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Honor and Dominance

Posted in dominance, Fascism,, Politics, power with tags , , , , on February 25, 2024 by B Schiff

Honor and Dominance

The pansy black lingerie clad dominatrix of dreams. 

“The dominance games of the Fat boy are continual and ever charging.  On an eternal wheel of sin he charges, rides, bulldozes, sickens, pummels, frightens, mocks sanity.  The creature is an eternal dominance grifter with no other mode of thought. His submissive suckers beg to be rolled and find with him the perfect marriage of tinder and match. There is no other world other than the vile one of dominance…and dominance  by ignorance  and venality flourishes here.”

Death spoke.  Amy spoke.  The fat boy was an ugly eternal dominatrix getting his onanistic jollies out of being a slime covered danger to life… the never stopping parade of ugly.

Flying Fat boy perpetuating irrevocable harm to the stability of common aims constantly  digs in further from and further into the vulnerabilities of that that is left of the souls of the decrepit moldy cast images of sentient beings within his reach ..the welcoming submissive punks and punkettes of our time.  Useless idiots.  Useful idiots.  Devil’s playthings. … the good fascist friendly folk of the sunken city on the hill.  The whirlpool of dominance catches them, shapes them, creates them ruins them.  They are the coming sins of history.  The flock of Fat boy.

There is no thrill, no demand, no continual  need for the perpetration of evil like the need to spin on the eternal hamster wheel of playing for dominance.  Dominance by an ugly Fat boy.  Dominance by an ugly fat fat boy.  Dominance by an ugly man child who would be disowned by mother Earth if she could stand his presence.  It is the ugly gift offered his ugly supplicants … the right to be diminished forever going forward in this life if the giver of fascism is stripped away.  Poor little wasted souls filled with willful ignorance and eternal insecurity.  Criers.

Fascism is an engine that feeds upon itself, that seeks it’s  seekers, that gets stirred by the ever evolving vile demon spawn.  Demon spawn fat boy was made for the ravages of goodness, the ravages of honor, the ravages of time.  Demon spawn fat boy loved the engine, became one with the engine is a dying hulk of larva without  the engine.  His being is such.  

The arch of history towards enlightenment, sanity, civility and honor breaks when the weak minded pay the price to breathe to the wretched and those seeking orgasm for their daily bread.  The sexual predators that are those who would be dominatrix fashion their onanism as the lust to be vile.  The empty submissive deny their impotence and seek the thrills of toxic waste…. Fat boy ..the pansy black lingerie clad dominatrix of dreams. 

That diminished breed shines as a violent fire … a molding fire

Poor little stale babies from hell ….those wonders in fat boy land ..pray for the renewal of sin by wanting to be able to lay prostrate at the gnarled toes of ugly.

Muses commune with their little spirits of time and the red winds of destruction/  The winds blow forever in their storms of repressive lust blowing from eternity  shaping the souls of the wasted sentience., A dynamic force of will by their gods of diminishing pleasure and pain …their gods of red blood vengeance. 

Death and his muse existed in a universe oh honor.  They were what they were.  They did what they did.  Honor, power, revenge …these were of the cauldron of their time.  Power …revenge ..the stuff of muse Amy’s secrets … the stuff which played the players …the stuff by which the players were played ..the putrid stink of Fat boy. Honor was a talisman, an immovable object bouncing against the grain of fools, reprobates, generally demanded, devalued souls…. the place where they could not go.

Worlds shrivel and die.  Banality flourishes.  Spirits empty.  Death loses his intimidation as the will to live recedes in gentle folk.  Fat boy and the deplorables create the eternal sink hole.  The game may be to the adventurous who have the stomach to be in the arena with the maggots and the larva who keep coming and coming and wishing wil and domination.  The swords and the lances of the remaining  honorable must be drawn and sharpened with purpose and wit.  It is a dangerous  weapon though one that demands strength… honor.

The humorless, those sobs of mean and vile, dim witted attacks of loved ignorance bury their lack of honor in the waste pits of excrement, their discourse, their shriveled little image..  Boring Death to distraction they have the skin of Amy’s beauty crawl and churn.

