#musebunker

Secrecy serves the few, not the many. The hidden hand will be shown in the light, but by then, it will have changed owners or more appropriately, the borrowers of the dupe, who have continued, heavily redacted, with a "new narrative."

The enormity of implications with regard to the “security state,” foreign and domestic, unfurls the standard response "no one is looking into this."

from tool video for "H"

Crash land. Blume calls in sick. Melodie answers with her usual stiff upper lip smile through the pain consortium of well-worn woe. “I’ll make a note of it.”

“Thanks, Sally,” Blume intentionally replies with the wrong name, a private joke between a requisite wallflower and the object of her undying affection.

He honestly wishes he could love someone that much. At this point though, he not only felt invariably incapable but voluminously vulnerable. Yet he couldn’t figure out why since he NEVER discussed feelings and therefore never allowed himself to get hurt. After Genevieve, that is. She rattled his cage, then took his perch and mirror, out of sheer meanness he was convinced but fuck if that didn’t make him love her more. It as like a drug you can’t get enough of but never do too much.

Where was she now? Probably at the top of the food chain or the bottom of an undredged lake. A murky affair just waiting to clear the air. A way out of a sticky situation like not running from a bear. Or punching the nose of a shark.

Give me all the wicker from Vienna to Pasadena, one step up, three more back. Can’t you see / you and me / there is nothing / left to say

But I’m a-gonna say it anyway.

Aww what good is that? Plunging that rusty nail into my skull, holding my hair under water, trying maybe to see how long it takes for air to reach me when bad men are near.

I found out tonight you were among the living who consorts with demons. Perhaps it’s easier that way. At first, I believed you when you said it was because they were energy personified whereas the forces for good were far less interesting, dry not droll, staunch in their observation always pointing out the furniture that needs replacing, never offering to help, standing around with entitlement tattoos across an anxious rise between the brows.

Oh how I hated that I needed you at one time. Now the threads are bare, you’re a faded fact, a reality blurred, nothing and everything all at once. How I wanted to love but your cold heart made that impossible.

The morning faded into late night remorse, remembering the take to tell, raking your dignity across belligerent smoldering coals. Mic, mic, mic control. Blood on you day. What did I say? Play the music for the people with da harmony/ woah goawwah

Alpha Hotel hole in the wall

Nothing yet

What’s taking so long

Who’ve you met?

Things had changed, and the truth was, no one was happy about it. The Change, Inc.-ers, a grand consortium of greed makers, money changers, black market gurus and political banshees hurled thunderbolts of progress at their "constituents," a swirling mass of goblety-gook, off the hook, writing a book opiate addicts who were now richer than the evangelical soul traffickers. Hypocrisy was in, Jesus took a pass on his scheduled world tour, and humans were put in a zoo. Many flourished there, a great deal more floundered. With nowhere to run, no reason to hide, the human species turned apoplectic and when there was nobody else to blame, a serious bender ensued. Self-pity turned to bravado, introspection evaded detection and all that was wrong became righted when the meek, once they'd inherited everything, took the reins.

We all know what happens next. As soon as the meek became the one per cent deep fake elitist snakes in the grass that had previously been the exclusive domain of the aristocratic class, they metamorphosized into commandeering, bellicose, and insufferable jerks. Except worse.

They hated books and demonized history which only revealed how fucking stupid we'd allowed ourselves to devolve into when we started pushing a medieval agenda in "public" health whole our Epsteins, Maxwells and Lumpocs cryo-fixed their future to live again one day after the dumb-it-down generations had culled the herd for their overlords.

They let a few smart ones live and anyone they wanted to breed with, bringing back insatiable acts of orgiastic hedonistic back channel bachanals way beyond eyes wide shut, dark web snuff shorts and the underbelly of society, a place where all 100% homo sapiens were automatically registered. GenX was registered as a living treasure since there were so few of those beloved early adopters around. She knew because only her queasy stomach could be trusted in a sea of transhumanism perfection.

She'd won the prodigy raffle and now was on display this month only at the Smithsonian, kept in the finest of French wine, organic dates and cage free figs, a steady diet of 'perfect examples of human taste,' aesthetic appeal in perpetuity throughout the universe and other accoutrements designed to put on display what happens when a human being is top notch.

I couldn't wait till my conscription was over, quite frankly. Suddenly in possession of a wild hair up the @*^ , all I could think about was that dive bar on 8th and Rescue that I'd never been to, or how I was 448 short of 1,000 perfectly operable paper airplanes for a giant hangar of invisibility, or what I wouldn't give for another day with my pet duck.

Humanity was precious now. Rare, like earth metals. Or a circus side show, depending on your perspective.

Most of us had, wisely deduced, once we'd been adequately seduced, that we needed to augment our basic mainframe, extend our shelf life, upgrade our system and work out a way to extend life expectancy after the debacle of the intro to the 21st century: WE DIED BEFORE OUR GRANDPARENTS WHO'D TOUGHED IT OUT WITH POLIO, Cancer and Alzheimer's.

We were beleaguered by AIDS, with its lethalality for the ages, followed by endless armageddon-based activation campaigns for our pharmaceutical autocrat class.

Hammered by a relentless stream of

#armageddon brand immunity screens, weened on a regime of persistent antibiotic-resistent

pathogens, we surrendered. Added silicone for protection from the uv rays, disappeared for a sabbatical every thirty four years and augmented our baseless reality at whim and with full causality. We wrote every tick down in our logs, noted the slightest shift in trajectory when it came to ethics, morality, deception as a tactic v delusion as strategy. We almost offed ourselves but

Not with the nuclear bomb version of the ancient upanishads, o'r missing the space ship as with ankar wat & the mayans, burning man sentinels buried head in the sand made from the roughest of diamonds, or even

Soft landing

A version of the storm.

Guilt-ridden prophets

profiteering mechanisms

Enchanted as above so below

Doom'd to Live

🪃

Word on the street

The rose of Venus beheaded the canopy with ritual slaughter, a practice their great granddaughters were spared but not, as predicted, because the end of the world.

by vol three, the venerated public was sickened by deceit, the äveräge man quite literally vomited when government spiel became too cluttered with deceptive ingenue messengers spewing forth forty three mistruths a minute.