Dominance Games / Politics

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment Four

Posted in Commentary,, Drama, literature, political fiction, political novels, political philosophy, Politics, writing with tags analysis, political analysis, political drama, political education, political fiction, power, writing on January 19, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Four

Babe Kenny was facetious. Her mother had left her.

She loved not too wisely but too well, Babe Kenny.

She eluded the grasps of wild eyed men, Babe Kenny.

Queen of sustenance and honor reaped by fucking worship, Babe fucking Kenny.

She baited and cooed, Babe fucking Kenny. She, laughed, darted, promised lusts with her hips, said goodbye with her lips, Babe fucking Kenny. She, inspired trust, Babe Kenny, her voice aching want. Specters, false bravados, itinerant needs, Babe fucking Kenny. A past that wished only to collect on its debt to itself, Babe fucking Kenny.

She liked doing business with men who would conquer the fucking world, Babe fucking Kenny, liked helping flies lose their wings, Babe fucking Kenny; liked helping megalomaniacs get stronger, liked getting with those cynical, perverse to a point, Babe fucking Kenny.

She dealt with policy makers, Babe fucking Kenny. It behooved her to skepticism. She reserved special insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities, Babe fucking Kenny. She saw and did intelligent things. In matured and intelligent splendor she found time to exhibit depths of understanding, sharpness of vision. Demure and outstanding, Babe fucking Kenny was fascinated. She was tempted to throw herself at the feet of all overriding capacities, all overriding capabilities. Her honor easily marshaled, her awe easily overcome, she was a rotten hostess to money and power.

Babe fucking Kenny, a young woman of twenty five. When not pursuing the ferocious games she was involving herself in, she was involving herself in what she thought to be conditions in her world which could justifiably be called wanting. She did not usually throw off the gains and relics of a misspent past. She did not put on herself the mantel of St Joan, cloaks of sack cloth and ashes, purposes enmeshed with deep burning desires to right all of the inequities, the inequalities, of mankind. She did not commit herself to the creation of a new and better world, did not place altruism upon the list of virtues towards which she aspired.

Much curious as to the nature of the United States, her country, her people, the well from which Daddy sprung, his problems sprung, Babe fucking Kenny, involved herself with some groups involved in aspects of the coming social upheaval. She involved herself with some groups which had primary interests in preventing evil, in maintaining right.

She traveled much, also, in those years, Babe fucking Kenny. She established for herself a satisfactory ability to survive, neatly, efficiently. As a means of continuity, she involved herself with the fields of publishing, running errands, doing some light research for friends connected with national organizations.

She was able to produce what was asked of her without making undue demands, Babe fucking Kenny. She established satisfactory loose relationships that served adequately the aims and desires of all parties involved, Babe fucking Kenny. She went often to Washington. Often she stayed for protracted periods. She did not find herself over weaned, overwhelmed. The many bright young things, the many bright young smiles ran up and down the highways and byways of goodness and charm. This was not a heaven to capture Babe fucking Kenny’s fancy.

An occasional congressman, an occasional sterling thing from State, Justice, tried to convince Babe fucking Kenny of the goodness of his heart, the warmth of his purpose. Babe fucking Kenny was not overly eager to be in the clutches of the idealistic, the cynical wonders who smiled so brightly, worked so feverishly, championed so greatly the dignity of justice, of man, of mankind.

Babe fucking Kenny, also in Washington, met many of the many who lobbied for the cause of all things great, all things which would make all things greater, all things which would be guaranteed to be great. She met those representing things that had made America what it was.

They were bright and they too were young, the heroes of Babe fucking Kenny. Anxiety jumped upon practicality, strength triumphed reason, disorder was a mother. Disunity fomented. Spring was cherished. The earnest and so pure. Babe fucking Kenny liked them best. Babe fucking Kenny dealt with policy makers. It behooved Babe to skepticism. She reserved insight for those special individuals with wholesome abilities. They saw and did intelligent things. Charmingly lucid. In matured and intelligent splendor they found time to exhibit the depths of their understanding.

The earnest and pure. Babe fucking Kenny liked them best.

* * * * * * * * * *

Johnny boy, Rachel. I trusted them as much as I could, as much as circumstance allowed.

Johnny boy found himself to be the attenuated hero of his dreams.

He had landed in New York at the age of six as had many before.

He hustled. He was a smart boy, in his element.

Johnny boy was three years old, stuck in the hell hole of North Africa. One who once knew the captain of the ship that brought him there spotted Johnny boy, claimed him, made arrangements for his custody. Johnny boy, a much traveled little boy, made his way from the steppes of central Asia to a house on a hill outside of Washington, D. C. He had a set of neighbors at great pains to insure his happiness. He had a home, a maid. He had an abundance of friends who knew not why they liked him so. Life was good. New York City. The city was magic, then, the place to be. Wonder, madness, darkness, light, dreams. Johnny boy came shortly.

Johnny had been graduated from college with a degree in Mathematics. There was a comparative ease of economic pressures in those years. The school offered him necessity, not fellowship which he did not crave. The students with whom he came in contact were nice enough, a bit banal, some naïve. Mirrors of sophistication, they offered little more than the continuation of the sophomorics he found so prevalent.

Johnny boy found no particular use for them, no particular need to sift through the chaff to get to the wheat. Johnny boy was quite content to let college boys and girls be college boys and girls and he was quite content to allow them all to exist as happy little children, knowledgeable and all knowing, the cream of god’s creatures on his green little earth. There was chatter and interests. Tonics. Flatulence.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

There were times when they had felt themselves very much apart of each other’s lives. There were times when the thought of the other brought no more than a nod of recognition, a remembrance of pain. Together Johnny boy and Rachel had finally conquered the devil, so it seemed. Too wise they were to be running around like two little horses asses. Johnny boy would not be bothered with demonic nonsense. There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.