Enter the visage of the fascist punk, the fascist pumkette…enter it in cowards’ clothes, villain’s payroll, cheap tenterhooks of capture.  Softly come the fascist drool.  Softly, deadly, locked, loaded.

The diminished breed shines as a violent fire …. a molding fire…one that  covets, destroys

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That diminished breed shines as a violent fire … a molding fire

Posted in dominance, Fascism,, political commentary, political satire, Politics, power with tags , , , on February 16, 2024 by B Schiff

Poor little stale babies from hell ….those wonders in fat boy land ..pray for the renewal of sin by wanting to be able to lay prostrate at the gnarled toes of ugly.

Muses commune with their little spirits of time and the red winds of destruction/  The winds blow forever in their storms of repressive lust blowing from eternity  shaping the souls of the wasted sentience., A dynamic force of will by their gods of diminishing pleasure and pain …their gods of red blood vengeance. 

Death and his muse existed in a universe oh honor.  They were what they were.  They did what they did.  Honor, power, revenge …these were of the cauldron of their time.  Power …revenge ..the stuff of muse Amy’s secrets … the stuff which played the players …the stuff by which the players were played ..the putrid stink of Fat boy. Honor was a talisman, an immovable object bouncing against the grain of fools, reprobates, generally demanded, devalued souls…. the place where they could not go.

Worlds shrivel and die.  Banality flourishes.  Spirits empty.  Death loses his intimidation as the will to live recedes in gentle folk.  Fat boy and the deplorables create the eternal sink hole.  The game may be to the adventurous who have the stomach to be in the arena with the maggots and the larva who keep coming and coming and wishing wil and domination.  The swords and the lances of the remaining  honorable must be drawn and sharpened with purpose and wit.  It is a dangerous  weapon though one that demands strength… honor.

The humorless, those sobs of mean and vile, dim witted attacks of loved ignorance bury their lack of honor in the waste pits of excrement, their discourse, their shriveled little image..  Boring Death to distraction they have the skin of Amy’s beauty crawl and churn.

Enter the visage of the fascist punk, the fascist pumkette…enter it in cowards’ clothes, villain’s payroll, cheap tenterhooks of capture.  Softly come the fascist drool.  Softly, deadly, locked, loaded.

The diminished breed shines as a violent fire …. a molding fire…one that  covets, destroys

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Cute little frolicsome maidens dance the fiery may pole.

Posted in Fascism,, opinion, political commentary, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , on February 9, 2024 by B Schiff

Death’s Muse says…

Death is my lover. My existence.  My fancy.  My thrill. ..

“The lights of life are taken too lightly.  The values of life are taken too easily.  The beauty of life is a thing easily basted in acid and turned to the vile pools of toxic waste. Man babies and fat boy’s, cowards and useful idiots, dominance lovers, aggressive fools, professional idiots and craven stumps of souls with no background get their jollies, their self extatic flagellation from playing at being worthy of taking a breath. They are the deniers of valor and sin.  They stoop to pledge the emptiness of existence and the loss of hope.  The wasteful demons of a vermin filled world.”

The vast panorama of civilization has many eddy’s where the hidden toxicity of the universe seeps in and degraded the scene and all who touch it.  By choice the fat one and his vile ones embrace more death than Death offers.  They embrace the anti matter of thought, pride, honor, hope virtue.  Toxic waste be thy name.

Death’s muse choked away the tears of distain as she thought of the worthless world she would administer were the punkettes of fat boy allowed to reign free and devolve into even more worthless  punkettes

She had spent her charmed existence in the mix of the grand explosions of human passions, the grand searches for and anticipation of climax, the tense questioning of soul.  This all could be gone in a flash of banal worms and rancid larva.

Sucker’s everywhere fill in ecstatic  lust when they immerse themselves in their twisted orientations of orgasms contemplating the dream of fat boy ..Debasement and self loathing are the rewards of climax ..over and over again.  Repressed improper lusts haunt their souls.  Amy could not work well with these deviants of time… Death could not erase their stink.  Hell could not embrace them.  The pits of American debasement welcome them.

