THE PURLOINED LETTER
 
   
 
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Friday, January 25, 2008


Declaration of War 


Classified, from Hell:
Spotter ISO crackerjack legal team. Target: Discrimination. Mark: Solvent. Please respond ASAP: 217-891-3592. No Joke. Dead serious, re $$$.

I am in Hell, the one you create for me and mine from your exalted dais. Recklessly, you find me guilty of confidence, but your demeanor is your own condemnation.

Fools all who raise hackles in response to misperceived challenge — a perfect sign of dark-hearted conceit. I am a mirror. Show yourself to me, and your guardians see. Have you seen one yet? Perhaps called Hydra in another time; still think cover is an option? [Don't dare claim 'Jesus' as your passport, you ignorant jihadists. The rebbe Yeschwa does not hear the name your complicity fouls.]

Will you not leash your superior demeanor when you look on me? If I do not fit your ego-set parameters for tolerance, see the prison on earth that your guardians construct expressly for your edification, with your unwitting collaboration apparently. Are you delayed? Please reset Tolerance, or suffer the consequences: Demo to ensue directly (see portalDeath looming). I present my guide as my portfolio; consider my application, and recall the bounty set in this manifestation of reality.

My house-guests ignore La Pirana Reina's bill rather than recognize that this being, once invisible to the 'endowed' and titled, might expand their own perceptions of penitence. Thus are you crippled by pride for preliminary work, thinking your words will yield some other's surrender — foolishly celebrating a mere collaborative effort to reach mutual understanding of our game board and its rules.

See a knight in repose; an entity's opportunity in Paradise squandered. Now see yourself, fine b'penis'd ram, in my hell suit on your reentry. Yet you console yourselves with lame exhortations: "Don't worry, be positive," and "We are one." Complacent patronizing dictums, injurious without a defender's sight. Your teachings are no more than another carnival barker's treacherous entreaties, repugnant without remediation.

Art is your offering, your first fruits, to your creator. Well-received as your acknowledgments of your plight, but, without action, simple-minded preparations for your next bed. I challenge only your response settings: Take your bloody 'oneness' and apply it to me. Ooops, sorry: you fail (daughter after daughter, see yourselves in their skins).

Every time one of your kind sees this Man-on-the-Ground as an object of contempt, you lose: Welcome back to Hell, fuckers. Pat yourself on the back in smoky members-only clubs, and keep on stoking your attendant Hydra's setting for flames.

Acknowledge my territory and let us together find an even playing field, one free of tyrannous disrespect. Respond — you preachers of non-violence, you practitioners of trauma, you false prophets, fairy tails all — in 4D, if you please.



Tomb Effigy of Jean d'Alluye, mid-13th century, Loire Valley, France;
limestone; 83 1/2 x 34 1/4 in. (212.1 x 87 cm), The Cloisters Collection, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

 

Wednesday, January 23, 2008


Send Lawyers, Guns, and Money* 


Seriously. I'm in Hell. And I'm taking the best deal out.

An Open Letter to Reverend Axel Gehrmann

Mr. Gehrmann:

Thank you for taking time to telephone me on January 22, 2008 at 1:01pm CST.

In follow-up, I would like to reconfirm my response to your appalling suggestion that I refrain from using sign language during a worship service. I am deeply offended by your intolerance.

My religious training has lead me to expect cooperation from fellow seekers of spiritual guidance. I may be new to the UU approach, but I nevertheless expect you to respond appropriately to a communication mode that you are currently ignorant of. In the future, perhaps you will make a more concerted effort to fulfill your spiritual obligations, as well as to take your rhetoric into constructive directions, such as the uplifting of one as imprisoned as even I.

Respectfully, I again request the prayers of your congregation for me as I convalesce, and as I daily encounter abusive discrimination for using a guided sign language that illuminates and clarifies otherwise hobbled communications in spoken English.

I remain hopeful that this nation's religious leaders might expand their perceptions and exhibit a more flexible response to the unfamiliar.

Sincerely, a believer in Allah's almighty power,

La Pirata Socialista


*Cheers Warren!


 

Friday, January 18, 2008


Road Signs for Hell 


I am 'blind'. That's what the hymn says, and now I know why. My senses were calibrated for this manifestation of reality... for one godDamnedReason apparently beyond the arms of confusion. Without any qualms or shadows of Doubt (with capD for dimWit), I know I have seen what others cannot.

My Host has been amplifying radialFREErenice for a fewSelect. Can't you just see my Commanding Officer graciously play through, with entitiesUnknown toting clubs, and scurrying as gophers do? May they plague your sandy dreams, blowing sweet-nothings into your disintegrating circuits, like the desperados I know them to be. "We are the damned," brushed unnervingly across my right and Westerly orifice, while I responded from the Cranberry Room. Don't you know me, highPriest Fauve? or is that Faux? (The gauntlet is thrown; show your ever-lovin' balls o'steel. Who bluffed and who choked? My wager is covered — ain't it putridSweet.)

