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Wherefore should a White man desperate?
Took him seriously and went! And I laughed when I saw him. Jack Kerouac
is drinking whisky. Jack Kerouac is drinking a lot of whisky. Jack
Kerouac burps the Dharma. His White man blues in jeans and ripped to
shreds shirt. After his famous and tragic love affair with Eastern
philosophy, Jack Kerouac drank himself to death. He never knew Timothy
McVeigh. In the Flesh we sanction the living to suffer in the heart of
light! The Sacred bears these words: "The time has come to operate
these so-called responsible quarantines, as the scalpel cuts through the
ancient wisdom of the Aztec killers. Cortez marched through a sea of
green to find a land of gold." Jack Kerouac was sitting in a
surgical chair, ready for the operation to commence. They cut off his
balls and replaced them with silk cravings for faggotry and verse.
Wherefore should a White man desperate? Jack Kerouac was blind on one
eye. That is symbolic. Jack Kerouac never met Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne
was a White crusader dressed in dark, liked to fuck a little boy-hero
called Robin, comprende? Batman was Bruce Wayne's alter ego, doomed to
failure again and again. Please imagine an explosion in Gotham City.
There can never be enough rain to wash away the filth in Gotham City, in
nomine patris amen. The White man, struck dumb with astonishment.
Creation for creation's sake, I love you and I kiss you dearest darling,
tomorrow I'll build myself a fine city. But then White man fucks too
many, confront the wound he never learn. A gunshot wound, the White man
will fuck a gunshot wound. Desperate and sleazy, fat and munching, games
and beer. Except for the most vulgar, boredom falls in laps not wet.
Jack Kerouac was trailing a smell of visceral latitude, to recapture
absurd tenderness. "If I had the courage," Jack Kerouac
muttered. "Do that thing I do just out of nowhere." Wherefore
should a White man desperate? To ask if this psychosis numbly thinks.
The law in stone silent and unnoticed. Jack Kerouac gripped with cold,
talking...talking. Strong and true a window pane, the sea and waves all
vice and virtue. The explosion rips the sky, Gotham City dwells in mud
and sinks to tunes of wisdom forced. The White man will show himself
fear in a tiny load of sperm. Reclaim the gleaming nickel, show the
world that truth is gold! Along with philosophy and sociology, the White
man fighting and contradicting Odysseus. In Gotham City, the streets
awash with toons, boons and goons, the White man left in tears. Jack
Kerouac drinks whisky. Jack Kerouac drinks a lot of whisky. The White
man killed Cortez and stuck an octopus to everything. With age the
seasons falter not fucking. Dry canals through empty scapes of cities
dead, no mo' clash and crime fighter talk. Batman's old and shrivelled
penis. The White man abandons all hope, not being with the bones of the
dead. Jack Kerouac gnarls pretensions and nasty habits as acting. The
film was grainy and jumped in and out of focus. "...even if men
like the Joker were locked away forever," Batman thought. "The
streets would still be rampant, teeming with beasts." Still darker
things than that - remorse packaged and gunned down without precision.
Jack Kerouac knew that the Flesh was the Sacred. In nomine patris, the
White man fucking himself to oblivion, amen. The fragments of this day
remain an enigma in the apocalyptic twilight. Discussed the East and
crime here true. The Sacred bears no mo' words. When sun goes up and sun
goes down, the White man learn nothing but death.
Act II
This is the boredom of children. The children are White. The children
are bored. The children are dead inside. Jack Kerouac drinks whisky.
Jack Kerouac drinks a lot of whisky. Jack Kerouac's bladder is
expanding. Is he able to piss guilt, lies and deceit? The Sacred is a
miracle embodied in matter not personifying hope. It was there...bad
vibrations. The little band of likelihood success White men drove to the
corner-store. "I want to suffer," the first White man said.
"How much does it cost?" "You're not tired, are
you." the second White man asked. To throw the whole dark bunch
out, the options as viable as the late twenties. Jack Kerouac is guilty
of the fault of interrupting sharply. The children sing, "Straight
in the face! Straight in the face!" Demeaning way imaginable, think
everything is allowed. Be present for the White man and hold his head.