Rachel had done, seen. She too loved the help. Marriage was something. It could exist without having to immerse itself into the world of eternal indulgence. They would run the game for a while. They would be romantic.

Johnny boy fought a war. It was a mean little war. It was everyone’s favorite little war. He had enlisted in the Army. The life he found after college was not overpoweringly fertile

Emiliana Garcia, his maid, had died. He was left with no one that he cared for. Emiliana Garcia was his family.

He was empty, Johnny boy was. There were no great distractions. There was a lot of noise. Johnny wanted to do something with himself, to fight. He wanted to be a proficient killer. The knowledge and the discipline would not hurt him. He might spend his life drifting. For this he was not ready.

He learned. He served. Johnny fought a mean little war. It was a dirty little war. It was everyone’s favorite little war. He was enlisted in the Army. Life was an indulgence.

He went. He returned. A commissioned man. He learned a great deal, Johnny boy.

Soon after he went to France, then to Africa. He served. Mercenary life was an indulgence. He acquired some money. He went to enjoy the offerings of the Mediterranean coast. It was warm. There was sun. In Spain he watched searchers of truth and beauty cover the southern coast. Exotic pleasures offered much. Pleasures, dreams.

Johnny boy did not begrudge the new order of the lost, their fun, their enjoyment, their style. Pleasant in some ways, interesting, the grasp at life. He had knowledge of many things, Johnny boy. Not yet the full degree of greatness promised. Banal predecessors had managed to cross his path. Emiliana Garcia was his maid, was his family.

He bade his time, Johnny boy. Johnny boy found in the companionship of some of his friends some understanding of the trials of man that he did not find elsewhere.

There was the understanding of the way of life that went with trial, trouble when it was a constant. The world had many sides to offer the lovers of all things porous and knowing. Johnny boy had reservoirs of mean confrontations in his wake, reservoirs of mean kills.

Johnny boy left from Spain and returned to the United States, to New York, to the Village which had been his home. He stayed only a short while. He moved to Washington. D.C. He knew people in government work. He found an apartment. He looked for things to do. The cynical and the snide. The adventurous and cruel. The smart and the just. Nonchalance and complacency. Simpatico. Virtue shined upon the great unwashed in the lands of dreams.

There was poetry in the spirit that loved to implement for all the best of all possible worlds, the spirit which so nobly implemented the hopes and dreams of mankind with devotion to duty, with little implementations of fond little wants.

It was very good, John had grown to think, that there were so many who were so assiduously spending so much of their time looking out for gross deployment of noble honor. The domesticated pets were facile and they were happy. They were domesticated. They were frivolous creatures who opposed the good. They were all around.

Johnny boy had often seen the dregs of unbridled, beloved ignorance valiantly go into battle, time after time, with the greater dregs of same. Johnny boy, in America, was becoming more and more fascinated by unvarnished confrontation, unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of bloodshed, the beat, beat, beat of beloved ignorance.

Johnny boy, Rachel. Surprise, not necessarily delight. Rachel was a wonderful girl in her way. Rachel was smart, he had met few smarter. She was good, very, very good. Rachel demanded much in return for her goodness. She wanted much in the way of hard and cold reserve. She was warm when she had to be warm, Rachel. She was not always to touch. She could be ice, ice which well protected vestiges of movement.

Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel was wary and Rachel was one who liked being wary, one who could manage to be wary. Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel would not let the thoughts of her heart come out and play. Rachel did not care to be among those who demanded that she be wise, very, very wise.

Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to let anyone prevent Rachel from following the paths she set out to follow. Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to open up her little heart for the sake of anything or anyone because Rachel shared her little heart with none and nothing and Rachel maneuvered from the outside looking in. Rachel was sublime.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Rachel was not happy.

Johnny boy was true, very, very true. Johnny would stick. Johnny would stay and do what had to be done. Johnny would be there if needed. He could leave if not. Johnny boy was true.

Johnny was a cynical bastard who was rotten and self centered to the core but Johnny boy was true. He was a wanderer, a panderer, a bum. He was lazy and he cared not to move. He was unimpressed by the joys of interaction. Johnny boy was intent on being left alone. He wanted his peace. Johnny boy wanted not to be put upon by anything or anybody. Johnny was what his god had made him. The world was full of poor lost bastards. Johnny boy owed his god a fine steady trek through his world, sneered at the conversations of man, was not about to be anybody’s helper, chose his company carefully.

Johnny boy did not care to be to be anyone’s holy redeemer. He didn’t trust the beautiful. He worshipped the damned. He thought that he was a fucking idiot for even opening his eyes in the morning.

Johnny boy, Rachel. Rachel, Johnny boy. Johnny boy was true. Johnny boy was good. Johnny boy would stick. He would stay and do what had to be done.

Sometimes the mirror got too ugly, sometimes too nice.

Johnny boy, Rachel. Rachel, Johnny boy. God’s gift to each other. Johnny boy, Rachel. Rachel, Johnny boy. There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities. They would run the gamut for a while. They would be romantic.

They were exhuming the dead, Johnny boy, Rachel .

Rachel provided experience, experience pressed with flowers in the photograph album of my life. Johnny boy, in America, more and more fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of his heartstrings.

My Rachel was a moment in time. She was a quick fix of a moment and she was open to challenge and she was the sweet young song playing, a riff in mood, a haunting melody, a delicate tune..

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Sucked the life out of each other.

Sucked the death out of each other.

“I will be lusts depository for you, Johnny boy,” Rachel said to Johnny boy to make him smile.

