27-06-2010, 09:50 AM
Dunkel can't handle the truth. Jack Nicholson gave us that phrase, and it applies here. Crystalnacht. Bookburning.
Dallas as Salem. Burn, Groden, burn.
Ptolemy desperately striving to eschew the elliptic orbit of the earth, circle on circle. Magic bullet on jet effect.
The photographic record has been shoved into the memory hole. The x-rays have been cooked on the Ronco Forge-A-Matic. Oh, look at the 6.5mm sun setting on the Warren Commission.
And when the unsinkable Warren went down, come the subsequent inquisitions to fall as so many silent corpses in All Quiet On the Western Front. Mowed down by so many water-cooled researchers.
Posner leaves a slight smell of ozone. Bugliosi a greasy stain. The others are anklebiters. No one believes them.
Oswald was a Remotely Operated Vehicle, sent to Minsk, sent to New Orleans, sent to Dallas. Ruby was part of the casino side of things; get us some guns, Jack; silence Oswald for us, Jack.
Douglass gave us the lay of the land, an eloquent development of a theme from Prouty, double-stitched by Horne V. Baddabing, baddabang, baddaboom.
Groden is the figure from Dunkel's better past, the proof that there was a man there once, where now hisses a leashed hound of the Masters of War.
The Sick Floor Mausoleum is a tale told by an idiot, full of mounds of blurry, signifying nothing but a state lynching. The gutless ambush of the peacemaker by the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Central Intelligence Agency whose Dulles hissed, “That little Kennedy. . .he thought he was a god”; the mad generals who sought a preemptive nuclear attack; the industrial barons who had to move those helicopters, who had to build those ports and airbases; the politicians, and the mobsters who loved them, and loved the drug profits.
The Mausoleum is a memorial to John Kennedy, the fifty-eight thousand needlessly killed Americans, the millions of needlessly killed Asians, the heritage of totalitarianism, the boot on the face of truth and freedom, forever.
And for thirteen bucks, they're also charging us for the bullets.
![[Image: feqark.jpg]](http://i48.tinypic.com/feqark.jpg)
Dallas as Salem. Burn, Groden, burn.
Ptolemy desperately striving to eschew the elliptic orbit of the earth, circle on circle. Magic bullet on jet effect.
The photographic record has been shoved into the memory hole. The x-rays have been cooked on the Ronco Forge-A-Matic. Oh, look at the 6.5mm sun setting on the Warren Commission.
And when the unsinkable Warren went down, come the subsequent inquisitions to fall as so many silent corpses in All Quiet On the Western Front. Mowed down by so many water-cooled researchers.
Posner leaves a slight smell of ozone. Bugliosi a greasy stain. The others are anklebiters. No one believes them.
Oswald was a Remotely Operated Vehicle, sent to Minsk, sent to New Orleans, sent to Dallas. Ruby was part of the casino side of things; get us some guns, Jack; silence Oswald for us, Jack.
Douglass gave us the lay of the land, an eloquent development of a theme from Prouty, double-stitched by Horne V. Baddabing, baddabang, baddaboom.
Groden is the figure from Dunkel's better past, the proof that there was a man there once, where now hisses a leashed hound of the Masters of War.
The Sick Floor Mausoleum is a tale told by an idiot, full of mounds of blurry, signifying nothing but a state lynching. The gutless ambush of the peacemaker by the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Central Intelligence Agency whose Dulles hissed, “That little Kennedy. . .he thought he was a god”; the mad generals who sought a preemptive nuclear attack; the industrial barons who had to move those helicopters, who had to build those ports and airbases; the politicians, and the mobsters who loved them, and loved the drug profits.
The Mausoleum is a memorial to John Kennedy, the fifty-eight thousand needlessly killed Americans, the millions of needlessly killed Asians, the heritage of totalitarianism, the boot on the face of truth and freedom, forever.
And for thirteen bucks, they're also charging us for the bullets.