Sincere apologies go out to Death and Death’s muse Amy for the loss of their imperfect universe.  Fat boy and the deplorables set time and space into an inebriated vile spiral which makes life itself a won ton thing.

Cute little frolicsome maidens dance the fiery may pole.

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Man baby brings the death of things.

Posted in political commentary, Politics with tags , , , , , on January 5, 2024 by B Schiff

A comment by Amy The Muse.

Poor baby deplorables desperate for understanding offer none … so must be written off as useless punk fascists who need be called out, labeled, shamed, diminished and left to rot….there is no sentient there there.

Poor baby deplorables follow a diminished man baby who shames the human race by his odious presence.

Useless “useful idiots” normalize both as they wish to kumbaya dance to their own destruction.  No guts … return no glory

Rinse, repeat.  Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat.

Power flows into cracks of stability.  Cracks of stability form in absence of balance.  Irresistible force needs be met by immovable objects when irresistible force is coming for all of the marbles and is happy to open the gates of hell.

The seven circles of hell spawned man baby.  He drips of the bile and larva of the broad deaths of valuable life.  The living sink hole of toxic infection.

An atmosphere of toxic waste infuses the ground he walks on and kills all living minds and sentient plants..

Chemical fires from hell burn those who must peer at his visage.  Seeing lungs explode breath seeking animates as they run for cover.  Not a “City on the Hill.”

The paths to subservience follows the will to be maimed, neutered, offered the ecstatic inbreed cries of the Nirvana of the sexual delight of the submissiveness to a moral vacuum of the open depravity of a self flagellating spawn of a man baby.

The ride to broken debased will in a world of rancid toxic banality and dead existences skis on the slopes of onanism.

The marriage of the mindsets of the deplorable actors of land, sea, air and netherworlds and the deplorable universes of the many hells to which they aspire Spurs on the destruction of the mirror world of sanity,  grace, honor, enlightenment that are just tokens of wild loss to the aspiring masters of eternal debauchery.

The toxic skies filled with the toxic rain of the monsters from dimensions of the damned take over the atmosphere.  The man baby finds the wormhole through to all maggots and worms and his minions take the shape of same.  Worlds die and good folk weep.  Man baby brings the death of things.

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Death’s Muse / Flesh Eating Bacteria

Posted in Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 2, 2023 by B Schiff

Dominance games are eternal.  We get to continually pay the price for the dregs of Earth and time that seek the continual application of degradation always.  There is Death. There is Death’s Muse. There is Death’s Casino

Death’s Muse the continuing story

Flesh Eating Bacteria

And there were other players who tried to leverage proximity to Death into ways to get over on him, to crash his domain, steal his influence and power.  These players were those of seeming stature and false promise.  Some came up to their places in this universe as slight playthings of Amy the Muse   Amy used her playthings well and without shame.  She had given them meaning. She had given them lust.

There are always those who feel that they are Kings of heaven, hell and in-between.  They preen.  They posture.  They stick out their chests and claim the thrones of influence and low morals.  These are the power brokers of Death- Land … the power brokers of the highways and byways of standard life.  These are the flippant punks that call the tune for too damn much of the aggravation that I have to try to right in my day job as knight errant for lost causes.  It’s a congenital condition I have not done enough to dispel.

Thugs and gentlefolk thugs and punks and punkettes plied Death for his tricks and the more bold challenged him. Muse Amy oversaw the action from her studied position as madam, hostess, keeper of the faith and eternal dispenser of pleasure and pain.  There were prizes dangled, secrets used, tools of lust, revenge, dominance, and submission offered.  These tools were extremely useful, extremely wished for.  A wasp’s nest, a viper’s trove entertainments and challenges for Amy.  Death needed good fodder to sink his teeth into.  He needed to be able to cue the suckers.  The suckers needed to slide in the ooze of Fat Boy.