* * * * * * * * * *

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

books… http://bschiff.com/

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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment Three

Posted in books, Commentary,, Drama, literature, political philosophy, political science, Politics, writing with tags political analysis, political commentary, political drama, political education, political fiction, power on January 15, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Three

Memory is a sometimes wisp of smoke, a fog that traps those who wish to run with the fires and furies of the whirlwinds that spin dangerously amidst the cunning who understand the fragility of the soul and the meanness of the spirit. There are those deep and dear and those of substance and depth are often taken for granted and given rides to test the waters of eerie endeavor and feel the heat of vile creatures.

Characters that spring upon the hidden planes of existence, hidden planes of attack may be of an interesting kind, may be of a rancid, sinister kind and play in dominance, survival, and find themselves oriented to the mysteries of life with stories following around roots and edifices, movements through time and fate. Dreams and drama induce momentous rides and searing portraits of self and season.

My world is a wanton place with playthings in long spacious corridors angling in to slice and vanquish as they present their great homage to prosperity and glitter.

She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.

She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy.

She drew spirits with ferocious fire.

Purges were purges.

Amy screwed Death for eternity and Death took Amy as his own.

Amy screwed Death for eternity and Amy took as Death her own.

Somewhere in her passions she fused with fulfillment.

* * * * * * * * * *

Disembarked from Europe, the damned war, discharged, Richard fucking Kenny went home. He would pick up his life. He would pick up his wife. He would settle his life.

Richard fucking Kenny’s wife made money. She made money for herself. She knew people, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. She could take her pick of all different kinds of suave, Richard Kenny’s wife. She could dance naked in the streets of the Bowery when snow was in season, Richard Kenny’s wife.

Recuperating Soldiers had been assigned to areas in the South of fucking France. There was aid and comfort given. Richard fucking Kenny took pleasure, rest, recreation.

Richard fucking Kenny’s wife had known Richard fucking Kenny in New York. She had known Sweet Amy. She had been seen and left by all of the usual snakes. There was usual carnage she had seen on the battle fields of the slick and willful.

The once and past husband of Richard fucking Kenny’s wife married smartly. He was older, she, younger. Her own background had been moneyed, once. Much of what held it went the way of all flesh. She was alluring, attractive. She was lean and lithe, had sincere, perceptive eyes. She was smart enough not to be slain by inches.

Rational thinkers. She was descended from rational thinkers. She was educated, fascinated, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. She knew pity. Never young and callow, tribute was hers. Those who were not saved was not saved. She garnered respect for the infinities of presumed strength. Richard fucking Kenny’s wife knew the games of her fathers, her mothers.

* * * * * * * * * *

There were newspaper people, those with the key to plans for good and clean living, blessed vision, truth, beauty. Faith, hope, charity. An abundance of knowledge Richard fucking Kenny’s wife had. She would enter Richard’s party, sleek deviate, naked, fallow, susceptible to the weak, marginal and strong, a scholar herself in the study and practice of her arts.

She was pleasant, perfunctory, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. She showed Richard fucking Kenny respect. He showed her the same. She was a woman of much substance, Richard fucking Kenny’s wife. Richard fucking Kenny showed her respect. It was more than respect for a wife. That she was the mother of Babe only seems right. Babe was of her. Babe was special.

Like her mommy and daddy before her Babe Kenny loved the dance. It allowed her enjoyment, companionship. It gave her pleasure. Daddy, Richard fucking Kenny, was not heaven’s gift to the goodness needed somewhere, somehow on god’s green earth but Babe fucking Kenny knew that Daddy had the requisite degrees of meanness and joy. Richard fucking Kenny had his points. Daddy was a good man. He had shame in his past. About such things as Babe was concerned, daddy was one who understood.

Richard fucking Kenny did not want that his Babe should have the type of life that he had had. He vowed to remove her from the types of pressures that had made life for him, at times, a very trying experience. If little Babe grew up to be just another run of the mill flighty little bitch then so be it. He would try his best to help make her canny and wise to the ways of the world as he saw it, smart enough to know when and how to speak, to whom and for what reason to speak.

Richard fucking Kenny had great hopes that he would have his little girl grow up to not be a damned little whiner, to not be one enmeshed of trivial nonsensical banal emptiness. He did not want his Babe to be married to the damned pretentious, the usual clowns and hangers on, the high place and good breeding numbing flag waving absurd.

Between the jumping fools he knew that paraded as men and the laughing idiots he knew that paraded as women, Richard fucking Kenny knew that it was a bad fucking proposition to expect that his little girl grow up to be anything like a fine and decent person. For sure, Richard fucking Kenny knew that there was no damned such thing. He also knew that his dream was cock-eyed and dumb and that if he had ever met such a woman as he had to himself described he would probably kick her in the fucking ass and try to turn her into the damned no good fucking whore that he would have been sure that she fucking had been.

Richard fucking Kenny wanted his Babe to have some guts. He wanted her to be able to have a little bit of fucking class, have some reserve, some manners. Given what he knew of the damned fucking world he knew he was hoping for too damned fucking much. There were many things which were simply not in the repertoires of the worlds in which he lived, probably not in the repertoires of any world in which anyone fucking lived except for the little dream fucking world he had in his fucking mind that would make and allow his fucking little girl to be at least bearable.

She, Babe Kenny knew herself to be an American citizen and she felt that New York, offering what she thought to be at least a different world from the one in which she lived, offered the largest chance for her to attain the understandings and plays she so clamored after. She, Babe fucking Kenny felt that someday she might very well turn out to be some poor little rich fucking bitch with some fucking asinine Italian fucking lover dangling from her rich fucking little arm and some other asinine little fucking peccadillo with the fucking cook’s fucking little fucking daughter to scream about to her worthless fucking friends. For the mean, though, she would look towards, for, something else. If she failed there would be all of those rancid little pleasures waiting. If she failed to find that which she was looking for she knew that the fucking cook would have an sick fuck assed daughter with death in her fucking heart, that the asinine fucking Italian lover would be a stiff and that he would fucking try to steel her money and make her crazy.

