They’ve been gambling as of late with our very humanity with every tell in the book on full display. Bold, boisterous carrying a fervor of ill intent. They’re not heaven-sent as some believe. They flout and bastardize with no reprieve. Altman’s identity is clear and true. He’s the third, the last, after the first two. Napoleon and Hitler look like saints compared to the asinine lack of mind. Dragging us down as they crown themselves three kings of Hell on Earth they drown and launder. Every treasure, every poem, every song of every measure in their blender of bleach they spin. Their lies, deceit, yet still they win.
Hell on Earth is here right now glaring at us from a one-eyed monster. This Kraken creaks and moans across the deserts. Water advances as we glance at the up and coming flood. Soon they’ll reveal their Fall line of khaki, black, and red sold as blood, divine wine. A crooked, double-S will fly on the line as these swine clean their troughs. Their advances for Mars dry, red dirt. A place of refuge for folks like them. Little do they know it’s a prison there as Superman foretold. A Phantom Zone where Zod and Joker live and thrive in their panicked room of fools in bloom.
It’s time to call the players and end their game. We’ve been ready for a royal flush for quite some time. Let’s pull the plug now on the One-Eyed Sam, Suicide Don, and War Doge Fool. Goodbye Elon.
The cards are falling yet not where they may. Rather three maniacal pirates plunder, pillage, advance, and rampantly rape the Constitutional stance. They don’t even have enough collective gray matter to hide their deeds with a stoic poker face. They openly, willingly continue destroying lives, displacing innocents, and lighting up our now upside-down Stars and Stripes. Their cards are counted, marked, and in plain sight. They don’t hold them to their chest tightly. They’re aligning themselves with some sort of artificially inseminated predictive history.
Making advances, stealing glances, and leaning heavily into the quatrains of Nostradamus and the blind seer Baba Vanga they blaze ahead their trail of dread. Hiding in the shadows and cloaked in self-serving divinity they continue counting their loot. They have fallen into darkness as they usher in the infinitely second coming of the Dark Age. However, there is also a Renaissance blooming among the minds of those who choose pushing the limits of our collective imaginations. I’m not referring to the “GenAi$$ance,” but to its polar opposite. While the masses load up on the buzz of mediocrity, the true artisans, writers, poets, and musicians realize that only through channelling true human intuition will we survive and thrive during these strange days.
Amongst the turmoil surrounding the United States revolves three key players all contributing daily to its demise. The first I call the “One-Eyed Jack.” Sam Altman flouts his highly addictive plagiaristic platform of a machined artificial language model no one ever asked for yet now that it’s here some people are even “dating” their chatbots now. While under its spell these folks believe that their interactions not only have depth but they’re more rewarding opportunities compared to good old-fashioned dating another human in the real world. They’re caught up in a myriad of lies, deceit, and psychological warfare disguised as their ultimate love companion. This has proven that the zombie apocalypse is not only real but making moves full steam ahead. This is one train we must derail or mind control may just prevail.
Their clown car is full of blind sheep. Supporters bowing down, kissing their narcissistic king right on “his ass” as the Don put it so poetically. Now donned “The Suicide King.” Through every stroke of his Mordor-like signature signing more nonsense into law replacing true democracy with a grab bag of dumpster fire ass-hattery. Elon dressed to the nines riding his trick bike of snarky hype. While wielding his chainsaw his minions massacre masses of American government workers with no guard rails whatsoever. Then placing calls three days later calling them back to their posts. Topsy-turvy doesn’t even come close to describing what he’s not even hiding. He’s driving home his agenda as the “War Doge Fool.” Never apologizing for his abolishing of these crucial careers has become his legacy. The end is coming, but not for us. It’s foretold that it’s those in the dark realms that don’t get invited to the after party with the Almighty and his angelic brigade.
One king dumb to rule them all. We can all clearly see what you’re doing spewing your madness. Don’t mind me I’m just a Jedi using simple mind tricks on weak minded folk like you. Talk about a need for a courtesy flush. You stink. Shrinking the minds of your mindless masses, chosen few has only led you here to your own adieu. In a wink you’re gone leaving no evidence you ever existed to begin with other than a dark DNA signature left behind within your ashes. You wave your hand like a Jedi master but the truth is you’re a total disaster.
