..from BLOOD UPON THE MOON.. ‘Paytriotism’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The moron-in-chief is bellowing blandishments about
who to blame and how he’ll fix them, and it and us and
the entire country if this must be known, sounding
as much a bully as degenerate tool championing the demonic

A pure victim preaching a screed of vengeance, echoing
down the corridors where no power flows towards
the great unwashed, those born in anonymity
enduring invasion and alteration of scenery and a landscape

Of wailing babies thrust into another time change, fists
clenched and backsides spewing mortal frustration
against the ability to adapt, renew and prosper amid
all the obstacles and plinths of worship: one voice, one people

One country undivided against itself, the body politic
invaded and now to be restored to former glory,
after termed parasites and the infected are removed
leaving the corpse of patriotism to prove worthy of one more story

Unlearning what war means to distinguish between the focus
of good and evil, the narrow confines of a superlative truth
the small hunched tunnel towards another gas chamber: no journey
toward or onward cheating history again in a frieze of movement

Caught like lovers on a Grecian urn, now not forever young
as Keats had it but burned in effigy by the caricatures
come alive, holding truth hostage to their involvement,
seeking reparations against what they perpetrate and endlessly become

Golum, Golem, the perverse Prometheus, if you knew and did
not have to guess amid a flourishing ignorance of history or
Santayana (what he said), all ready to grab their chests in sentiment
crying salutations and promises of virginity to the new Death’s head

©Dean Baker

Karla Monster

image from twitter account
kh

 

Poor Paul. All he could do was rape. What a thrill
to subjugate. Karla whispered to him, ‘I like to eat
pussy, you know. You can be king, deciding fates.
I will be the Queen of their souls.’ Paul was decided.

Previously all he had done was rape and beat, now
he’d have some fun. Own the instruments of doom,
be their final sun who would love him so: his wife,
mother to the squall of children, would make him right.

To kill, to take the life possessed; absorb the sweet
trembling flesh into his own: finally, born again. All
by the sexy frau revealing greatness: what he’d
been missing by strike and run, rabbit. Gone, again.

Poor stupid Paul. Karla ruling after all. In charge
of schemes where he’d be set to take the major blame.
Misled, beaten, so what the hell: the prizes a once
in a lifetime gift that didn’t have to be replaced.

Solicitous, knowing innocence, hooking fish. Come
with me and see the world of my malignant cunt,
she’d think. I’ve done my sister but the bitch died.
So maybe repeated death repays that mistake.

Sweet blonde, for whom to eat was to die. Feed
that twat like I’d eat your breath. Queen Tarantula
in the web of bliss where slaves obey: yet
disbelieved, must by King Paul’s rope strangulate.

And afterwards shaken up eliciting tears and muff,
men trolled in clubs while cops powerless watch. The beaten
girl in the skirt, the evil bride: o holy slut, you lie.
Put on trial by men who rush to judgement, then she smiles.

Prison camp and more muff. Any who aren’t tough
enough, she’ll rule til they choose or die. Another idiot
afterwards giving children; a paradise of life in
the Caribbean, perhaps Quebec, ticked away in suburbia.

Those girls aren’t women. Even her sister, amidst the
stupid Paul’s crimes. Karla knows the masque complete,
her existence a taunt of defeat, eating ordinariness. Listen,
you can hear her laugh same as when those kids died.

She breathes, she enjoys, the dresses up.
Seductively pleasing, hooked one more willingly who’s
complicitous. Of course it can’t be we’re guilty, too
that she’s on top of the world, minus common work.

But this does please her to be known, alive
with her victims dust. You and I undone, she just hasn’t
yet gotten around to: so sufficient that we rage inside,
against the night she brings to choke the life out of us.

©Dean  Baker

-excerpt from BLOOD UPON THE MOON, 132 pages, $18.99

 

*Paul is Paul Bernardo. Former Scarborough rapist never caught; met Karla Homolka
and married. She’d volunteer for ‘his’ ideas to kidnap, torture and sexually abuse teenage schoolgirls.
They also killed her sister by feeding her drugs while Karla had sex with her.
They videotaped it all. Hid the tapes in their house. He was caught; she suspected, with detectives – and journalists present in clubs -watching for days she still picked up men for casual sex.
The government made a deal with her pleading a victim of his: the innocent bride beaten up and manipulated, because the cops did not find the tapes in their house til afterwards.
Given that he raped and ran, did not kill, it’s believed through evidence of the tapes she manipulated him into willful events, and really was in charge of the schemes and murders and didn’t mind taking some beatings to establish that as a fact.
He got life. She did a plea deal for 12 years.
She’s out living in the open, with children.

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Europe, and Other Disasters: Our Lost Neighborhoods

I’ve enjoyed Europe. I’ve even considered returning for a visit. Not now.

