Dominance Games / Politics

Punktown, Greater Punktown, Punks, Punkettes, Punksters …. fellow travelers ….. the lords and ladies of the democratic preservation.

The grand areas and spacious brooks and meadows easily surrounding and complimenting Punktown and Greater Punktown are havens for all of the democratic virtues one would expect from shining cities on the hill and the shining inhabitants thereof.

The mire and sludge of the fields and wastelands are the coveted, worked, landscaped, thought out vistas of punk power, power power, rancid power, chest thumping power, sneering power, system shaping power, power power.  Cultivated, watered, fed nutrients …. this is the land of the sure, the vacant, the players who would disrupt, tear down, poison, debase any and all structure of check and balance, balance of power, access to challenge, access to any preservation of a system that values such things…… democracy to ruin democracy … the smells of the grand authoritarian strains of wheat and barley …. life is good.

Punktown, Greater Punktown, Punks, Punkettes, Punksters …. fellow travelers ….. the lords and ladies of the democratic preservation.

Dance in the sludge.

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Punktown Rhapsody

The jaunty punksters and punkettes of Punkland are the salt of the earth.  They are the backbone of a country.  They are the common sense folk of story and legend … the characters of myth … the winners of wars … the winners of peace.

The jaunty punksters and punkettes of Punkland are the salt of the earth.  They delve into the fabric of their society.  They are the straight and narrow.  They are the true and blue.  They are the good soldiers, the moral warriors, the honest, reliable shirt off your back base upon which this land was built.

Savvy.  Smart.  Can look you in the eye and spot a crook, a peddler, a con man a mile away.  You don’t fool with the  solid folk of Punkland.

Too good to be conned.  Too pure to be conned.  To skeptical to be conned.  To righteous.  Too fair.  To well meaning.  Too much solid citizenry to have a need, a failing, a greedy rancid hope to be fulfilled to fall for a user, abuser, nullifier, spinner of  tales from the dregs of rationality and the seven circles of hell.

To hate no hates.  To love no loves.  The willing suckers of Punkland just should not be.  They are just not empty vessels of the sneer.  They are just not empty souls waiting for the strength of false profits.  The powers they want are the powers of good, the powers of the better angels of their natures.

The punksters and punkettes of Punktown do not wildly dance around the bonfires of the night and bey at the silvery moon.

They love their little piece of smarts.

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The punksters and punkettes of Punktown do not wildly dance around the bonfires of the night and bey at the silvery moon.

The jaunty punksters and punkettes of Punkland are the salt of the earth.  They are the backbone of a country.  They are the common sense folk of story and legend … the characters of myth … the winners of wars … the winners of peace.

The jaunty punksters and punkettes of Punkland are the salt of the earth.  They delve into the fabric of their society.  They are the straight and narrow.  They are the true and blue.  They are the good soldiers, the moral warriors, the honest, reliable shirt off your back base upon which this land was built.

Savvy.  Smart.  Can look you in the eye and spot a crook, a peddler, a con man a mile away.  You don’t fool with the  solid folk of Punkland.

Too good to be conned.  Too pure to be conned.  To skeptical to be conned.  To righteous.  Too fair.  To well meaning.  Too much solid citizenry to have a need, a failing, a greedy rancid hope to be fulfilled to fall for a user, abuser, nullifier, spinner of  tales from the dregs of rationality and the seven circles of hell.

To hate no hates.  To love no loves.  The willing suckers of Punkland just should not be.  They are just not empty vessels of the sneer.  They are just not empty souls waiting for the strength of false profits.  The powers they want are the powers of good, the powers of the better angels of their natures.

The punksters and punkettes of Punktown do not wildly dance around the bonfires of the night and bey at the silvery moon.

They love their little piece of smarts.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

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The jaunty little Punkettes of Punktown …. the grand swashbucklers of challenge  … and the jaunty little dominance games of Authoritarian Punk

Give an authoritarian Punk authority and he has heaven in a basket.  Challenge it and we have a petulant little crybaby punk.

