Friday, 25 November 2016

the anticulturalist: war

war is the inevitable consequence of unfettered breeding and an idle population

it is borne on anger at being intellectually malnourished to the point of not having means to express the frustration

in this case nebulous concepts called national pride, honour, virility and other useless lies become methods of self-identification

the rulers, being educated and wily, prey on this as a distraction to stop the population becoming equally educated and therefore a threat

it is also employed in order to keep the flow of money to their own circle and the circles of their friends and their enemies alike through lethal technology transportation weapons uniforms and all the accroutements necessary for a brilliant war to tick all the boxes

it is also employed as entertainment for a population being educated in their own downfall


war is therefore implemented by rulers as an anticulturalist device for their own self-interest and perpetuation of their own bloodline with no need for further explanation or justification other than those the rulers choose to give for their own ends

Friday, 11 November 2016

on the death of a poet

It is brave to dance
Maybe there will always be poets
And we were fortunate
To have them render unto us
At first hand

The moment of creation
A created moment
We breathed the same air
And that is nearly a miracle
A modern one

Transcendent, or mirroring, critiquing, embracing,
Revealing, loving, hating
The world we can see
And the world we would like to
But cannot

Yes, it is the brave
And the beautiful and the crumbled
Who grapple with the word
Who grapple with themselves
And demon gods

Of the millions of people
That have ever lived
Across all the debris and detritus
Of this doomed human rampage
Together we danced.



Tuesday, 8 November 2016

the anticulturalist: economics

the recent history of western economics has been a harangue centred around either bullshit-down steal-o-nomics or a pie-in-the-sky equal distribution of wealth

either and both are inherently anticulturalist as it is the anticulturalist in charge of measurement that is responsible and that measurement can be of any metrics that suit the anticulturalist for his own needs and bias at that time for his own purpose


the media is complicit in its own version of analysis which can never be anything other than skewed by its own inherent bias by the 'facts' it presents based on figures selected specifically for the narrative angle of the piece, the paper, the journalist, the editor for its/his/her/their own purpose

therefore the media is acting in an anticulturalist manner because objectivity is impossible in this system

Sunday, 6 November 2016

31-10-16

There was a Spiderman, a Batman, Darth Maul, two or three pirates, a princess, several witches, a Harry Potter, a pretty scary zombie and some pretty cute zombies. There were tiny ones who couldn’t really walk yet and older ones bending down, too young to give up the fun but old enough to be a bit embarrassed because they are wanting to be grown up most of the time unless it’s fun and there’s chocolate and sweets and siblings to look after.

And they all, to a monster, liked our pumpkin. I did too. Suzy did a top job. It looked splendid and scary and had scars and the candle flickered menacingly inside. And they all, to a monster, smiled and said thank you and were excited and playing together. And I heard loads of different accents and thought, well, ya know, monsters don’t really have national boundaries it seems, and witches can play with zombies and the Flash can do a swap with Supergirl - a lollipop for a blag Aldi Milky Way bar – and their folks can watch from the gate and smile.

I brought the pumpkin in at a suitable they’ve-all-gone-home-to-bed style time, and I thought of all the English and Bulgarian and Welsh and Polish and Syrian and Golgafrinchan parents that would be kept awake for hours by sugar-demented kids bouncing off the walls and puking up insane neon colours from the more Halloweeny type soft sweets, and I wondered exactly when it would be that kids like these turned into people who decided that instead of sharing fun and being undead or wielding plastic broomsticks and carving pumpkins, that instead of all this they’d blame each other for all the bad things in the world because they’d been taught to hate instead.




Thursday, 3 November 2016

The Tale of Robert Stanley Raney

Lonely Robbie Raney
Had a photo of his daddy
With his mummy, looking happy
Before his daddy went away,
Before she’d died when he was tiny
Baby Robbie Raney.

Orphan Robbie Raney
Went to school and studied daily,
Wasn’t dumb and wasn’t brainy.
Made no friends and sat alone,
Ate his sandwich, and went home.
Little Robbie Raney.

Robert Stanley Raney
Went to work at various jobs;
Bits and bits, odds and sods.
Kept his counsel, worked alone,
Made no money, spoke to no-one.
Strange Mr. Raney.

Robert Stanley Raney
Was in love with a fine lady
From afar. She was so pretty.
But he said nothing; such a shame,
He was too shy to ask her name
Timid Robert Raney.

Lonely Old Robbie
Had a pension, not that great -
Either had heat or he ate.
Wore three thick socks on his feet,
Shivered underneath his sheets.
Cold Retired Robbie.

