The file on Jeffrey Archer must be thick with the sell of the patriotic lie for the sake of the denizens of his sad province of Weston-super-mare but it does not suppose or pre-suppose that it is a racist vicinity to live and yet it is, not so Molina and Terre Blanche and friends who usurp their poet’s authority by making it clear to all that they hate me so much that they could cry as they did when they died a horrible death from being swept up into a corner of a mule and told not to go, before being taken to the river and there machete’d to death by the fact of their birth and their need for some solace to make do for losing the war as they called it against the black man. It is the aind of the aind for these guys here and they could all be in the good and evil steady rate order of the stipend-route stoff-and-nonsense stuff. It is not that it is so steady a job, is it? It is the fact that there is too many of the evil ones still here and there and shall be more before they are gone.
It is the end of the game for some of the boys in the hood as they call themselves now they have been found out – for it is without the sound of the west to the east movement of the stars to the end of the sky that does all the mistreat and mistreatment type of work that goes unnoticed by the other ones in the world who care so little about the fact that so many are gong mad and yet no one is there to save them?
Is it not the fact that the evil is justified only if it is able to make a head start on us and get away with it?
There is a new space for it and it is called again and again the start of the revolution of the mind as we get away from the start and start on the end of it to make and be sure that it will be the one who gets the end of the sign and the start of the signature who calls through the end of the fart and the start of the smell.
Copyright 2016 Bruce E Saunders