Babe fucking Kenny felt that there was not much more to be had for her, her father, in the South of fucking France. It had become a poisoned well.

She had then a fondness for the English speaking peoples, and she would not have been adverse to either London or Paris if Richard fucking Kenny could find some fucking cause to see either of those places as desirable. Babe fucking Kenny knew that daddy was not one who held New York as his favorite place, having long since given up its ghost, and from what she could make out, having long since given up its ghost with fucking pleasure.

Babe fucking Kenny, then, would try to find a way to force movement to London, or at least Paris, but she would hope for a way to return the family to New York from whence it came. She would, she knew, be able to move where and when she wanted. She was free, she had means. She could do as she damn well pleased.

* * * * * * * * * *

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

books… http://bschiff.com/

refer

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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment Two

Posted in analysis, books, Commentary,, Drama, literature, Mystery, political philosophy, political science, Politics, writing with tags Commentary,, fiction, political drama, political fiction on January 11, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Installment Two

There were foreign objects; there was pain. It was the 6th of fucking June.

On came Richard fucking Kenny and his fellow fucking brave hearts. On came God’s fucking crusade in some fucking death trap of a fucking landing craft in the fucking English fucking Channel just dying to help a bunch of fucked up, fuck assed fucking Frogs get their god damned, fucking fucked up fucking country back from some god damned, fucking fucked up fucking fuck assed crazy assed fucking goose assed stepping assed, fucking, rot in hell fucking Krauts.

Dreams for Richard fucking Kenny.

A putrid soldier’s dreams.

Richard fucking Kenny found himself with the first assault waves of American heroes climbing up the fucking beaches of fucking Normandy.

The young man next to Richard fucking Kenny on the fucking landing craft on the way to the fucking beach sang the praises of Christ the fucking Lord. The one next to him puked his fucking guts out. Richard fucking Kenny had not only come three thousand fucking miles to get his fucking ass blown off but he had to do it with some fucking idiot’s fucking puke all over his fucking gear and some other fucking idiot singing the fucking praises of Christ the fucking lord in his fucking ear.

Richard fucking Kenny was very fucking agitated, disgusted about the whole fucking thing. He was fucking annoyed. He would, he thought, have, at least, died a happier goddamned fucking death if he was sliced and diced by one of his old fucking playmates and left to bleed to death in some god damned fucking stink hole puddle in some god damned fucking stink hole alley behind some god damned fucking, rotten assed, fucking greasy spoon.

His god damned, fucking father, where ever the fuck he was must be turning over in his god damned, fucking grave at the thought of his only fucking son running around with a bunch of fucking red necked fucking bloody fucking American he-men about to fucking charge good old fucking Europe, from whence his god damned, fucking father ran, to play god damned, fucking wonder soldier, god damned brave fucking wonder fucking hero.

Kraut soldiers were without bitter appreciation.

Richard fucking Kenny hit the beach on the shores very early in the fucking morning.

The fucking Kraut soldiers did not want to lose precious ground. They wanted Richard fucking Kenny and his fucking friends to be fucking dead. They appreciated fucking greatness, not Richard fucking Kenny. Little fucking Addie Kraut was their mad fucking fool. He was strong.

A wonder fucking soldier, wearing his spiffy little super duper little fucking uniform and traveling fucking on, Richard fucking Kenny was a thrill a minute. Richard fucking Kenny was getting his fucking tail shot at pretty fucking good. This day was to Richard fucking Kenny was a particular pain in the ass.

Richard fucking Kenny in the middle of a fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking, fuck assed, fucking foxhole in the middle of the fucking, stinking, dirty, fucking fuck assed screw assed fucking war.

Richard fucking Kenny became a dirty, fucking hero, another fucking smart assed, wise assed fucking wise guy, wise assed fucking savior.

Two fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian past. Two fucking, anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking throwbacks. Richard fucking Kenny killed seven fucking Krauts. Richard Kenny knocked off a fucking Kraut machine gun nest

Richard fucking Kenny barely stopped himself from killing the two fucking southern fucking fuck assed fucking throwbacks to some fucking simian past, the two fucking, anti-Semitic, anti-human, sub-human fucking southern throwbacks. He saved his fucking outfit.

The lieutenant who was barely fucking alive only by grace of God and the captain who was half dead were both fucking very fucking happy that Richard fucking Kenny didn’t kill all of their own fucking wonder soldiers. They were both exceptionally proud that Richard fucking Kenny was a member of their, this man’s, fucking Army. They were most certainly overwhelmed. Richard fucking Kenney was their great fucking hope.

Richard fucking Kenny was put upon the god damned fucking earth to do great things, to fuck rotten fucking ladies, to be sharp as a tack, twice as mean. He loved to save the lives of the fucking wonderful who would be very happy to hang his happy little fucking New York fucking assed neck from a god damned fucking cross when he was back in the god damned fucking fuck assed States. Richard fucking Kenny just wanted to jump up and down and salute the god damned fucking good old fucking red, white and fucking blue’s best fucking examples of fucking class.

* * * * * * * * * *

Richard fucking Kenny demeaned dangled leaden calves, gave up on dangled fucking leaden losers. He jack assed backward through the straights of hell. Sanguine, straight, Richard fucking Kenny jack assed backward through low dealers, low weasels, low wants, low fucking kills.