Recognition of the eternal dominance games played by an authoritarian Punk, acceding to the Punkish plays to dominate, own, break, subdue, nullify and submerge ….. this makes all little punkettes’ worlds go round.

Bow.  Scrape,  Supplicate.  Hail Master.  A new nation of baying, empty sheep …. the authoritarian and the vacant, brave standard bearers of courage.

All little games and plays of authoritarian Punk are dominance games.  Play something else … get burned …. challenge …. see the eruptions of the child.

Tis a simple mix …. the jaunty Punkettes of Punktown or the grand swashbucklers of challenge.

The Punkettes take the prize.

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Tis the picture, the portrait, painted by the the magic hands of the portrait master to Dorian Gay, then to show the soul of a man ….. this, the soul of a land.

The broad brush.  The charming visages, classy sentiments, measured and adult behavior, sentiments, respect for respect.

The images from the window are the same.  The strolls by the park are the same.  Blink and the world is in its glory.  Punkettes cheer.  Punksters grovel.  The air gets polluted with the sounds of dirt.  Souls are damaged, tarnished, devoured, shrunk, but, the same.

Punktown races bring the best of everyone.  Flash and dash.  Whip and doped rides and seething riders.  The pageantry is remarkable, for its limitless, shining bravado and guilded rants and raves filled with blood lust and sycophantic, cavernish screams of release and ecstasy.

The soul is open.  The bright lights and self immersion, aching for the loves of God or the devil are on parade.

Tis the picture, the portrait, painted by the the magic hands of the portrait master to Dorian Gay, then to show the soul of a man ….. this, the soul of a land.

Enjoy.

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Hate brings the dreams of the eternal mafioso. Feels so good. Me and the Grand Id of Punktown.

Hate brings the dreams of the eternal mafioso.  Revenge is sweet.  Vengeance is mine.  The power to smite the devils of my being is the power to love.

Hate brings the dreams of the eternal mafioso.  Revenge is sweet.  Vengeance is mine.  Buy me a hammer.  Sell me a whip.  Give me a forearm and a jack boot to bring to the table of life.  Sold out for the spineless tripe of smart …. empty promises and work.

Hate brings the dreams of the eternal mafioso.  Revenge is sweet.  Vengeance is mine.  Sell me.  Buy me.  Delude me.  Color me brain dead.  Id is id.  Id is my sword …. and the Grand Id of Punktown is the mafioso of my dreams.

Scam.  Sham.. Bully.  Break. Demean. Eviscerate. …. the tools of lust, blood lust, unmoored destruction.

Feels so good.

Thrillingly.

Me and the Grand Id of Punktown.

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It pays and plays. Punks are punks for good measure. Tis good to have a template for dominance, submission, games of same, culture of same.

Jab and parry.  Float and demean.  Coddle and slam.  Lie and dribble.  Fake and play.  Slap and slam.  The performance art of Dominance Games.

The thrills, the release, the orgasmic bliss, the ecstatic living …. the onanism, that comes from the constant need to play.

The constant Punk.  The constant Punkettes.  The constant dances of Punk town.

Fall back positions, fall back words, meanings, spews from the mouth serving as rancid tools and constant little self reinforcing pats on the head.

Master and supplicant.  Tin pot Punk and scurrying, excusing little vengeful torch bearers….. oh the joy, oh, the nirvana, oh, tis good to have a template for dominance, submission, games of same, culture of same, emptiness of same, violence of same.

Punks are punks for good measure.

It pays and plays.

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Punk town strutters …. doo dah, doo dah. The strutting joyous chasms of rancid.

Punk town strutters …. doo dah, doo dah.

Punk town strutters …. doo dah, doo dah …… no little authoritarian strain here, there and everywhere as we peruse and travel the mighty confines of Punk land, punk city, Punk town and the raft of steady, sincere places in between, around and rancid.