Death did not like his job forced to be unusually mundane.  Fat Boy and his enablers forced in many loss of wills to survive.  Death was not open to be in position to be welcomed by multitudes unable to find sustenance in daily living due to the polluted ether offered by continued contact with the deadening toxic influence of Fat Boy and his dancers.  In such atmospheres the minds that they possessed were useless and open to atrophy.  This was not pleasant for Amy to perceive either.  The soulless feeding, fondling, flocking to the soulless gave the devil little to bargain for as well.  A world of toxic acid was a unwelcoming place.  Just the fumes of rot.  Damn.  I had to get up in the morning and deal with the dull mud of the special pieces of punk, punkette, playpunk, playpunkette.

Influence through time is a strange and specious thing.  Paths through deadening voids of action, purpose, standing, presence leave influence baked into the system so that those who can skate on the tides of interaction with no balancing or mitigating frameworks can challenge the Muses, beat the Devil, ride astride the stallions of fate and demand fidelity from lost sinners everywhere.

Empty actions of the base fools everyday stasis and useless gestures by useful idiots and we’ll meaning saints just continually spin the wheels of tomorrow forever. The seeking and searching for the whip hands of lesser gods. All players in Death’s casino were shooting for the magic of eternal sneers.  It was always time to be one up on the Fates.  It was always time to grasp the eternal whip.  Some chose to ride with Fat Boy.  Those with the least functioning reality filters. They were seduced by the rages of inadequacy.  Amy’s constant flock.

I traversed back alleys.  I got information.  I got contacts.  I got stories to tell.

Pitch traversed back alleys.  He got information.  He got stories to tell.

Sloop was back alleys.  Traversed to get to her. 

We had freedom to play.  We had freedom to act.  We had freedom to slap down invertebrates and others.  We had freedom to play our little games as well.  We had freedom to game the system.  We had freedom to stand for truth and beauty.  Amy was not our muse either for nothing.

Building a nice little defense against being swallowed up by toxic creatures requires building fire walls, brick walls, paths on the right angles, protections for body and spirit that can bite and bite back.  It requires a mind that can stand to taste the charms and focuses and constant prodding of rank bastards and sultry women.  Tough vile women.  It is a calling.  Sometimes working without a net.

 Strange and injuring creatures are seen close up.  They look back and the hope is that you’ve garnished a minimum amount of usable respect and fear.  The hope is that your game holds.  Q

There are ways to attack the knowing useful idiots and pond scum licking punks and users.  There are ways to attack fire breathing honchos and subtle owners.  There are ways to play and there are thick hides to develop.  Fat boy begged the question as to whether the whole of worlds could be made to implode on the strength of a systemic vulnerability open to the flesh-eating bacteria that lived in Fat boy’s toxic bile.  Flesh eating bacteria scared the mass of common soldiers of the master races and actors.  The flesh-eating bacteria of Fat boy threw them in line. Flesh eating bacteria were ugly bits of nonsense / business  for Death, Amy. Fat boy was an egregious deformity from the circles of hell.

Stories unfold.  Protagonists interact.  Casinos watch the whirlwinds of games.  Death sits watch.  Amy knits in the corner.  Her magic stirs.  A rainbow of pleasantries.  Ugly rides ugly.  Fat boy’s bacteria.  Into the swirling pits of retribution.  Waiting for a stake in the heart. Sloop would love to shove it ..

Amy watched.  Amy always watched

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Dominance / Fat Boy’s Dancers

Posted in Politics with tags , , , , , on November 26, 2023 by B Schiff

Death’s Muse / the continuing story

Dominance / Fat Boy’s Dancers

Little armies of decrepit ants loved to soak in the trailing ooze of Fat Boy.  They would devour him happily to take in his total visual horrors.  They needed to skate the protections afforded those on the roads to Death’s casino.  They needed to be loved and accepted.  They needed artificial light as the disinfectant of regular light was not practicable in their case as they were by nature horribly voided souls.  The casino had it’s functions.  Slime and ooze suited Death as well.

Fat boy culture entailed multiple layers of necessary stress.  The stresses to the systems of general balances of power and general openness to vulnerability were pushed to high rising levels due to the sheer banality and overwhelming thickness of and layers of indolent grime and rancid immune virus like puss holding things together.  Death liked his playthings bearable.  Amy liked to twirl and demean and play ..Fat boy was vile. A muse to Death was a good thing ..much fun and pleasure.  Fat boy was an affront to the workings of their universe.  Too much stench and misery.  Too much the anti-universe ..too much a home to all things inhospitable to soul and life.  Amy pondered sour thoughts.  Death felt ugly.