The All fucking American fucking boy was not something Richard fucking Kenny could put up with too much longer. Richard fucking Kenny reveled in his own fucking wonder. He was fucking proud that he had saved the lives of all of the fucking red necked fucking fuck assed fucking hicks. Richard fucking Kenny was tired, very, very tired, and he didn’t want the All fucking American fucking boy to wake up one fucking morning and turn on Richard fucking Kenny when Richard fucking Kenny wasn’t fucking looking

Many forms, many shapes the All fucking American fucking hero. He said many different fucking things. He was sure to turn into a no good fucking asshole sooner or later. Poor Richard fucking Kenny.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

He survived it. The first day, the first day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the second day, the second day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the third day.

Richard Kenny survived the fourth day.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking month off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking year off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

* * * * * * * * * *

Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy. Amy Lucille to the young men and women of pride and honor. Amy Lucille to those who sought the glint in her radiant brown eyes shining brightly as she allowed company with the sons and daughters of manners and property. She, Amy Lucille, able to touch their hearts vigorously, in worship and adoration.

Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy was that which could make life worth living, a shining beacon apart from all others of a peculiar conflagration of will, of a peculiar conflagration of mood, a treasure, Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy. She wished to be the ideal to which all fine young dreamers might aspire, who did not let the pedestal upon which she found herself not allow her to not do what she must.

The giver of sunshine and shadow, the purveyor of pleasure and pain. The killer of mothers, the lovers of fathers, the seductress of aunts and uncles. The touch, the brush, the sweet, sweet kiss, the dear, sweet caress. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. The nectars, the juices of sweet, sweet existence. How sweet, sweet Amy craved. How she craved. Sweet, sweet Amy.

Sweet, smart Amy. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

The lures of those who fondled, the lures of those who craved, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy would live to crave a thousand lives. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.

Some men died for love, Sweet Amy figured. Some men died for money, Sweet Amy figured. Some just wanted freedom from ghosts, dead spirits, evil, she figured. Some took the path of least resistance. Some, the last alternative to life.

Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy.

She baited, she cooed, Amy. She laughed, she darted. She promised lusts with her lips, said goodbye with her hips, Amy. She was a gift given, Amy. Her lips inspired trust, her voice aching want, Amy. She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy. She drew spirits with ferocious fire. The sweetness. The contempt.

Get to a strong man, a weak man, a smart man, Amy figured. Make a magic wand, Amy figured. A turn of the screw, she figured. A way in, a way out. Will to will, strength to strength. Strength to weakness, guile, subtlety. Amy knew the equations well. Worked them well.

* * * * * * * * * *

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

books… http://bschiff.com/

refer

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Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel…Installment 0ne

Posted in books, dominance, Drama, literature, Mystery, political philosophy, political science, Politics, writing with tags Commentary,, fiction, political drama, political fiction on January 8, 2012 by B Schiff

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Time a strange longing myth. The world an art. Muses watch blandly from the sidelines. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. From the weight of sin, noble honor, comes a tempered stew that radiates out from the sinews and muscles of poor challenging bastards; that radiates out from hubris, aggression, want.

Mean and lust are tempo. Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power.

She is quite the sensual, wondrous toy who transpires through time, through dimension. Quite the user, the hustler, the seer, the queen. Quite the mystery who comes up in myth and mist.

Cynicism is wrapped in soft cloth. Truth floats through gauzy mists. There is fear, intimidation, loss. There is ecstasy, the traps of history, of identity, of will, of territory, of belief. There is passion. There is wisdom. There are kills, histories with long roots, many mothers, unyielding fathers. There are neon lit nights and strong doses of tough. There are memories, cold hard facts.

Actions, taken through time are taken by those who are the prisoners of an uneasy chase, prisoners of the ghosts of wily survival. Motion follows paths easing towards searing savagery and redemption. Many walk in uneasy terrain. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. Beauty, honor, revenge show dangerous enticement, coming sometimes hard, sometimes not at all. Honor, freedom, power, will, rush through the thickets of deadly time.

Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power. There is dismissiveness, domination, fears of power, the traps of circumstance, will, cynicism, of want.

Swirling plays for the depths of men’s souls stir the chase. Swirling plays for power and greed stir the games at hand. There is sustenance in the drinking up of the brew offered by the tainted mixes of hunger and reserve, the tainted mixes of driven characters in cool focused rage.

Swirls of action and consequence run frolicsome charges through roads taken by those weak enough to pursue them. Pursuits of harsh base pleasures and purposes provide a world of gamesmanship, sorrow. There are enticing, foggy, predatory pasts. Life is full. It harbors heightened existence, clashes of will, of instinct.

A stark landscape is created, one that does that which it has to do, that forges that which it has to forge, that sets up that which it has to set up.

Death seeks his muse.

* * * * * * * * * *

Richard fucking Kenny developed his modicum of veneer. He used it on the broken who had money to spend as they wiled away looking rich, empty, bored and rusty. It was the easy buck, like dealing seconds. Richard fucking Kenny was left to fend for himself with nothing save his momma’s good looks, his daddy’s cunning. Spread out, rancid, tired, Richard fucking Kenny’s women who weren’t there broke the dreams of those who were and all were enjoined. Sweet, sweet Amy, my dear little Babe.

Sweet Amy was always leverage, was always neutralized. Cheap bastards always knew their names, Richard fucking Kenny, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. Cheap bastards knew they kept their own council, traveled light through rancid jungles of open pits of open sores.

Richard fucking Kenny looked for the ravages of weakness, took pleasure in watching gerbils squirm.

Richard fucking Kenny’s entry. The sweet sense of nastiness, the odor of disdain. All of the fucking men at the fucking table of Richard fucking Kenny’s life found Richard fucking Kenny a shield to covet, a bastard to savage.

In 1942, in New York City, Richard fucking Kenny was trying very hard to get out of the fucking army. There were no fruits for his labors. He was sorry. Richard fucking Kenney wanted out from the bottom side of an existence that had since lost its glamorous facade. Richard fucking Kenney did not want to continue associations with the people with whom he had been associated.

