Freitag, 6. März 2015


by Constantin von Hoffmeister

Wherefore should a White man desperate? Took him seriously and went! And I laughed when I saw him. Jack Kerouac is drinking whisky. Jack Kerouac is drinking a lot of whisky. Jack Kerouac burps the Dharma. His White man blues in jeans and ripped to shreds shirt. After his famous and tragic love affair with Eastern philosophy, Jack Kerouac drank himself to death. He never knew Timothy McVeigh. In the Flesh we sanction the living to suffer in the heart of light! The Sacred bears these words: "The time has come to operate these so-called responsible quarantines, as the scalpel cuts through the ancient wisdom of the Aztec killers. Cortez marched through a sea of green to find a land of gold." Jack Kerouac was sitting in a surgical chair, ready for the operation to commence. They cut off his balls and replaced them with silk cravings for faggotry and verse. Wherefore should a White man desperate? Jack Kerouac was blind on one eye. That is symbolic. Jack Kerouac never met Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne was a White crusader dressed in dark, liked to fuck a little boy-hero called Robin, comprende? Batman was Bruce Wayne's alter ego, doomed to failure again and again. Please imagine an explosion in Gotham City. There can never be enough rain to wash away the filth in Gotham City, in nomine patris amen. The White man, struck dumb with astonishment. Creation for creation's sake, I love you and I kiss you dearest darling, tomorrow I'll build myself a fine city. But then White man fucks too many, confront the wound he never learn. A gunshot wound, the White man will fuck a gunshot wound. Desperate and sleazy, fat and munching, games and beer. Except for the most vulgar, boredom falls in laps not wet. Jack Kerouac was trailing a smell of visceral latitude, to recapture absurd tenderness. "If I had the courage," Jack Kerouac muttered. "Do that thing I do just out of nowhere." Wherefore should a White man desperate? To ask if this psychosis numbly thinks. The law in stone silent and unnoticed. Jack Kerouac gripped with cold, talking...talking. Strong and true a window pane, the sea and waves all vice and virtue. The explosion rips the sky, Gotham City dwells in mud and sinks to tunes of wisdom forced. The White man will show himself fear in a tiny load of sperm. Reclaim the gleaming nickel, show the world that truth is gold! Along with philosophy and sociology, the White man fighting and contradicting Odysseus. In Gotham City, the streets awash with toons, boons and goons, the White man left in tears. Jack Kerouac drinks whisky. Jack Kerouac drinks a lot of whisky. The White man killed Cortez and stuck an octopus to everything. With age the seasons falter not fucking. Dry canals through empty scapes of cities dead, no mo' clash and crime fighter talk. Batman's old and shrivelled penis. The White man abandons all hope, not being with the bones of the dead. Jack Kerouac gnarls pretensions and nasty habits as acting. The film was grainy and jumped in and out of focus. "...even if men like the Joker were locked away forever," Batman thought. "The streets would still be rampant, teeming with beasts." Still darker things than that - remorse packaged and gunned down without precision. Jack Kerouac knew that the Flesh was the Sacred. In nomine patris, the White man fucking himself to oblivion, amen. The fragments of this day remain an enigma in the apocalyptic twilight. Discussed the East and crime here true. The Sacred bears no mo' words. When sun goes up and sun goes down, the White man learn nothing but death.