Punk town strutters …. doo dah, doo dah …… no little authoritarian strain here, there and everywhere as we peruse and travel the mighty confines of Punk land, punk city, Punk town  and the patriotic fervor enmeshed, embraced, with vile hearts, celebrated of surety, forearm shivers, sneers, spits and the sense of eternal victim hood.

Punk town strutters …. doo dah, doo dah …… no little authoritarian strain here, there and everywhere as we peruse and travel the mighty confines of Punk land, punk city, Punk town  and the stiff backbones of a raucous, empowered leader, empowered brown shirt wannabes, grand illusion, delusion, a sense of the entitlement of the Punk and the laws of the jungles of debasement ….. the strutting joyous chasms of dominance, breaking, owning, nullifying, stupefying …. ahhh, the thrills worth getting up for in the morning.

Punk town strutters …. doo dah, doo dah.

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The eternal cry of a Punk and his Punk town staring at their spit in the wind.

So a Punk in chief can cry like a baby seal and complain that the useless poor bastards and suckers who he goes after may have the temerity or bad taste to return the favor.

Joyous also the many many merry meerkats of Punktown whimpering like poor little cursed drowned rats whose rancid cheese has not enough hidden shots of maniacal delusion.

The sky is falling.  The sky is falling.  Punks, debasers, nullifiers, voiders, haters and cheap shot artists …… called out on their happy little games, “Ahh, poor baby”. Pity, pity, pity those without their raucous blood and guts, those without their phony honor as they cling the delusions of having same.  The self awareness of gold fish is a mighty step up.

The eternal cry of a Punk and his Punk town staring at their spit in the wind.

Heroes all.

Punks in sheep’s clothing.

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Punks and skunks and rabid little chihuahuas can offer to be the avenging angel of the lord …. Suicide is painless

Suicide is painless …. fun … exhilarating ….. stands in good as an option when all base desires can be met by this epic leap of faith.

Suicide is painless …. it relieves the pressures of doubt … relieves the pressures of critical necessity … rewards with aphrodisiac delight and smugness the joys of hate and of loss of self.  Demagogues, con folk, hustlers, owners, frauds and kings love all the little suicidal folk who just know that the answer to their prayers, their obvious lechery, and the happy base nature of their better angels lies in finding enough dirt to cover over all of the sifting little holes in their souls.

Punks and skunks and rabid little chihuahuas can offer to be the avenging angel of the lord …. what simple little hero can resist?

Suicide is painless.

Demagogues and Punks.  Skunks and rancid vessels of empty.

Never here.

Life offers such pleasures.

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‘Neith it all the primal scream need wail. The happy place is found. The man and his moment has come a savior.

The uglies just waiting and lurking, wild eyed, puffed chest,widened nostrils, searing meanness, rancid meat as hanging snack ….. ahh, the man and his moment.

The killers, the owners, the breakers, the savagers, the whimperers, the rats; the brown shirts, the jack boots, the limped snearers, the sycophants, the toadies, the stompers, chompers, vainglorious horde …. ahh, the man and his moment.

Time evolves. There is straining, bursting, movements to the ebbs and flows of dark kindred spirits and facile leeches, moochers.  There is the martial music, the glare, the grimace, the boiling blood and simpering wants and needs to be captured by the devil and brought to bear on the world that is sane.

The man and his moment.

‘Neith it all the primal scream need wail.

The happy place is found.

The man and his moment has come a savior.

Never am I to leave the happy place.

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A portrait as of Dorian Gray.  Lovely, we, now to look at….

“Oh beautiful for spacious skies” ….. The eyes see the rolling wheat fields and magic mountains.

The eyes, the good folk, see the beauty, the swell of love and support for the tantalizing equalizer who smites the devils, the unclean….  The golden mantle of Equalizer confers the kill.

The love, the dream ………..  gratuitous souls on parade, the raining acid upon the gentle breezes of daily life ….. pictures for a portrait.

A portrait as of Dorian Gray.  Lovely, we, now to look at….

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

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