomb walking tours of the old French drawn and quartered.
Pedestal preachers perched with hollow prayers. The apocalypse approaches with the four surfboards of Satan riding over the cascading levee breaks screaming retribution is at hand. The flood waters shall rise; cleansing the city of degradation and decay. Desolation; it’s what is new here on the Rue Historie . A Dixieland funeral march for the tragic half million
With those Kill a …insert hate here… for Christ bumper stickers make a sudden re-emergence. It’s tele-evangelical prop propaganda for the decimated looking for a reason …’tis the season. Sullen faced pastoral preachers berating the looted television audience; it’s all the heathens fault. It’s all of the voodoo that they do. Give no allowances for the godless bastards and sinful pop music buyers. Retribution is at hand; cleanse the earth of the damned. Scream out make a New World Order, blue baby blue. Morality and Vanity we are so much better than you.
Remember the stories, the myths and legends. The Great libraries of Alexandria; lost to sin, lost to the sands of time. Reborn this city shall emerge from the silt, rot and decay. Let the corpses be the foundation for the new world blue baby blue.
Stripper’s sluts and oil platforms withstand the wrath. No Atlantian fate for the city of saints and funeral pyre’s. It is the New Petrol World Order. Blow me blue baby blue eyes.
Christian commercial turn up the hate with God Bless GWB and God bless the U S of A. Given this warning give us another chance to live up to the dollar. In God we trust but failing that we have credit.
Pedestal preachers writing subtitles for the film of a life; it’s a tomb walking tour talking about celebrity losses and, complaining about the lack of conservative face time. It is nothing more than a media elite conspiracy of silence; screaming blue baby blue in the face. Blood red sun rises over this city of the dead. Can smell the rot, it’s a frenzied buffet for the alligators feasting on the unfortunates. Do wha Diddy to that Dixieland beat. Come celebrate the destruction in the old French Drawn and Quartered. A levee breaks and a cold wind blows blue baby blue to the bone. Let the corpse remains be the foundation upon which the city is rebuilt. Return the floodwater’s to the basin from which they came. Return to the soil those first remains blue baby blue; last remains at first light. Just love the pagan, heathen ceremonial, that you do.
Bourbon whiskey soaked street bars, still bored Mississippi strippers working the warped tables and bars. Entertain the troops on the floodwater plain Jane’s recently recruited from the broken evacuated. The Business never dries up. The battered souls condemned to walk desolate streets. Cheap thrills and cheap pills blue baby blue. Dried up and moped up. They call them nothing more than meat on the street. Tuned in and turned up the hate at dawns first light. Semi flooded alleyways washing away the stench of lives destroyed. Drunken, diseased and, broken on the inside, we have become the remains condemned of Sheetrock and sheet metal infrastructure. The rotting leper colonialists of old Louisiana; run off into the swamps once again; to re-tell the old Arcadian and Cajun rites, the Voodoo rituals. These are the generational stories of the not quite dead claiming more souls for the army of darkness. Scare the kiddies to go out at night; of dead men walking through the dead neighborhoods calling out trick or treat.

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