"The Monkey Mind and The Dog of Desire on The Streets of Fire; The Jitterbugging Monkey Mind of The Sad Apocalypse."

God Poet Transmitting.......

Was it 2013... 14? Somewhere around there it was that I met Mr. Apocalypse for the first time, and... he told me he was going to nail them in public... pull their pants down... literally and metaphorically before the eyes of The World. He said they were going to be exposed in convincing fashion and ruined for all future enterprises against the rest of us. Slow forward to 2023 and now we see it by the day.

We see it in Hunter Biden and The Big Guy. We see it in all the clowns running through the halls of power with seltzer bottles and rubber noses. We see it in the awful films and music. We see it in the street demonstrations of sexual dysfunction... pulling down their own pants in front of The World. By incremental degrees of cluelessness... The World is no longer amused.

I was thinking about other periods of time in America... Europe... The Middle East. I was thinking about the periods of depravity that came along now and again... how it reached a level of intensity and... something happened. War? Maybe plague? I imagine it was different each time.

I thought about The Temperance Movement when alcoholism became so problematic in the cities. Drunks were everywhere. Now the Tranq zombies do the latest Thorazine shuffle ♫ on The Streets of Philadelphia ♫ One bright storm of summer from The Sun... will wash clean all the streets of The World, and... I WILL see that day.

Then I was thinking about men in bars. Men anywhere, seeing a beautiful woman and being drawn... sometimes against their will... sometimes driven by their carnal nature. They don't know the woman at all. Whether they admit it to themselves... they have only one thing in mind. It doesn't matter who she is... what she's like. There's just the urge... the mind captivated by her appearance and proximity.

Their biology is stronger than they are. Stronger than their good sense. Stronger than any impulse to step back and wonder about their intentions... and I was seeing this clearly across the centuries... everything from Helen of Troy to Heloise and Abelard... and all the other poetic pecker tracks on the trail of destruction that lead to and from the scene of the crimes.

The dead and gone that were spawned by a single passion; no different than the road kill that died for the same reason; the mating dance of creatures, and... I was thinking how the whole spectacle just sent me in another direction. If I had to feel that way... I wanted to feel that way about something everlasting. I didn't want to play hide and seek with her... moving back and forth... in different- forms through time. I wanted to be in her arms forever... or not at all.

The Monkey Mind is walking The Dog of Desire on the streets of fire... in a time of apocalypse; the jitterbugging monkey mind of a sad apocalypse... writ large and personal... on the tombstone of all the things that might have been... the record of failure... ten thousand times the size of The Vietnam Wall... the names written over and over... again and again. Time's sandblaster is continuously moving over the face of the memory of things best forgotten.

I thought about familiarity breeding contempt. The mental offspring that won't leave home... that stay as reminders of ill-conceived and spent passions... leaving footprints in the memory pool mirror where she studies her face. The lines engraved forever and gone without a trace; Moon she come, and Moon she go.. always new and always old.

Now I am seeing the definite truth of what I was told by Mr. Apocalypse. They smelled the victory... drawn out with promises of plunder and material delight. They believed their positions would protect them. They imagined their friends would come to their aid... such friends as men like these have.

They thought they could buy it... if they couldn't steal it... with the money already stolen for the purpose. They stood in a Mitch McConnell trance... bewitched by the jitterbugging monkey mind of a sad apocalypse.

Their legs are trembling and bounce up and down. These are the men with a terminal itch... possessed with the image of The World... as... their... bitch. She's a harsh mistress when you can't bring her down. She'll turn on you brother as soon as she can. They can't turn their backs. They can't walk away. They're doomed to the end of this ugly charade.

It's some kind of sex thing... devoid of romance. The violation is the turn-on... even more than the contact. They came down for the rape of the sidewalking hips. They came and they went through the trembling lips of The Old In and Out... the old in and out. The organ grinder taught them to do the bend and dip... these jitterbugging monkeys from the sad apocalypse.

All the mysteries of time for them... it all came down to sex, and so they went and screwed themselves and everybody else. Sex indeed... that mystery... of Ishtar's special trade. Bumping... and grinding... is the cardio of Hell... where the flames of desire are licking at your parts... burning without respite in The Land of Broken Hearts... The Land of Deep Regret... and they just keep on going cause they haven't found it yet.

How come your body hurts so much? Why do you long for death? What is this searing agony that comes with every breath? All of it was so much fun... back in the days when you were young... piss and vinegar they make an evil-tasting wine... especially when you're running out of everything but time.

How did it come to this? How did it come to this? These jitterbugging monkeys from the sad apocalypse... are nothing more than replicants of thoughts inside your mind. They're the flashcards of your panic... and the traffics getting manic... and the radio is dead... so you close your eyes and listen to the monkeys in your head... all those dancing monkeys holding up their signs; “tranny this!: and “tranny that!” and ice cream for the jitterbugging monkeys in your mind.

I can see the rough beast that Yeats mentioned. I can see him clearly... on the road that stretches across The Event Horizon. It is not Bethlehem toward which he slouches, and his hour never quite comes around at last... except where he has been invited by the rude customs of those who have... collectively... lost their way.

He's the gatekeeper. He's the man who sells the tickets in the kiosk. He's Yuri Harari in a dress constructed by another man who hates women. He's screaming about conspiracy theorists and the idea that a small group of psychopaths seeks to control The World... yet he... himself... previously claimed that The WEF intends to orchestrate extinction policies... and intends to rule The World in the aftermath. How is this not the very conspiracy he declaims?

The state of denial... the disconnect... it is amazing to see. I marvel at it.

Oh! These freaks and geeks... these misanthropes from the dark side of the bottomless pit. They are most certainly going to have their pants pulled down in front of The World. They are losing control of their minds... soon they will no longer remember who they were. They will stand gazing like Ozymandias upon a field of nothing. They'll be like Norman Bates in the final scene... talking about how he wouldn't hurt a fly. This will buy him no relief from the flies, however.

They don't suspect a thing... these imperious men... who rape children... these twisted creatures with no manhood at all. They do not suspect that the danger to their plans is present within them. Is indeed guiding them to their utter failure and a lasting shame. Their names will also be inscribed upon a wall... where drunks go to urinate. Perhaps it will be in one of those side alleys off Bourbon St.

They will be pursued for a very long time by Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner, and The Hound of Heaven. It will all be in their mind, but it will be as real to them as all the other things they had planned for everyone else... these hopped-up... jitterbugging monkeys... from the sad apocalypse.

End Transmission.......

Some links are to be found at GAB=

Let me not overly disparage Philadelphia, even if it is an animated Tarot card of what bad government can bring. The Usual Suspects REALLY got their hooks into that place. Here's something to cleanse your palate by one of the most gifted artists I have ever had the extreme pleasure to encounter.

If The World can hold on and sidestep the possibilities of annihilation... the technologies of the next several years will revolutionize and transform material life as we know it... but all real and lasting change comes from within.