Dog Poet Transmitting…….

May your noses always be true and discriminating.

Ladies and gentlemen!!! May I have your attention? Please direct your eyes center stage. Pay no mind to the Nimrods waving their hands in the air; hitting each other with pig bladders, chasing midgets with seltzer bottles, screaming, yelling, spraying stage blood into the audience and doing whatever they can to distract you from what is going on center stage. That is just the Zionist Banker owned BBC (Boobs, Bumpkins and Catamites).

Please note the man standing front and center; rapier thin, looking a little like Fred Astaire but too handsome to be human, with a gaze of timeless insouciance that says, “too cool for school”. Of course he is. He didn’t come here to learn, he came here to teach. What’s going on? You might ask. You might well ask. This has been heating up under the paint rags in the janitor’s closet for some while. It’s been coming up that long slow grade with a multitude of ore cars. It’s moving faster than you would expect but they've added extra locomotives behind. The news is coming from the left. It’s coming from the right. It’s growing up through the sidewalk, soft and sweet but hardly dreaming. It’s wakey wakey in the achy breaky world of the ‘where can we hide’ (cotillion)?

Mr. Apocalypse has put his pinstriped engineer’s hat on and it goes real nice with the pinstripe suit. His eyes are blazing with a fire and the fire teleports across space onto the covering of every object that he sees. The fire burns away the covering and reveals the intrinsic truth and nature of whatever is exposed. There’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

He’s the master of verisimilitude, past the appearance in fact, into the essence. He knows what’s what before anyone but the people involved do and sometimes he even knows before them and a lot of the time they don’t know until way too late peiod. Evil has tunnel vision. Evil thinks it moves unseen and sometimes that it doesn’t matter because it is protected from consequence, as do stockbrokers and bankers, sitting like Shelob in her lair. The bones of their victims are scattered everywhere in the darkness and those yet to be drained dry, are hanging in webs from the roof of the cave. Mr. Apocalypse has got the light of Galadriel and it burns the creatures that live in the shadows and they cannot approach. When Truth comes marching in, at the turning of the age, there are no lies nor armies that can stand against the tide.

The light of truth is fierce and… try as you might, you cannot see her features, she is just too bright. It burns the veils upon your eyes. It sears the darkness of the mind. The pain is unbearable for the Kali Yuga Crew and the freedom indescribable for those whose hearts are true. For those bound up in evil, it is a consuming fire, while those liberated by the light; they dance upon the pyre.

Something smells like something dead in London. The sewage from the toilets of Hell has backed up into The City. The stink is like a second skin. The reek of what they’ve fallen in. It flows and courses in their blood, so the devil knows his own. The summing up is coming. Christmas is coming in the finest sense of giving, as the bankers and their bitches are on the Christmas list; all the coal in Newcastle will be less than they deserve in their stockings hanging above the eternal hearth into which they will be thrown.

Mr. Apocalypse is the master of ceremonies at The Armageddon Club; come one, come all, with no RSVP. The only assigned seats are in the VIP section and nobody wants them. Too bad about that; all those seats are assigned and no matter where you may be in your flight from culpability, you will be in ‘your seat’ wherever you are. Back in the day, back in the London of Dickens, when they went to hang the pirates and certain extra special skells, according to however badly they were ripping off the people who considered it their sacred right to rip off the people exclusively (bankers, politicians, priests), the executioners used to shorten the hangman’s rope, so that the necks of the condemned would not break and they would twist and jerk as they slowly strangled.

Here is one of the most enduring illusions in times of darkness and that is that the laws are somehow relevant to the protection and well being of the public. The laws, like the police, are created to serve and protect the rich and powerful and only incidentally anyone else; if at all. This is why they say a law degree is a license to steal. This is how it came to pass that the Supreme Court, which supposedly is there to protect and interpret the tenets of The Constitution, wound up violating the most important protections of the public by granting corporations personhood. For this alone they should be strung up on lampposts. They are guilty of high treason and the worst possible abuse of office. They are lower than a dung slug and have no prayer of reincarnating as anything quite that high for a good number of lifetimes to come… and then some.

One should take heart and embrace hope at the vision of ubiquitous corruption everywhere. One should be trembling with an electric, chickenskin sensation of unbridled optimism at how bad it has become; how avaricious the governments and the priesthoods and how bottomless seeming is the sea of perversity on which the great ship of the moment is sailing. You should be thrilled because all of these things are testimony and evidence to the absolute certainty of cosmic readjustment. Look at the concealments being stripped away from the murderous, satanic pedophiles who rule the UK! Look at the bumbling stooges at the BBC. Look at the currency of lies and the sky high inflation. Observe the banishment of truth from all public discourse. Observe fair dealing made impractical in the marketplace. Observe the suicidal dances of the mass of the privileged and the public; physics, logic, every legitimate science, every analytical tool and every measuring tool says that balance WILL BE restored; that it is imminent and unstoppable.

Thank your lucky stars that you are not among the feckless elite, whose parasitical nature has survived for so long upon the backs of the ignorant and confused. Be grateful that you had the class and restraint not to prostitute your creativity and talent to the specifications of the coprophagists who run the entertainment worlds. Be of good cheer that there is some shit you will not eat. Let your heart swell with gladness that you are not among those celebrated for no more than their capitulation to mediocrity and perversity. You are not the architect of The Unmade Bed. You are not the architect of Piss Jesus or Elephant Shit Madonna. Do I feel that the religions being taken to task are less profane than these works of uninspired bad art, created for no other reason that the acquisition of celebrity and controversy to be converted into financial gain? No… that’s not the point. Be grateful you are not Kardashian. Be grateful you are not a fundie. Be grateful you are not rich, powerful or famous with zero justification for any of them.

Mr. Apocalypse knows who you are. He knows who everyone is. He is the ruling spirit of this time frame. There is nowhere that he is not and there is no force anywhere that can contend with him. He is here to kick ass and take names and quite possibly bestow some amount of favors and awards in places vigorously ignored by those who have presumed themselves the arbiters and judges of what has value and what does not. They are hand in hand with the rest of those responsible for constructing the state of the culture we are in. Is it beautiful? Is it inspiring? Need I say more? Uh huh

Okay, I’ve taken up enough of your time- some book and movie recommendations in the comments section.

End Transmission…….