Fuck the deranged fucking lunatics.

Little Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot was a damn menace to the damned fucking world, no fucking sense of proportion, no fucking reason. The world was made up of an abundance of damn suckers. Any crazy asshole who knew how to make the suckers jump up and down in their fucking cages could make a fine little life for himself. Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, only confirmed Richard fucking Kenny’s fucking beliefs.

Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, and his goose assed fucking, crazed fuck assed fucking friends knew all the fucking games that Richard fucking Kenny, his fucking friends knew so well, learned so well, taught so well. All of the neat little fuck assed fucking tricks learned dealing with the other fuck assed fucking suckers in his damned sweet rides through the piss holes of the Western World…Richard fucking Kenny knew them well, taught them well.

Little fuck Addie, this fucking Hitler idiot, and all his crazed fuck assed goose assed fucking friends were fucking stench, bad fucking medicine, bad fucking assholes, fucking Jew baiters, fucking bad mean grief, fucking medicine, bad assed fucking times. Richard fucking Kenny. The fucking world could fuck itself silly. Richard fucking Kenny could fucking fuck himself silly.

Despite his best efforts and great resources Richard fucking Kenny was inducted into the Army in the spring of 1943.

He was shipped south. He had to employ some of the tactics and friends of his New York associations. Too many certain southern gentlemen and others, in fond and happy anticipation, were filled with thrills at the thought of having a one hundred percent New York Jew boy at their fucking disposal. That this was the way of things Richard fucking Kenny knew. He was in a position, however, to make the certain southern gentlemen and others fucking sorry that they disliked him so.

In the fall of 1943 Richard fucking Kenny and his fuck assed fucking friends were shipped overseas, were dispatched to be stationed in the south of fucking England. Richard fucking Kenny was training for he knew not what, for purposes for which he cared exceedingly less. Fucking Admiral fucking Dewey, Black Jack fucking Pershing, friggin’ Winston friggin’ Churchill, that fucking crazy man, Macarthur, Jimmy fucking Doolittle and his whole fucking bunch of damned friggin’ Flying fucking Tigers, fuck assed strutting Montgomery and all of the friggin’ British Tommies lying end to fucking end on their god damned fucking limey stained ass stained fucking bellies couldn’t make god damned fucking Richard fucking Hymie Kharnovski give two fucking shits about this god damned fucking war.

Richard fucking Kenny was not of the mind to allow some damned fucking yo-yo of a fucking Kraut fucking paperhanger be the cause of him breathing his last fucking breath in some god damned fucking stinking European fucking stink hole.

The goddamned fucking krauts ought to have their goddamned fucking asses mangled just for getting Richard fucking Kenny into this goddamned fucking mess. The goddamned fucking Japs should also rot in fucking fuck assed, rotten, fucking saki hell.

* * * * * * * * * *

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

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refer

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http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/07/how-to-turn-republicans-and-democrats-into-americans/8521/

Dominance Games: One more damned time…..the rancid bastards

Posted in Commentary,, current events, media, News, partsanship, political analysis, political satire, political science, Politics, satire, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary,, current events, Democracy, Government,, news, opinion, political analysis, political commentary, political drama, political fiction, political satire, power, Public interest, satire, social criticism on June 17, 2011 by B Schiff

Simple damned questions. What lovelies evolve to power and control? What lovelies evolve away? What are the sweet little mechanisms thereof? Who gives enough of a damn to recognize broken mechanisms? Who gives enough of a damn to give a damn about how a vote is no more than a show and the vote for things preset and gamed in the first place is a damned stupid show. Its the system stupid. Its the suckers stupid. It the ideology stupid.

And once again ..with feeling…

And….

And…..

The red roses are red

The blue violets are blue

Violate my little life…..

Love the rancid bastards

We all stand in line.

Mickey Edwards The Atlantic How to turn Democrats and Republicans into Americans

David Moberg In These Times Unions work to turn the tide

http://inthesetimes.com/article/11461/unions_work_to_turn_the_tide

politics, news, commentary, analysis Dominance Games / Politics https://dominancegames1.wordpress.com/

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https://dominancegames1.wordpress.com/ http://bschiff.com/

Dominance Games: An ode to the unknown communicator

Posted in current events, journalism, literature, News, opinion, political analysis, political science, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary,, current events, Democracy, Education, Government,, news, opinion, political analysis, political commentary, political fiction, politics, politics noir, power, Public interest, social criticism, writing on June 10, 2011 by B Schiff

The romantic twaddle of burnt rats and the longings and feelers and resources of the dupes of the sweet songs of love thrown to us from the pulpits of the sly.

Listen sweetly to the self loving poems and paeans of breeding, baring, privilege and wonder as he/ she puzzles over reason well for endearing ends. Never know things that go bump in the night. Always fear them. Never look, always see the little monsters outside of our rancid dreams.

Strife, petition, leering gratification. Gentrification. Our putrid little mirrors can reflect too much light, light that burns and singes, burns and singes in the dark corners of the constant night of holy ignorance. Heady rewards come to those who dance with the nimble and pristine. The precise. Lure and aphrodisiac. Heady rewards come to those who dance with the ones who shimmy well and perform well.

Characters and preeners. Dancers and singers. All manner of ribald show and tell come to us as we trundle on our merry little ways. Dismissive arrogance, weapons of masquerading follies attract us as cheap perfume. Cheap perfume attracts those for whom the mawkish and the patty functions best.

Pretty pictures and fancy illusory pieces. The flaccid aerial circuses we gawk at make us proud. Over sized performers in the trees waiting to fall off or to be picked by the tree pickers, we feel their pain. These trees bear strange tasty fruits, strange tangy nectars, the taste exotic, the after taste lingering majestically. The sirens sweep softly.

