Mixed Metaphors and Social Commentary


A rage against Foo and a cry from Ragnorok as the battle wages on.
When did the miracle of life become such a third rate magic show,worthy of unjust critics seeking press? The path splitting into narrowing mediocrity. A beacon of hope matching the light of ever decreasing candle power.
Gone are the days of an easier softer way.
Soul sickness and cowardice. Form a merry train heading due South. Just happy to pull the whistles chord we smile. Toot toot tooting into the night warmed by snaggle toothed aspirations of lesser evil.
Afraid to jump into the abyss of forever without regrets.
Crying out a feeble prayer of “if not me,why them Lord?” Or whichever deity can be reached on selective cable channels during regular business hours. Raising a fist rather than reaching out a hand.
Bleating a sheep’s lament through monitored satellite signals,crossed.
To stir the pot of malice smoldering to an acrid scorch only to feed it to the masses post expiration date.
And at the end of bitten fingers dejection can only be pointed back through smoke and mirrors.
It is always worth waking up,it’s staying up that creates drudgery
If you can stand you can fight if just against yourself for yourself.
Measure a distant rock thrown through the window of Foo and see all the wincing squinching and puckering down on Ragnorok

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