The Wax Conspiracy

[a] door being

[a] door being the unfair victim of violence, mark of the beast on the beast: a jackbooted boot strips paint and leaves twisted metal revealed underneath. O2 + 4 e− + 2 H2O → 4 OH− and the race... is... on... to prevent the transfer of electrons from iron to oxygen. How, you ask? Cold hard cash; earned the hard way and now painfully lost on the stupid indiscretions of others.

It was the best of times, it was the bratwurst of times. The weekend, long by usual reckoning, had started badly – sent astray by the worst of bum steers, and by a publically-funded institution no less. The ripples started here and in these waters one can’t flounder as one is accustomed and as one intends.

Ones and zeroes flash in anger in the computer brain, but are suppressed before any real damage is done. Proof that the chemicals in the medulla have settled; proof that the pills are plying their trade; proof that the axons have slowed their roll: breakthrough psychology, ride the Damascene scene & convert convert convert.

But this trespass cannot go unanswered! And I know who to look for, the girl with the skinhead hair who was kicked out of the club by the meat-head invigilators. And I know what the problem is: a license expired, revoked by the human race for unceasing callousness. And I know what’s gonna happen: I’ma bide my time and I’ma Chips Rolley that mu’ahfucker, you best believe.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Wednesday, 3 October 2012

The Wax Conspiracy

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