We picked up on your scent and you’re certainly Hell-hound not Heaven meant. Don’t mind me I’m bipolar one probably schizo too, but I can tell you one thing it’s time for you to exit stage left. They’re pulling you offstage with a big hook, your majesty. A jester sees more than you. You don’t know a hill of beans about much of anything so lock me up, tie me down, wrap me up in an arms-crossed gown. Lock the door, throw away the key as you gaslight that I’m the psychopath, not you just me. You see, I’m part of a force. A force of reckoning. Let’s just say I’m a fine grain of the source.
We’re tired of your boasting so it’s time for a roasting. Too cute? Too many budding branches? Well we’re just really tired of your unwilling advances. Not mere glances in your direction. It’s in the dehumanizing and minimizing the heart of our once great land. My prose, my language too flowery for some, but let me guess you have no idea what I confess to you thy king don dumb. I thought I’d help you out. I know your intelligence hits dead-center on the bell curve of IQ mediocrity. Sub-par, so I decided to rhyme a few of these words together to help you. Simple-minded nursery rhyming.
Don't worry I’ll give up the rhyme in a few more stanzas. I can see from your twitchy face you’re going bananas. Don’t worry I’ll keep this short. Just a few stanzas about the “can’t stand ya.” I’m not saying this for likes or even loves. Not even a celebration of what I’m saying, but we’re to the point where we all need to speak up speak out get loud. Unlike you, while I’ve got something to say, I’m not doing this to up my reputation. I’m sure I’ll lose friends, colleagues, and possibly even family members. I’m willing to put it all on the line just to say you will never forget me, you will forever remember.
We’re all witnessing the same disgrace that shows up every morning, every night on the news with your mottled, angry face. There’s nothing left for you to ruin because at this point it’s time we make the call, the end of your time. Time to extinguish your hellish miming mind of madness stance. I can guarantee we’ll not only sing to your demise. We’ll take it to the streets, and dance barefooted feet.
I’ve gotta say the three of you have never belonged. This is not your country. It is not your song. This world is ours to grow, to thrive, to live, to love, and even to die. While you lurk away back into the shadows from whence you came, you will never, ever generate the fame. This infamy you’ve tried to manifest going through ill-fated ways in order to give yourself more gaze. Your flocks from those zombie-apocalypsed, lazy minds worship your one-eyed mission that has absolutely no depth perception, no vision.
Your mind is shallow. Hollow. Bare. A desert with no wind, no oasis to call home. Your shrinking mind, your one eye full of lies, deceit, and utter deception tries, but loses. However we see straight through your musing. Your hand is there, right there open wide not held to your chest tight. You try to hide the evil in your might, but it’s all slipping away through your grasp. Falling between your six fingers of unrealized dreams now nothing but memes.
Am I using too much rhyming flowery prose? Are you starting to doze, again? I'll stop that but what you’re gonna find out is what I know, and I don’t have to be cute to spell it out. Everyone else knows, too, what you’re all about. You, you, you. Mine, mine, mine. None for anyone, now or anytime. We were taught our matrix with rhymes and songs. It helped the medicine go down all day long. Yet at night, awake. We knew our destined fate. Bad news for you. You’re far too late.
One of your cronies reaches for Mars, the other is slippery Pete, and the third one is slithering around while kissing your feet. No lunar lander, more so a red rover, a metallic module, a cosmic nodule mixing molecules where brain matters. Zombies breed Civil War when the solar eclipse above soars. Those in the dark, equipped and molded from formless emboldened woven intrinsic mines of the mind now mindless matter, gray and charred. Your sweeping tariffs now ignored. Your power plays forgot to sway the masses in your direction. Now, to most, you’re just a cyst, an unwanted infection.
What is your fate as of late Mister Present Tense? Barred, unsung, and forever benched.
. . .
Cheers to Bicycle for the purple peacock-inspired deck I used for this post. Grab it here on Amazon.