loved by thousands, yet actually by no one, dear Morrisey, bemoaning the fact, but keenly aware of the grand paradox. still, better than so many millions loved by no one, neither thousands, not one single soul—all those loveless, shameless, millioness sprawling harlots, all those loveless, lonely, unloveable monkey-men in their lonely monkey-men beds. then some, the lucky ones, now and there, loved by one, but usually loving some other, unfulfilled one. no, almost always, loving some one else while being loved by somebody who, in their turn, are often unloved. so, what is better—these 'stars' loved by thousands and millions, but in fact loved by no one, except for their status or money of course, or the sad millioness hydra-headed loveless? for in the day of human life, lovelessness is far worse than lawlessness. thus, even if your mom loves, you win. and your dad, which is much rarer, even better. and, yet, your gazillione'd kitts&pups do not really count, sorry to say. love yourself first, some shout from the rooftops—yes, great, but not quite, close, but no cigar frankly. you can do better. still, you say, what about the dead, wet ashes of yesteryear loves? so much time wasted, so few moments of brightness and laughs that shook those low, overcast skies. much ado about nothing.
Big Lonely, Utter Melancholy
...it seeps into you, through the dense, low, overcast, late October skies, this acoustic magic, the sweet, brooding voice, the utter melancholy, the big lonely, the moorlands and the wind—is it Denmark again, o, Denmark thou sweet hopelessness seeping deeply, dripping in with the sugary memories of cinammon, of tumeric, of ginger roots —hidden too deep.
things were talking out of his ass...
it sounded as if things suddenly started talking out of the friend's ass as he hastily took leave to one or another of his daily stops, it sounded very much like the NPR broadcast, it made you both laugh, the phone with its automated, nonsensical rigmarole—its frightufl bullying insistence not much different from the so-called pundits, the politicians, the professors that keep telling and explaining us what is what and who is who and why why every single minute of our lives in chains invisible.
you can see the Gulag light system in a workplace, in the way the system is being set, the way the various hand-picked obamas and clintons will climb over the dead bodies to the supposed top of the gulag pyramid. you can see always the mediocre, often the very worst, get the promotions, the pay raises, the position in which they can bully and manipulate their work minions, you can see the blatant militant stupidity of it, reflected on every level, every corporate dungeon much like the other, with the top incompetents firmly perched up there somewhere off-shore—the higher up the invisible hierarchy the more clueless, the less aptitude surely—and yet you have these top mountaineers shoved up your ass every single day, these gates, these buffetts, these creepy, nonentity youth zuckerbergs shoved up your ass as the paragons of everything, the determiners and bright lights of a dollared universe —or else, or else, here comes the bombs and here the bucketfuls of democracy, the uranium deplete galore.