Deplorable vermin as a rule were a run of the mill hazard of the job Death had to do.  He had come across all sorts of vacant, boorish, stupid, non-sentient bottom dwellers in his march through …Fat boy’s deplorable vermin had no redeeming characteristics save their ability to be void of self awareness.  This made them relatively easy prey for Death as they, being soulless and insentient they could be made to march into fire for an order to go to hell for Fat boy.  Amy did not think I would find my true love among them.

Deplorable vermin scurrying around made me nervous.  Sloop and Pitch laughed at me as they were more comfortable with general pond scum than poor little ole’ me.  Pitch came up through pond scum.  Sloop played a lot of pond scum chargers for what she could get ..always with them thinking that Fat boy would save them and bail them out if they reverted to type and we’re left spineless and brainless and fugitives from cognition.  Sloop was eternally amused at the thought of these suckers putting their empty abilities at faith in the Fat boy scam honor, …scrum scum demean, void and generally roll over, mash and vaporize with shriveled breath.  The willing scum begging for divine slaughter.  The Fat boy.  A blot on the earth.

The running trap for Death and Amy with this seminal group of animates was the urge to purge their universe, their ether of their mass footprint and and degrading capabilities.  Fat boy punched a hole in time, helped his inebriated flock through valuable portals and preened like a drag queen.  Bless his little heart.

Sloop and Pitch’s trips through the lands of deplorables was always unsavory… existences tempered by wonder.  Sloop and Pitch, veterans of the soils of time were eternally imbued with the dregs of acid astonishment and toxic waste.  They were always waiting for more of the flock to spring fully grown and deformed from the toxic pits they trundled through.  Waste material for sale.

Deplorable follies happen continually in the space time continuum according to Pitch.  They are like droplets of dripping vile let out of the clouds after cyclones raging through the toxic wastelands that define infinite death.  They are the spores of forever that infect lands of honor, substance, truth, beauty.  Truth and beauty needed the sunshine and the mists of the sea to be savored….foreign elements to Fat boy’s molesters.  The word honor was never known as the silent H was a concept beyond comprehension. The scents of simplicity and courage were there for mocking by the useless minds filled with the self degrading venom required.  Sloop was an honorable actor. Pitch was an honorable actor.  I was an honorable actor.  Amy liked that in us. We had her blessings.  We stood for good.  So said Death.  A conundrum all around.  Trips to vacant, degradeddead worlds were offered us by Death and Amy . Fat boy was one into himself. 

Shards of destiny were being meted out to the lost spiritual virgins of time as we three were known in Death’s circles. With respect.  Always with respect.  An alien term in Fat boy land.  A useless term in the dances of the deplorables.  A lust for charm challenging the lust for lust living there.

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Fat Boy

Posted in Politics with tags , , , , , on November 17, 2023 by B Schiff

Fat Boy

The mean fighters were not fans of the casino of Death.  They thought his powers to limited, too mundane.  They wished to beat down Death’s security and fan out and find unsuspecting enablers out and about ready for maiming.

While I was getting mixed up in the coming wars Amy told me that I needed a long lost love. That I needed a soothing voice in the night.  A calm hand in mine.  I was just too damn much a worked over battler.  Too damn much a friendless sullen archetype.  I knew too much.

The Fat boy and the retrograde core of little worms looked upon the casino as a special spot from which to spring their ooze dripping jaunts.  The magic that the casino offered was the magic of a hereafter free from the threats of hell.  The casino offered a place where humanity was a tasty snack of useless vermin best to be slashed and drawn and quartered.  The Fat boy oozed rancid vegetable oil from his punk girth as he trailed his odor of decay.  The fat boy clogged the airways and carried putrid on his back.

Fat boy plied the love of pain and the spiritual sense of vacancy to shed droplets of sin as he made his way from florid self onanism to florid self fellatio.  Fat boy was a walking advertisement for inert sexuality masking as trips through the bowels of hell.  Fat boy was what was left over when the blighted demons failed in their experiments at assembling various parts of toxic waste into animate forms.

