A cold glow of slowing eyes and shifted rhythm and trying lies—the center of centered power—predatory preface and conclusions and top-to-heavy weighted— the dominion of world domination where production increases and shifted colonial thinking—these systems fare-fairly and Cowards of the Bankers Collective—police this world of spin and grin as political murder cycles the recycling of life and labor and hopeless gains or losses and earth crosses—carved in both stone and wood—litter another grave-side hill or cemetery fill.  So! Come and dance along ridges of this capitalistic anarchy and celebrate the completion of complete evil. As producers rise to their greatest productive cycles—so the Bankers of Cowardice deprive the Productive Ones of the fruits of their collective labor—as the government of republic nonsense—create those rules to establish compliance—faithfully and a religion of submission.

“I am convinced there is only one way to eliminate (the) grave evils (of capitalism), namely through the establishment of a socialist economy, accompanied by an educational system which would be oriented toward social goals. In such an economy, the means of production are owned by society itself and are utilized in a planned fashion. A planned economy, which adjusts production to the needs of the community, would distribute the work to be done among all those able to work and would guarantee a livelihood to every man, woman, and child. The education of the individual, in addition to promoting his own innate abilities, would attempt to develop in him a sense of responsibility for his fellow-men in place of the glorification of power and success in our present society.”  Albert Einstein…

Laws to paper and the folly of warrior-speak cause productive folk to forget— their capacity for producing the Goods for the Consumers’ appetite and whimsy—are actually—including goods capitally excessive—legally their own goods. However; warriors together dance into the camps of those Lords-of-belief and enjoy-briefly—victorious spoils—then those conquering folks are moved toward other edges of lightness or darkness leaving behind Lords-of-flounder-no-founder. These crafty ones  establish nation-speak and create rich rules of submissive—commission and omission and from the gods of twirl—a swirl of lies complete with religious flounder-no founding foundations of blue sky and word shine so devotedly—devoted to jetsam and flotsam as to be unfathomed unless operated by a ‘few called or chosen’ and appointed—those trusted to count and flaunt— coins extracted from the many ignorant—through the fear of blue sky without spears or the wraith of…God-Gods and stuff—Oh my!

Wondering now if inside the heart of those fortunate-of-fortunate ones still warms a notion of a superiority of blood types—and a constant hope to ‘Civilize and Christianize’  the whatever of free thought still available in this darkening boil-of-light. Call this ‘Social Darwinism’ or another fading  confusion of a ‘Party of Tea Baggers’ or just another form of America’s incessant attempts to Colonize the Earth. Anyway—must be a ‘good’ kind-of-kink—because any decent ‘Bagger of Tea’ only practices ‘Progressive Imperialism.’ Everywhere—except America—requires civilization—because outside these ‘fifty chunks-of-ground-round’— all is backward and in need of an elevation of living standard and culture…Let us hope to assimilate these ‘poor’ folks into the Imperial Society…And! Should ‘Their’ lands be rich in minerals—liquid gold—boarders to another launching—cheap labor—Good! Slash and Burn and Move ‘On.’

“I heard you tellin’ lies
I heard you say you weren’t born of our blood
I know we’re the crooked kind
But you’re crooked too, boy, and it shows

Some get dealt simple hands
Some walk the common paths, all nice and worn
But all folks are damaged goods
It ain’t a talk of “if,” just one of “when” and “how”

So, collect your scars and wear ’em well
Your blood’s a good an ink as any
Go scratch your name into the clouds
And pull ’em all… down

The thunder plays it’s drum
The air is heavy with the smell of storms
And I sit beside my brother and I feel him shake
As he laughs himself right back to sleep
And I’m laughin’ with him

But I smell their blood
My finger’s trace their faces in the wood
I hear their voices somewhere in my bones
I feel them sing along when I’m alone
When I’m not too frightened that is when I know

That I’m here with everyone
They’re never truly gone
I know it’s everyone
And I hear their songs
Oh, I’m lost with everyone

Shadows dance around the room
I know their names
I carry their blood too
They sing forgotten songs
But I know the words
They’ve been with me since I was born
As I grew I danced with them too”— ‘The Crooked Kind’ by Radical Face

Robots Inclined…never  murder—How may robots be called murderers—their armies of killers always kill for them? Kings and Queens and Presidents and Premiers and Politicians cannot be called Murderers—Their Armies of Killer-bots always kill for them. And! Even after Revolution—Rich-keep-on-saying-rich and the-rest-of-us-just-die…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Crooked Kind’—performed by Radical Face