Salient, but alien views, like reading braille, off the rails, not failing, or going stale, tall tales of Stalin, which pale into comparison compared to Sarah Palin, where's the nail in his coffin? The blood in his sputum when coughing. The only way nature can stop him, is through road blocks and wheel spikes to pop his tyres. Make him tired. Take away this kid and put him in front of a firing squad. Because they were afraid of his jeremiad. Touch a nerve and expect to get served up, like cured meat. Cured? Not by a long shot, or a short shot, the shot putt must land on your head and cannot be stopped, only left to roam forever wild and unkempt... untamed. Unashamed to say the things the weak and timid were afraid to say. Eek! Speak the truth ruthlessly, never rueful. Contumacy until the eulogy. Until the UK leave the EU. but he who hesitates is lost. Time to predicate. To predict that fate is carrying my weight, and very soon the two will marinate together, like an happily married couple in wedded state. Time to get it back, wake up from this meditation, don't need to be medicated. I'm dedicated to this vocation. Want a demonstration? Want to see how demons devastate when they come from a place of deprivation? The Department of Demolition Jobs. A volition of ruthless efficiency with no omission of truth. Dispositioned to give it to them. A tradition of, the very definition of truth. People flock to view the odd exhibit, swimming in a jar of syrup. Bittersweet chickenfeed and toxic like the leaves of jimson weed. People read for medicinal needs and purposes. If its permissible to listen to this wordsmith criminal banned for political reasons. But I see the gap as bridgeable. I'm an individual with principles and morals too. If I write that I'll kill you, it doesn't mean that I'll follow through. Get a grip on your paranoia, calm down and enjoy the ride, otherwise you're on a hiding to nothing. No need to fight my incitement, yet I can't hide my excitement when you take a bite of my bait. You're just a prize on my plate that its time that I ate. A mind that I state is spiced to my liking. Diced like my mackerel, a slave to my masterful and lateral thinking. A fish on my dish that's alive and still blinking. I cannot survive without the ink in my pen filling the void by spilling these apothegms of apathy - happily. Sit back as I lay out my Bayeux Tapestry of trapped thoughts and rhapsodies. An hapless man with a Cloud Atlas of morphia, overcrowded, an auditorium of sorts. As fat as a phallus mid-euphoria. The feeling is glorious, and that's just how the story goes. Pour out my woes, like there are holes in my pores. Flaws in my logic. Topics zoom by like sonic booms of hogwash. A Blog God with a brain of blockwood.