Fat boy just romped in the hay with his sheep and mules.  He smelled of them as well. Fat boy was a fine little bit of a diseased provocateur His flock were fine little bits of the diseased membranes of society. They were the grotesque primal larval ooze. Amy shed tears thinking of Fat boy. She would be put into states bordering on comatose with uncontrollable shakes. Death thought Fat boy too diseased and vile to have to think about ..a secret power afforded Fat boy by grace of his insufficient ability to exist in the fabric of time as other than a worm. He wished to rape Sloop.

Fat boy Prom was a never ending project of Fat boy.  He could be eternally vulgar and do his best to master a strip tease that would shame deplorable folk everywhere save for his merry bands of insidious hustlers and rank cowards, vacant brained, churlish, honorless fools.

Amy got her kicks there.  At times she wished to be prom queen.  She even put in a pitch for me the prom king.  Sloop and Pitch were waiting for better offers before they challenged Amy. Death demurred.

It was trial by grease and fire to have the strength to look at Fat boy.  He was like Medusa ..a visage that could turn the strong to stone.  He did make Death ill.

Death’s casino was there for timeless pleasure and pain.  Fat boy was a margarine swamp and the creatures of the netherworlds oozed their own bile when confronted with him.

Amy often whistled herself past the creatures of the netherworlds.  There were smarts there.  Fat boy needed them to stay fat.  He needed them to validate his ooze.  They needed emptiness.

There were long empty nights waiting in the casino.  Exploding days.  Sad used up boys and girls. Sad used up ferrets failing at their craft. Death and his magic mirage. Fat boy and his fevered swamp of consciousness.  The women he maligned feeling eternally dirty.

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Amy’s Dominance

Posted in Commentary,, dominance, Fascism,, fiction, literature, Mystery, political fiction, Politics, power with tags , , , , , on November 10, 2023 by B Schiff

Amy’s Dominance

So Amy the Muse spun her tales and whipped up the lather in all her little friends proudly absent honor, absent shame.  Amy was brought into existence for her chores of pleasure and pain.  Amy was brought into existence for her acts of cooptation, dissemination of panic and insecurity, for her offerings of artful highs, demanding highs, cold sober killings.  Amy the Muse was an eternal party of one.

The death of honor was a thing that pained me deeply.  The absence of honor.  The recognition that honor was not a thing.  It was a damning world mine.  Little room for a winsome heart . Little room for a proud, true honest heart, the kind that inspires, that can be inspired. Little room for the heroic ideal that inflames.

So the fires of hell emanated from Amy’s look. She took to Death as a welcomed lover.  She knew her worth.  She had her worth.  She knew the whirlwinds from which she came, the whirlwinds from which she gathered her strength, her charm.  They were the whirlwinds blowing sensuousness and constant flirtation.  They were the winds of constant temptation, they were the winds of pleasure and pain, redemption and betrayal.  Amy was explosion.

And. Killers kill.  This was a feature of Death’s tenure that very much intrigued Amy.  The urges to kill, main ..to die, to self flagellate …parts of the friends of Amy she took a nice little bit of pleasure in.  These were hooks for her to set, grab, massage, draw out.  These were friends open to be spayed and neutered …Amy could go deep and draw climax and heaven.  Amy’s friends were spent.  The empty moral misfits circled the whirlwinds to know the splice of, the survival thrills of needs and cravings…give death…take death … depravity was the balm.  Turned inside out and left to dry in the sun …all came running.  I threw my spear of righteousness into the center of Amy’s storm and Amy called me broken ..She could reward me with eternal bliss or I could just live to dismiss the wreckage of the worlds, days, human interactions that numbed my mind and ruined my view.  It was tough to get up in the morning.

So, the games of luck, chance, skill at Death’s casino came and went. The void games taking identities and self from the weak minded or incompetent resisters, the lust games selling Nirvana for a squeeze and a gasp, the kill games for the fight to stand.