Junk yard cats and howling dogs go bay at the night, the moon. Fairy tales and sun rays define the joys and pleasures gained and sent by the grand operas of fondled passion and inebriated score. Contraltos serene always allay fears in holidays of dead beyond the pale of contrition.

We love the ones we love. lust, hell, dominance and greed are trips to be taken.

politics, news, commentary

The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…..the thrill..

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jessica-levinson/corporations-can-now-dona_b_868440.html

Dominance Games: The sultry seductions of the vapors of the damned

Posted in Commentary,, current events, News, opinion, political analysis, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary,, current events, Democracy, Education, Government,, Lies damned lies and statistics, news, opinion, political analysis, political commentary, political education, political fiction, politics, power, Public interest, Righteousness, social criticism, Social Sciences, writing on June 3, 2011 by B Schiff

Cry baby, cry. Tears baby, tears. Play baby, play. Be baby, be.

Use baby, use. Be used, babe, be used. Worry about the bastards money coming down the pike and up the river making rich richer, making color colorful. making bright brighter for dim bulbs. Champion aggrieved. Hedonistic moralizing. Falling swans turn ugly ducklings over night…and the opposite.

Buy us. Sell us. Have us for lunch. Have us for dinner. Have us for play and pay, for divine indifference. Learn the simpletons, embrace the sentence structure of those who have good talk.

Feel the heat. Turn coy the passion. Turn coy the scintillating seduction, the sighs, the winks, the nods, the sultry seductions of the vapors of the damned.

Cheer us on. Break cold. Break us down. Tell us no tales. Whip us no lies. Treat us our little hearts with no tenderness or affection.

Maul us. Devour us. Bore us. Sicken us. Convince us. Buy us. Sell us. Churn us up and spit us out. Charm us freely. Own us whole. We have the worth.

Push and pull. Maim and lame. Deafen with soulful sins.

Champion us. Chump us. Chumped us listen. Chumped us get rain. Chumped us believe. The searing truth, bought and sold, dressed up for candle light.

Buy the buy. Spend the spend. The scum ain’t buying nothin’foe nothin’, spending nothin’ for nothin’. We ain’t getting nothin’ for nothin’.

Store bought wraps. Painted woman. Rotten candy……. Sure enough. Tomorrow and tomorrow. Give early and often. Buy early and often. Vote early and often.

Stays bought. Gets bought. The badge of honor. Paid for the badge of honor. Elections: the usual and the cheap. The shell games and the phony fronts. The messages suckers listen to…….Idealists be happy.

Of many

Jessica Levinson Huffington Post

politics, news, commentary, analysis https://dominancegames1.wordpress.com/

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http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/24/us/politics/24kucinich.html?_r=1&nl=todaysheadlines&emc=tha24

Dominance Games: Politics is for suckers. Might is for pros.

Posted in Commentary,, current events, News, opinion, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary,, current events, Democracy, Games, Government,, opinion, political commentary, political education, political fiction, politics, power, Public interest, Righteousness, social criticism, writing on May 25, 2011 by B Schiff

From the bottom up. Many times, many ways the power in government and life comes from the bottom up.

The base up. The foundation up. Many times, many ways the power in government and life comes from the base up, the foundation up.
Building blocks supreme support edifices and efforts of grand public pooh baas, void doers do gooders and all serious scholars. Mountains of sadistic gain are built lovingly and to the credit of justice from the bottom up.

From the bottom up comes the power,the virtue, the massive movements hard knocks, hard pain, sharp elbows, hurting places. From the bottom up comes ribald thuggery and haunting bleeding. Grab assed grab ass…. from the bottom up.

Grand stability and surely supporters. Roving marauding monsters cover great wide swaths of devouring nightmares devouring all before them as inebriated locusts in eternal heat. From the bottom up dreams come true.

Lift that bail. Tote that barge. Skunk that skunk. Hammer that nail. Moral dignity and severe belonging. Group buzz and kumbayah. From the bottom up comes the holy hell of a saintly pedestal upon which the bottom feeders and the mighty rest and lord. From the bottom up.

Skunk that skunk. Maim those weak. Fry order. Dump decency. Right worth. To elect is to be right as rain. Fair fights and demon idiots win in the world of dreams. In the world of wants. In the world of how does it feel to want. Competition flourishes and you win a Buick. Games on games. Wheels on wheels. Naked whimsies of naked riders riding naked on horseback….. nakedly. The fantasies and virtues of fantasies of virtue are long and luminous.

When there has to be a vote…make it crooked. Where there has to be an electorate fix it. Where there has to be a district game it. Where there has to be a show….dance. Politics is for suckers. Might is for pros.

Common Suckers

Carl Hulse New york Times

Gerrymandering the Film

http://gerrymanderingmovie.com/content.php?section=issue&page=whatisit

Center for voting and Democracy

http://www.fairvote.org/redistricting

books… http://bschiff.com/

http://www.cjr.org/behind_the_news/controversy_at_fox_news_north.php

Dominance Games: Speak loudly and club the bastards to death

Posted in Commentary,, current events, News, opinion, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary,, current events, Lies damned lies and statistics, opinion, political analysis, political commentary, political drama, political fiction, politics, power, Righteousness, social criticism, writing on May 24, 2011 by B Schiff

I think they like it. Zoos come and go and animals act up and perform and I think they like it. Trendy rackets of self immolation get thrown under the bus and to the wolves. I think they like it The players play and they kiss their own behinds. I think they like. The fight enjoined, the bating bated, the hate hated, the smarms smarmed. I think they like it.