Act II

This is the boredom of children. The children are White. The children are bored. The children are dead inside. Jack Kerouac drinks whisky. Jack Kerouac drinks a lot of whisky. Jack Kerouac's bladder is expanding. Is he able to piss guilt, lies and deceit? The Sacred is a miracle embodied in matter not personifying hope. It was there...bad vibrations. The little band of likelihood success White men drove to the corner-store. "I want to suffer," the first White man said. "How much does it cost?" "You're not tired, are you." the second White man asked. To throw the whole dark bunch out, the options as viable as the late twenties. Jack Kerouac is guilty of the fault of interrupting sharply. The children sing, "Straight in the face! Straight in the face!" Demeaning way imaginable, think everything is allowed. Be present for the White man and hold his head. Who is holding the White man's head? Jack Kerouac batters himself with a tragic fling. Jack Kerouac is running and jumping in a cat-like panic. With the unified Earth Council of Leaders satisfied jacked off moaning bonus round anus-fucking taking charge of sympathetic brothers... The Council will teach the song of malady divine! Batman, caught in web of spider, sun down, dark but White crusader trapped. Bruce Wayne admits it joyfully: "The other by reason of their destiny cannot be touched. The hoodlums here, the hoodlums there, I touch and punish guilty once!" The White man desperate singing, shoulders low, forth directly legs are stuck! Wherefore should a White man desperate? Wherefore art thou desperate, White man? Jack Kerouac seeing the old cripple bitch nigger hag, thinking of jazz and blues and dope and fucking, broke up ties with bones old tie. The children hope whole-brain thinking wise, but doomed in cellars divine forced shit to eat. Impertinence of harems fine, to fuck the same is turn and sink away! Batman, high on rise in Gotham City, calculating mornings brave, reality of nature invisible experience, meditative insistance fucking species divine but sick. Wherefore should a White man desperate? "There is no sharp line of separation," the first White man said, a very long time ago. In end of slime and rat-filled poison, clean barbed flames will flicker zero. 


To fuck the same is lose the game. Wherefore art thou desperate, White man? Batman, in his seventies, cannot play with his old and shrivelled penis. Jack Kerouac, in his grave, can turn and turn and turn and pray and meditate and buddhify, anyway they will die, anyway they will die. It would be desperate unkindness for them to add to their self-protection, self-preservation, maintenance of status quo. Darkness, however, was made. Jack Kerouac washes dishes to pay for his meals. It used to be a simple lot for White men, way back when. Before nuclear radiators and rat-cataclysms destroyed evocative descriptions, making eternal nods ever more vibrant and demanding. The White man bowed down while the Khan rose. The Khan glared savagely at the White man. "When there are no English!" he muttered between his teeth, "when there are no English, this insult will be avenged!" This is at a time when Indians were no mo' brown savages, instead the leaders that married the model providers. Batman is disappointed. Viagra not help his erection failing and failing and dropping forever into a sexist permission to leave. Robin is off, licking cum of negro's ass in urinals on side street B, cluttered with dust and cans of beans still fresh and stinking. Wherefore art thou desperate, White man? Once more, the organic unity of life is no mo' vision of existence organized around a central belief, as the White man is no mo' proud and defiant - once "the morning of manhood has risen," now Batman whines about his shrivelled cock. The "shadowless soul" has been swallowed by too much pride in nigger and gook parades. Jack Kerouac was fascinated by that nigger bitch, deep down under the earth swallowed by blind rage and self-kin-loathing, Fear and Loathing in a Handful of Dust, blown through skies devoid of ether. Jack Kerouac, with his gentlewomanly serenity, had the look of a man who was sincerely miserable in this world.  The world was not his, no sir, Jack Kerouac did not think about claims, no sir, Jack Kerouac thought about Harlem and hookers. Jack Kerouac was not born of the radiant bosom, but instead swindled his way through litanies and cacophonies of the order of the day - beatitude! Through the values of truth, love and freedom, Robin's anus burning from vice versa, the nigger had his day. That's the way to find one's self, stinking rotten carcass act but thought the imagery proud. Wherefore art thou desperate, White man? Roots, sap, seed, shoots, buds, sperm - not enough to fill a day! No mo' talk of the move on the dark to create out of darkness...manifested in his highest creature. No mo' spirit, only blood. Jack Kerouac cries the deep dream of the lonesome traveller, deep inside his cranium whistles the ancient song of the White Kingdom of Time. The White man's is the "glory of godhead," but the nigger has its day, and what the poet labours, the nigger lives it up. 

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