Who is holding the White man's head? Jack Kerouac batters himself with a
tragic fling. Jack Kerouac is running and jumping in a cat-like panic.
With the unified Earth Council of Leaders satisfied jacked off moaning
bonus round anus-fucking taking charge of sympathetic brothers... The
Council will teach the song of malady divine! Batman, caught in web of
spider, sun down, dark but White crusader trapped. Bruce Wayne admits it
joyfully: "The other by reason of their destiny cannot be touched.
The hoodlums here, the hoodlums there, I touch and punish guilty
once!" The White man desperate singing, shoulders low, forth
directly legs are stuck! Wherefore should a White man desperate?
Wherefore art thou desperate, White man? Jack Kerouac seeing the old
cripple bitch nigger hag, thinking of jazz and blues and dope and
fucking, broke up ties with bones old tie. The children hope whole-brain
thinking wise, but doomed in cellars divine forced shit to eat.
Impertinence of harems fine, to fuck the same is turn and sink away!
Batman, high on rise in Gotham City, calculating mornings brave, reality
of nature invisible experience, meditative insistance fucking species
divine but sick. Wherefore should a White man desperate? "There is
no sharp line of separation," the first White man said, a very long
time ago. In end of slime and rat-filled poison, clean barbed flames
will flicker zero.
Act III
To fuck the same is lose the game. Wherefore art thou desperate, White
man? Batman, in his seventies, cannot play with his old and shrivelled
penis. Jack Kerouac, in his grave, can turn and turn and turn and pray
and meditate and buddhify, anyway they will die, anyway they will die.
It would be desperate unkindness for them to add to their
self-protection, self-preservation, maintenance of status quo. Darkness,
however, was made. Jack Kerouac washes dishes to pay for his meals. It
used to be a simple lot for White men, way back when. Before nuclear
radiators and rat-cataclysms destroyed evocative descriptions, making
eternal nods ever more vibrant and demanding. The White man bowed down
while the Khan rose. The Khan glared savagely at the White man.
"When there are no English!" he muttered between his teeth,
"when there are no English, this insult will be avenged!" This
is at a time when Indians were no mo' brown savages, instead the leaders
that married the model providers. Batman is disappointed. Viagra not
help his erection failing and failing and dropping forever into a sexist
permission to leave. Robin is off, licking cum of negro's ass in urinals
on side street B, cluttered with dust and cans of beans still fresh and
stinking. Wherefore art thou desperate, White man? Once more, the
organic unity of life is no mo' vision of existence organized around a
central belief, as the White man is no mo' proud and defiant - once
"the morning of manhood has risen," now Batman whines about
his shrivelled cock. The "shadowless soul" has been swallowed
by too much pride in nigger and gook parades. Jack Kerouac was
fascinated by that nigger bitch, deep down under the earth swallowed by
blind rage and self-kin-loathing, Fear and Loathing in a Handful of
Dust, blown through skies devoid of ether. Jack Kerouac, with his
gentlewomanly serenity, had the look of a man who was sincerely
miserable in this world. The world was not his, no sir, Jack
Kerouac did not think about claims, no sir, Jack Kerouac thought about
Harlem and hookers. Jack Kerouac was not born of the radiant bosom, but
instead swindled his way through litanies and cacophonies of the order
of the day - beatitude! Through the values of truth, love and freedom,
Robin's anus burning from vice versa, the nigger had his day. That's the
way to find one's self, stinking rotten carcass act but thought the
imagery proud. Wherefore art thou desperate, White man? Roots, sap,
seed, shoots, buds, sperm - not enough to fill a day! No mo' talk of the
move on the dark to create out of darkness...manifested in his highest
creature. No mo' spirit, only blood. Jack Kerouac cries the deep dream
of the lonesome traveller, deep inside his cranium whistles the ancient
song of the White Kingdom of Time. The White man's is the "glory of
godhead," but the nigger has its day, and what the poet labours,
the nigger lives it up.
- Constantin von Hoffmeister
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