First Contrast

Alas! And Ee Gads! Betwixt blotto and bajanxed my fella men of Manx, upon a quandary I have stumbled and blessed be the meek for they shall inherited the earth. I smell a rat in Denmark, and I haven’t yet been to Paris. The telescreen is spouting again and the Pixie’s dust has left me aloft of the second star and on to mourning. Where is my mind? With my feet on my head and my head on the ground, compounding my interest in this lost generation is the fleeting feeling that my percent of the cut might be quite miniscule. A Piece of the Action, please. Zut Zut Zephrame Cochrane, speed my soul to the final frontier for this northern exposure has left me in a winter of my discontent. The crudely cut coupons I cajoled off the back of my can o’coca cola has since expired and I am sadly stuck in post colonial Williamsburg with past due postage. Judge Judy has rendered her final verdict and the Blair-ian nightmare of this modern post world must continue its reach and cspan over all the airways. No anti—trust fellas, no anti-trust, for in faith and the farthing we till till fallow. There is no Gap in my genes, for I am in truth a truly anatomically modern homo-sapien, and the flame in my souls smithy withstanding, I too will forge a head.

POST: M.I.A. – in 3rd world democracy. Yeah. I Got more records than the KGB. So NO funny business.

Between the fraud Freud and the blasphemer Blake, the dichotomy of my taxonomy leaves me to question my constant state of ambiguity. The telescreen is shouting again and the Kalishnokovs have taken to clashing, Bernie made off with all my money honey, and the God of Reason is Treason. So says my radio, my head agrees. A great schism in my consciousness has produced this call for culling. This town ain’t big enough for the two of us, so despite bull or bear, either a merger or a split. A house cannot stand divided, and 50/50 ain’t 100. The ol’ factory has stunk up the joint, and I adore the essence of mustard gas in the pale sunrise. But alas, I am remiss. Auto didactic, response synaptic, lost in a labyrinth of my own short comings, e.e. (typo – editor – make note, i.e.), with no hope of escapism. I am a soul sundered. Forged in twain, marked from my very inception dualistic.