it was mostly about fen, he had a lot to say, but it may have got garbled in my translation. i had a dream of barney walking and pooping in the street, but the street was hollow, overlaid with a trellis or grid, and there were artist's living and working below, like subway stations. i was a fraid barney's poop would fall on an artist's head, who looked up at us expressionless. it's probably just boring and not worth mentioning like other people's dreams. but one thing that is not boring i have learned very slowly and unmethodically: capitalism is the master race.

all my rhymes be wounded rhymes.

 in the short run (and thus far, human history has consisted only of short runs), the victims, themselves desperate and tainted with the culture that oppresses them, turn on other victims.  
                                                               howard zinn,  the people's history of the united states.

 

but what the hell, i live on dreams.

speaking of tribal cultures, you know what we do to tribal cultures, if we cannot enslave them we slaughter them or incarcerate them. the ones here who came before us, the ones now in the ongoing war on the world.

for all the wasted time, i love you.

free your mind, your ass will follow.   george clinton

history's news is told by the conquerors.

i don't mind so much the spoils of empire, it's the lies and propaganda that insult my spirit and intelligence, and the death, my god, it's horrendous.

i suppose something is always scarificed. you got to kill if you want bones.

new haircut, same old crank-head.

the present is a kind of past.

                                                           the excuse of progress in the annihilation of races.  howard zinn
(and species.) dug

there's nothing to fear inside.

we can do better.

but we'd have to start over, so forget it.