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Black haired blond; jaundiced, fatigues contrasting the dark that permeates and oozes from each and every crevasse. These are the creatures of the viaduct world.
Reflecting disc’s distorting the images dropped from pre-war airships. Low flying Goody’s Powder powered Hindenburg version 7.1 propaganda birds. These are the crop-dusters of this confused and dazed population. Maintenance blimps they are called when used for controlling the peace, the order, the status quo of the crushing and controlling worldwide debt. Once released it was overheard. “Society cannot be trusted to make the right choices so competition must be lowered to the level of extinction.”
Extra heat rises; the viaduct world takes on the feel of a bay area billboard bayou hot box. Stifling and humbling humidity with even more fog that makes it all the more difficult. Nothing moves, and nothing grows .It is hard to breathe when nothing comes to life. There must be a glitch in the weather services.
Protesters gather around the thermal powered air conditioning unit handing out leaflets and preaching to the converted …harrumph harrumph…humpty dumpty harrumph. Sing the songs of solidarity. Solidarity is solitary. An open field, no fences, no senses…no feelings…the PO rot invade what brain cells they had left. Explains, “Here comes Honey Boo Boo” professional 1 percenter sports and the singing of protest songs in a tacky homage to the night of the thrown bricks shivering in abandoned broken window bliss. The Prophet Chomsky of the Gnome said it so it must be the truth. Salient bits removed and reworded so the actual truth never gets in the way of a good story. Revise this, the Great Battle cry of the North American Loon.
Abandoned to the chaos they created. A people left to rot in the accumulated detritus of laminated plastic protest these flyers of years past. Jacksonville today’s corridor to the Waffle House gang thinking mad thoughts about reclaiming past long before conception glories. Contacts; ListServ numbers, groups, and message boards any means of finding entrance into that or this clubhouse. Letters among journal entries are only clues cluttering up the compost designs of this brave new baby blue Gene tyrannical world.
There is a laundry list of the minds work. For reasons unknown unbelievable divides between the government class and the rest of the population has resulted in decades old conflicts that have never been resolved. The complete and total repression of the population has only increased since the government fell into violation of the EULA due to millions of lines of malicious environmental code brought computers to an abrupt halt. It was blanket coverage of the Kyoto Compost Virus.
Pleasure principals dreaming of those long lost teenage thrills. Of lost remembrances of wasted energy held in trust. Pleasure Principal is porn unbound. Poured concrete love chipped and eroded overtime from repeated contact. Witness the witness’ voyeuristic tendencies. Frantically jostling for a better view. Lust is lust on Desolation Avenue or in the hourly rate rooms of the Hotel Lancaster. Existence is Pornography. What does the gnome say? The Libertarian turd and his hookworm followers clinging to the diseased and damaged entrails of the body politic immobile for ages over the dispossessed and disenfranchised for fear of being called un-caring. They have all become immobile and socially immature. Oh dear what to do. Over and over again it is the scent of secret death. The popular music thing that started in the late 1960’s with black leather tears for the dead or dying lizard kings.

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