Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville – I saw Negan Fucking Alpha
We must not call the boy mad
Mad is what animals are, with the rabid froth at their mouth
Mad is a dog that eats the mailman who only wishes to deliver their charge
What you wish to say, as I can see with these eyes of mine own rage enmasking them, is that the poor child
is effetely deleterious.. to the causes of their own desire
Why Carol fell back into Plato’s cave, after another had Hemlock forced upon them, not by the deliverer, not the carrier, not even the societal order, but a traitor impairing the vision of all these wearing mask over mask to deceive, to harm one of their own to keep secrets among clear throats, to safely hope to whisper back
To where the lies savor the good taste of rabies
Carol chased her grief
and landed back in the cave
along with several others who want to love the sun, some of which she herself did free
Last night, so late in my own home, my domicile, lonely abode, relaxing on the couch in the lap of this strong legged – though suspiciously stolid letter carrier
I left her there, having given false promises to her Daryl, and the Virgil among the crew, with promises to end the war, and Dante all exposed by this dreaming crew as some mere… architect of hell? (to quote Mulder of The X-Files when he Meets his Virgil (or is it Beatrice?) – Scully “Rewriting Einstein – that’s an impressive credential” – no less to denigrate the Dante canonic, by a casual point at a rose bush with a ‘what’s in a name’ whisper “thornflower”, to say nothing of my ignorance of the written source material of this televisual screed.
Carol pulled the sweaty dynamite from the crate that was found there among the shadows, and took it upon herself, in her pain at her loss of loved ones by the creatures of the night, the armies
To go blow up the shadow and play and herself for being part of the character display of dark and light
I couldn’t bear to watch, I drifted off, into the sea of hope and dreams
Too much sympathy binged upon
And frothed into my pillows and blankets like a hunger, like a fiend
The show that made me want to believe that the man who was the bat man
the dark guardian of hate and control and.. yes.. evil… in this long form play philosophy of the aesthetics of human skulls and their content and exposure to the sun, through the implements of kisses and barbwire baseball smashing open like canteloupe
The show that makes me want to believe… in the redemption… in Aaron the sant… in the saint tied to a tree, and the archer who walks on though thoroughly shot through with arrows… that the barb wire is something worth more than a Pamela Anderson machine
The boy is not mad, he is effetely deleterious to the causes of his own desire
I do believe I’m going moist
Like Bill Hicks mocking those who love the beach
To see too much is not the same
as Not wanting to see
The Haunted Typewriter 