Power trippers, meek pretenders, professional panderers bent the knee. The tunnel to accessing the rewards of soul ownership was hidden in the casino.  So said Amy and Amy knew.  All danced and swayed and were drawn to their ideas of immortality.  Amy shimmered. Death watched. I spit. All of the worlds punks came to play. The useless and the wastes.  The horny and the self flagellates. The normal gang from the office. A stew.  Revenge was hot.  Honor was lost.  They all strode in on the ghost steeds breathing fire.  Amy raised her hand, twirled her wrist.  The games went where she wanted them to go.  Sloop and Pitch wanted in on the con.  The eternal sleezy venues of interactions were ready to explode.  Magic.  Power would go to the vile.  For Amy.

Power blew kisses. The charge was to blow back.  Trials by fire were asked for, given. The punk fascists often came to scrounge. Amy didn’t like them.

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Death’s Muse II

Posted in Drama, noir, political fiction, political novels, Politics, power with tags , , , on November 4, 2023 by B Schiff

Death’s  Muse II

Sloop and Pitch wavered in their love for dramatic romance and the hellscapes presented them in their treks through the countries of the blackjack dealers of false dates and the wheel spinners of rejected thoughts that were their occasional employers.

The deals they made and the boys and girls they played and flayed mostly presented themselves as a glutinous substance waiting to be stretched and maimed or broken and used for car washing. Sloop and Pitch were from a long line of the friends of Amy the Muse. There were rewards in being that ..There were costs. There was the dance with time.

There were pleasures in taking a wounded sucker, an honest man, a free woman and selling them to Death’s best traffickers, wrapping them up in shiny simplicity of mind for the buyers and the sellers. The ingenious middlemen played off of the parades to Death’s casino to steal a few of the scripts of purpose that were floating around in odd places.

It was to the holy cause of martyrdom that I was pledged.  it was to the cause of righting wrongs and saving little kittens and babies that I was pledged.  Whenever Death took a holiday and Amy played mystic muse to her timeless lovers and infinite friends, I struck the bells of freedom.  I challenged the ones with the shivs in the night and the ones with the requisite company of drooling goons. Tough was my middle name.

On good days Amy would let me visit and play patty cake…on special days she would leave me to a friend. I was special and a sterling commodity.  Over time Amy let me deal with the boys and girls at her table.  She would stake me as I was just a poor wayfaring stranger. She would stake me good and the try to play her magic to rig the game for fun and confusion.  Confusion was the purpose of it all.  Those abundantly sure of their greatness and those abundantly sure of Amy’s fallibility welcomed me with open arms. We were all playing to beard the goat …to stake out the little bit of territories that were there to inflame men’s hearts and souls. It was a race to be ward leaders to the stars with golden bags of heavenly manna to distribute and kill over… dominance games were what they were.

Dominance games were what they were.  Lust games were what they were. Void games were what they were..Power.  Revenge.  Honor.  Death. Were what they were.

.,..,, Death’s, Amy’s continuing boiling stew of power, lust, honor, revenge. The smells were tantalizing, hypnotizing.  Time’s nether world offered the eternal playground. Tough people offered meanness. Steely eyed vampires offered to drink all of the blood.  Death liked little wars Anmy liked to bate the traps………,……. Sloop, Pitch looked to find the sides of the angels…the keys to the prizes Amy gathered over time…..Amy the Muse

Amy the Muse was the reason Death got up in the morning.  He had sought his muse for a long time until Amy appeared and took his soul.  Death found meaning in his work. he found extra purpose. The games he championed took on the firey colors of hell along with the cold freezes of his touch. The poisons he pushed were as the joys of roasted chestnuts. It had become more interesting to deal with the march of time.  Amy was time’s treasure, time’s reward.  She offered the aphrodisiacs, the climaxes, the surging pulses of craving, wanting, needing. Lust suited Amy well.  Lust suited Death well.  The fires that burned were cold fires.  I had dealt with them…. Comfort the afflicted, I said.  Afflict the comfortable, I said.  Amy through me kisses.