The first time I went to Europe was to embrace the life of poets, writers, musicians, and artists originating from ‘there:’ that mythical place of ancient and new ways seemingly distanced from North America due to the ‘reality’ of life here, and the possibility of an intermingling of reality and Romance there.
I wanted Europe to stay in Europe. More so now than ever.

First time in England I was sitting with the family I rented a room from, with the BBC news on. The talk was of Chile and Pinochet in September, 1973 with a widely discussed notion that any time soon the USA would go in there, shoot Pinochet and set things right.
The mood wasn’t one of triumph, but a mood of mild discontent since another of the world’s stepchildren needed to be set right by Big Brother whether or not anyone else agreed. A sort of disenfranchisement, with the unspoken idea that this was something England ought to be deciding alongside America.

Obviously the disenfranchisement has spread, with the origin being that of a spoiled child soiling itself in revenge against the better judgment of the grown-ups.
And now that the coming election has resulted in a lot of flailing about in regards to the candidates, Europe’s enjoying the discomfort, as they imagine it.

Meanwhile they’ve had their early warning, first from Melanie Phillips in Londonistan in 2006/2007 after the tube and bus bombings. And still other countries ignored the warnings, and what was revealed about the European infestation by Islamist terrorists.
It’s been exactly as if there was an incipient death wish amongst all the countries.
‘Let’s ignore our reason and go with the notion of our idea of fair play having more influence than nationalities, and their religious/political machinations of world domination.
Especially Germany. What perversity caused that nation to basically say, ‘Hey, over-run us. We miss it.’ Quite similar to the Canadian notion of cultural diversity working itself out as Multiculturalism as a symbol of just how advanced and good the incubating nations could be. Never mind the realities of importing people who were definitely not of a European caste of mind.

Examples of how this did not work abounded everywhere, as well as why it did work at other times. It worked when the host nations were serious about including those being absorbed; not having to consider the idea that they just might not want to acclimate, might not be grateful for a new life free of the troubles of the homeland.
Imagine during the late ‘60’s and ‘70’s if Irish immigrants decided it would be a good idea to openly organize themselves along the lines of the IRA. Fortunately the only morons doing so were the over-privileged so-called ‘negres blanc’ of the upper middle class and above in Quebec (FLQ), and assorted countries like Germany (Baader-Meinhof gang) and Italy (Red Brigade).
They aligned with the murderous anywhere, all the poor mistreated whiners in Cuba, Quebec, the PLO, etc., whose means of influence relied on indiscriminate killing and slaughter. Terror. Their useful idiots in North America were always and will always be empty heads whose need to feel alive is apparently only felt when they can inflict drastic change on others.

‘Useful idiots,’ as Stalin would say, because they are the unwitting tools of unacknowledged armies making backroom deals with the economy and the world as its run in whatever country at the time.
Sometimes it’s the smoke-filled rooms, other times it’s the blood wet sands. One usually leads to the other, though, in connections vague but traceable.

The world as it stands seems to have morphed into a fluid mass of black and white. Simpleness, for simpletons who cannot and have no interest in the differences between that, and a reality-based simplicity.

In the USA there are the bobbing heads of a carousel of broken-legged horses led by the circus barking of Donald T-Rump, the Populist. People believe T-Rump can win, will win, ought to win, fervently.
He couldn’t possibly have been slotted into the race by the masters of war as the 99%’s placating puppet, while other forces of greater influence as usual go to work less directly.
Europe laughs at the blatant and indulgent lack of sophistication of a Trump, and thus the USA. Meanwhile, they’ve been invaded and the ‘alien pods’ are set to germinate.

All this while Canada, and the USA accept Syrian ‘refugees.’ So from world Cop to world Babysitter. And no serious ideas of how to deal with either aspect: just enlarge the debt and spend.

The entire idea of going to Europe – England, Ireland, Greece, Italy – was they weren’t interchangeable.
You’d go to London with the idea it was London, not an anglicized version of Toronto, or New York. Thus, the reverse: when you returned home, it was your home.
Customs, appearances, eccentricities solely belonging to your country, city, town. And if you wished a reminiscence with concrete reminders you could always visit whatever part of the city contained those other countries’ ‘neighborhoods’.
But you didn’t lose yours in doing so.
To me that was the essence of visiting Europe – it stayed there.

Otherwise you’d lose your own unique country/city identifier, and in doing so become disoriented, lost.

Maybe that’s why what is occurring in the Anglo countries seems so at odd with what is expected. We’ve been displaced. We find ourselves strangers in a ‘lost neighborhood:’ our own country.
With the world pouring in, in physical realities and/or moods and influences, we’ve become the ‘dp’s’, displaced people. And there’s no place to go: we’re already here.

The invasion has already occurred through the ‘notions’ of a people lost between the idea, and the realities that constantly seem to intrude.

©Dean J. Baker

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Tormenting The Monkeyprose/political satires
The Lost Neighborhoodpoetry