The moods moody. The lights misty. The dancing seals dancing. Blood sport sporting. Kill sport killing. Derision sport deriding. They damned well like it.

Commentary as machete for the lazy and the rich. Toys to be abused for the ones who take wings off of flies. Hateful hates. Vile devils. Deemed demons. They damned well love it.

Hope is for those who work at something. Hate is the all purpose passport. Define thine self. Color tawdry and putrid thine enemy devil. Tactics. Tactics. Tactics. Tougher. Stronger. Simpler. More vivid. More emasculating. More basically simple.

Ahh..the devils are coming. The devils are coming. Speak loudly and club the bastards to death. The devils make us play dirty. They implore us to the noble tricks of the trade. Kill the bastards. Blood sport. Blood lust. Blood. Taste the taste.

Some are better at it than others. The real politics.

By Craig Silverman Columbia Journalism Review

By MIchael Tomaski The Daily Beast

http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2011-05-20/neocons-at-play-making-liberals-squirm/?cid=hp:beastoriginalsL2

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books… http://bschiff.com/

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/43120673

Dominance Games: Thought in the marketplace of ideas

Posted in Commentary,, current events, News, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary,, current events, Democracy, God, Government,, Lies damned lies and statistics, Marketplace of ideas, opinion, Philosophy, political commentary, political education, political fiction, politics, power, Righteousness, social criticism, Social Media, Social Sciences, writing on May 23, 2011 by B Schiff

Always the marketplace of ideas. Always the good, the vile, the trenchant. The ugly, the dividable, the constant. The ill formed, the dense. Always the right to think …uncooked, overcooked, burnt out. Undeveloped, lacking in substance, fact or logical base. Slick, hateful. mundane. Self assured, self righteous. Grounded in the name of God and the angels.

Grand traditions of thought … right; the instigation of prickly combat, the plays for hypothesis,synthesis, thesis. Ideas flourish and blooms a thousand roses and food to feed millions. Knowledge: study, combat, brass knuckles, rolling in dirt. Good thought triumphs over bad, matched in the cauldron of public discourse. This is so.

The battle of the network thoughts can be a supreme battle…. a ratings winner… the best damned scripted reality show on all media all the time, on all social media all the time, on all thug actions all the time. Dream the dream. Open the floor to pure imagination, examination. Winners win. Losers lose. The vanquished get clobbered and virtue accedes as always to put up winners. Grand spectacle here. Grand spectacle there. Grand spectacle everywhere.

Allow for the wins of the neanderthal chest thumpers. Access to implementation of words and deeds is proof of God’s favor… the win closes off discussion…eliminates virtue in the demeaned rancid other…closes off rematch or challenge. The game is of but power and self protection. The game is not of the ideas of soft hearted dupes. Staunch honorable true believers think good thoughts, demand proper interpretations of all others. Never give a sucker an even break. Never give a challenger a voice. …. Democracy is not for the weak. Only for those who can game it…Here there and everywhere. Spring, summer or fall.

Behind the sacred god of gods, the freedom to be a rotten bastard can achieve many seedy ends. Dregs of losers get kicked around in the streets. The exchange of thought in the marketplace of ideas gives virtue to those who wish to shut down the marketplace.

David Crary msnbc.com

Politico

http://www.politico.com/blogs/politicolive/0511/Gingrich_says_he_and_Ryan_are_on_the_same_side.html

Asra Q Nomani The Daily Beast.com

http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2011-05-14/osama-bin-ladens-porn-and-muslim-hypocrisy-on-sex/2/

books… http://bschiff.com/

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/06/danger-falling-tyrants/8493/

Dominance Games: Too damned hard to sell

Posted in Commentary,, News, Politics, Uncategorized, writing with tags Commentary,, Democracy, Government,, news, political commentary, political education, political fiction, politics, politics noir, power, Righteousness, social criticism, writing on May 18, 2011 by B Schiff

Always honorable conundrums, the flies in the ointment. Try to stand for goodness, justice, mercy, all singular goodness, motives and damned good people. Damned good images. Damned good damned support for damned good myths and martyrs sternly and strongly on the sides of the better angels of our nature or the better angels in heavens glorious chorus.

Love the chooser. Hate the choice. Love the honor. Hell if its sullied. Ahh, the fidelity. The goodness, mercy freedom, passion, democracy, love, honor, obedience. Ahh, the heart warming virtue. The frustration, the failures, the damned fine print. Some trick ponies that just won’t do the tricks we got them for.

Fear the future and the past. Patriotic words and happy fire brands. Always entertain and sicken and turn right wrong and virtue to sham. It takes work to frame the fine print. And finesse. And sureness. Damned sureness.

The freedom to be unfree is a freedom granted those who get the freedom to choose. Rhetoric tells them so.

What a problem What a predicament. Go freedom. Go Democracy. Go unholy jail and captivity. Be free enough. Let freedom rin, stoically. In heavens name let freedom ring, stoically. Ahh, the complexity. Ahh, the toil. Ahh, the temperamental nature of worlds and words.

Passions. Wishes. Unfinished business…more. War by other means. Care what you wish for while holding high a beacon to the weary, blurred, wily little word.

Freedom from thought. Freedom from action……Gone with the wind and the talk of the chump. Ahh…… the usual sound and fury signifying nothing. Balance of power. This hallowed multipurpose all in one superbly adept and equally awe inspiring product and export, badge and club, sincere piece of the human soul and rotten apple democracy. Ahh…… the usual sound and fury signifying nothing.

Sell Arab springs. Wisconsin autumns. Central American knives. Sell the cheap stuff in the pretty boxes. Too damned hard to sell the stuff that works. Too damned hard to build the stuff that works.

By Jeffery Goldberg The Atlantic

politics, news, commentary

The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…..the thrill…

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