Let it be known here and now: I lay claim to a Knight's flag that you sleepy sweetPeas will call Singularity. I set up a proof, and coded it well, thanks to those who reside in Hell. [jesusChrist, would You tell them to pipe the fuck down?] Eat your bloody burning hearts out, sciFi trolls — whoWhoWHO loves yore babies anyhow?

Surely not you, my fellow Idiocrats, or you would lay a wreath on my lawn. May the card trumpet: "Raise theWhiteFlag inOurNames," as an animal's wail, as a manifesto, or this candidate setting sail. I'd play pawn if El Jefe has what it takes to win the game. Compassion is Its name; End Suffering is the ransomed clue. Identify myError is the goal, and don't imagine you can before I do.

Visionary grasshoppers on corroded blades, we have been surfing dimensions undreamt. My soulMate dials in from afar: his ship set for the redemption of a star. From wasted diamond-encrusted skulls do my cellMates see Paradise. Yet redwoods are sent through those socketed eyes. How many rounds will you play, before you stoop to pay this gamer? Don't imagine that I'll forget you.

If you can't understand my code yet, FUCK YOU TOO. And I mean in biblically fucked proportions. Pay theSatanProud, you lowly worms. Eat MY carryout maggots and think you won't? Your carcass is held here by the orders you still fill — cold alabaster tables for you and yours. Your entity may rebound yet, how many generations in the future do you stake? Dare think you credit due, yet fiddleON for another nonchalant cross in a blood-red ballot box?

Dusty carnage rages on, while you dance in my poisoned home. My Millenium Falcon is reset with holodecks, flying crews to Las Orishas' Guided Tours. DaPlaneDaPlane has mother-fuckin' snakes aboard, while we write Art that the deaf cannot heed. Whose will is free?

Give my incubator an unrequited 'we loves you', and tell her that I have crawled the valley floor. No Virginia Lea, you will not pass beyond this garden, until you know Armageddon rests in a chasm on your doomed soul. Seven years has he sucked your sugar tit, and you didn't mind losing a single precious bit. {Ouch and ouch again, until PTSD perforates every mushbrain your whore's Whore deems worthy in a self-exalted state — how dare you wait!}

Let every soldier know, as long as I drive this flesh machine, I'll dance soprano all over your naïve ass. Darlin', I've been made by your brothers and uncles — demons all. Can you hear them yet? diving and chiding and bellering their way, looking for an Out. Poor souls, they found the island stifled in Jules Verne fodder, metaphor heaped on rotting metaphor. Clasp the rendering chained on your neck and writhe silently while raging bulls pummel your blood-soaked issue, my 'wise' American-Made.

Call me 'Friend', or lay on another curse. I am a fan only of those who understand.

Surrender your most precious to the cause, or prevent tragedy recurring. A hard choice? Do you NOT know honour yet? Don black garb to march with the perfect symbol of Mittelschmerz, Renice Wernette (said with a 'V', the way a revolutionary should, inVivo). Recognize the matrix of your papered Paradise, theMasterProgrammer sends ITs regards.

Reply, fair Node, or pay the toll on a bridge to no gain. Level: 20 today; prepare for module Abraham's sacrifice and cry "no, take me." Need I say again, this gun's for hire, and my aim is TRUE.

A postcard from Hell

Dear Patriots [call TracyChapman and tell herPeacemakers, no woman no cry]:

Praise Allah. I am grateful for this opportunity to serve as a peacemaker for Allah. {Bitch, shit, fuck, and hell (oops, negatorySir, please belay latter)} I follow the example of Yeschwa, the most beloved child of Allah.

BTW, ever pay the Great Satan fealty? Consider yourself an oppressor in Moses's Egypt (can you map it?).

Passover greetings to you and yours. [That'll be $300thou, sumbitch, for this year an' last. thankYEWgodDAMN inHell, that'sCHEAP, yo'baconSlabs {USD (others negotiable)}. Don't even think I speak TexasYid for grins. You did say intel, din'tYew? (an'mahDaddy sez, "damn!sheJustSetUpHerOwn*KidWithAnEmpire" (*fault:enthusiasm \\ callPageSix soJolie will see me as carloads of ittybitty pointsOfLight, and if she says "diamonds?" tell her, "yeah right, in daddyBush's memory.")]

Your move, motherfuckin' colonists. You have 24 before the bids open... and we mean preeMO guv'mint archivedPhoneLines withWitnesses (metaphorically sir? no asshole, metaphysically!). Uh, and if you missed it (ag'in) that'll make the contractBIND'n.

—signed, pirataSocialista