Sad Old Robbie
Woke one day and started crying.
He had dreamed that he was dying,
Cursed the brand new waiting morning,
Couldn’t see the use in trying
Always to be happy.

Poor Old Robbie Raney
Hobbled down toward the park
To sit and sit til it was dark.
His coat had holes, his shoes had more,
He left his room and shut the door.
Tired Robbie Raney

Stooped and wizened Robbie
Looked down and spotted something shiny
On the street! A pound coin? Surely
Someone would be back to get it?
But if not, he could accept it
And be rich man Robbie!

Happy rich Robbie
Strained his poor old back again
Bending down to get the coin.
But he couldn’t pick it up:
It was glued down. It had been stuck
There by local kiddies.

Back-pained Old man Robert
Heard the children’s mocking laughter.
He was lonelier than ever.
His whole soul dived; he was bereft.
He reached the park, sat down and wept,
Teary Old Robert.

Sad, cold, lonely Robbie
Sat and wept, bereft, forlorn,
Wondering why he had been born.
A life near done: what was it for?
And why continue any more?
Tired, old, battered Robbie.

Lonely Old Robbie
Felt a tugging at his coat.
Heard a barking, pleading note.
It was a mangy little cur
With patches missing from its fur.
A limping, crooked doggie.

Robert Stanley Raney
Said: “I have nothing for you.
I have no money, got no food.
Go and pester someone else.
I’m not long for this world myself.”
But doggie stayed.

Old man Robbie
Took his stick and started home,
But this time he was not alone.
In his footsteps, following softly,
Stumbled a twisty-legged doggie.
Walking with his daddy.

Robbie and the doggie
Wandered. Robbie shooed the hound
But the dog, well he just stood his ground,
Looked up at him with deep brown eyes
Full of loving hope and pride:
Robbie Raney’s doggie.

Then they met a lady
Who kneeled down and stroked the doggie.
“Oh you poor thing, you’re so lovely,
But you’ve got a broken leg.
Did you know that I’m a vet?
Can I help you baby?”

Robbie, his dog and the lady
Walked together to the surgery.
Robbie realised that she
Had been the girl he’d loved before,
The woman he had once adored.
Their eyes met briefly as she

Bandaged up the doggie.
She made a perfect cup of tea
And said, “I will fix him for free.
I have seen this dog from time to time.
He was a stray; and now he has a very fine
And handsome daddy.”

So Robert Stanley Raney
Took the deepest of deep breaths,
His heart was pounding out his chest,
He plucked up courage, felt ashamed,
But asked the lady, “What’s your name?”
And she said: "Betty Bailey."

__

Some years later
A house was rented to another.
Underneath the floorboards fluttered
An ancient, yellow, faded picture
On which the smiles seemed even bigger
Of mummy and of daddy.

And if you looked ever so closely
In the background you might just see
Partly hidden by a tree
An old man and a bandaged doggie
Smiling with a pretty lady:
Robert, Coal and Betty.

Wednesday, 2 November 2016

Manifesto

* Be nice to each other
* Share things out so everyone has enough
* Be nice to animals
* Try not to kill anything



HOW DIFFICULT IS THAT EH

jesus fucking shingles

Monday, 17 October 2016

Has Trump been hacked by Spambots?


WASHINGTON, DC  - Boffins have been mobilised to investigate whether the brain of presidential candidate Donald Trump has been infected with a computer virus.
“Mister Trump’s ever-more bizarre pronouncements and nonsensical circular speeches show signs of having been assembled by automatic Internet scraping programs,” said Doctor Theopolus X. Zucchini, Professor of That Kind Of Thing at the Washington University of Special Electronics And Complex Computer Wotsits.
“Through careful analysis of his doggerel we have identified signs that his software has been infected by the Ars.Brain Virus, which could have been as long ago as the turn of the millennium.”
Dr. Zucchini predicted that it was only a matter of time before Mr. Trump asked his supporters to buy Viagra and Cialis directly from Trump.  Computer specialists also revealed that Mr. Trump’s hardware is also almost certainly running the unofficial and outlawed Gropem.Pro mainframe.
At present a team of computer experts is working on an antivirus program, under the code name of D/Select/4Godsake, but Trump is expected to remain online for the time being. Users who believe they have been affected by the software or hardware issues are advised that we have such good brains working on it. I mean, we have the best brains. Such terrific brains, folks. It’s gonna be terrific.