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Death’s Muse

Posted in Politics with tags , , , on October 29, 2023 by B Schiff

Death’s Muse

I went down to the street where the lights were dim and the plays weren’t  The boys and girls thought they were being nice little heroes and stars but they were the usual run of the mill useful idiots and seminal stalkers ..They all played ball with the dirt and the grime and they all were immersed self loathing bravado ..They were conquering the world or saving it but they first had to model their spit and slime for the panting watchers and grovelers. They were slime to touch and venomous to turn your back on ..They were my legacies

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They strode their little patches of land and territory with the luxurious grace feline stalker and big cat appetites.  They cackled and the seethed.  They were the midnight dancers at the all saints ball.

Sloop was my angel.  She slithered best.  She clawed best.  She tri angled best.  She watched my back for the holes it might present.  She was always a come on, always a ferret ferreting.  She blew me kisses.

Pitch was a male Doberman all teeth and bite.  He was my buddy. He was the man of valor, the consummate idol of those less valuable.  Pitch was a spear.  He was a spear to use or not but a spear he liked to be.

Into the muck and mire they dove.   From which they came they dove.  Eyebrows raised, sentient sneers in place.  The black arts awaited.  The confrontations.  The glory. The gain.  The pain.They smelled the witches brew.  They brought trading chips.  They wanted to rescue the maiden, right the wrongs, still the storm.

The storm brewed fatuously.  The collected ugliness of the greeters and smilers oozed out the poisons of souls.  Sloop and Pitch were addicted to the poisons of souls.

Sloop hated ugly useless vanity.  Pitch wasn’t a fan of simpering venality.Death was their mutual acquaintance.  He liked seeing them.  Thought them cute and valorous. He wished to accommodate their fancies. He wanted to let them play cards and lose.  The stakes were always the same.  The search for the hidden angle  The way in.  The secret way to turn the worm.  To have the suckers all fondle the cactuses of proud little dregs of hiding in plain site.

Death protected his own.. He protected those who honored him with their sloppy, rancid takes and tiresome vapid posturing.  Death protected his own and he shut off all paths to get at them.They were his stake in time, his stake in space, his stake in the worlds in which Sloop and Pitch traveled.  They were the boys in the band, the girls on the bus, the vermin in the basement…the casino operators, the con men amid the shiv wielders.  The were charming little Death’s disciples.;They could only be gotten to through him.  ..and maybe his muse.

Death always welcomed Sloop and Pitch.  They were mean enough to deal with.They wanted in on the back door. In on the angles, the rifts, the plays.  They wanted in. They wanted the joys of action, the joys of the game.  They wanted love in all the wrong places. 

Death was a hard taskmaster.  Sloop and Pitch were wily. Another day another chance.  The way in to Death.s domain was up for grabs.. So said Amy the muse.and Death loved his Amy the muse.  But not that much  Not today.

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The American Fascist movement ….. 7

Posted in Fascism,, Politics with tags , , , , , , on September 3, 2021 by B Schiff

The American Fascist movement …. coming and coming ….and coming … The American Fascist movement coming for your soul…coming for your heart …..coming for your mind…. your body ….your existence….

The American Fascist movement …. coming and coming ….and coming … organized …shameless …vile ….mean ….. The American Fascist movement …. coming and coming ….and coming …

No ideals …no honor ….no freedom from hate ….. The American Fascist movement …. coming and coming ….and coming …

An inch given is a yard taken …a yard given is a mile taken …. The American Fascist movement …. coming and coming ….and coming …

The American Fascist movement …. coming and coming ….and coming …

There is no end ….. all days are games of dominance ….all acts are acts of dominance…..all tomorrows are acts of dominance …

The American Fascist movement …. coming and coming ….and coming …

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The American Fascist movement …. 6

Posted in Fascism,, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , on August 23, 2021 by B Schiff

The American Fascist movement …coming and coming and coming …

Coming for your guts …. Coming for your peace ….coming for your honor, your self respect, your sense of self, your ability to be an honest broker in affairs of judgement, decency, honor acts of self pride …

Coming for your will. your awareness of will, your pretense of will, your ability to handle “might makes right” …

The guns, the arrogance, the meanness, the self preening little tin pot clowns and the rough “macho”, “butch” thugs waving the flags of ignorance and hate …

The America Fascist movement …

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