NOW! WRITE SOME POETRY! Down With The Anarchists!

Prince,

I can hear

the trumpet

of Germinal,

The tumbrils toiling up

the terrible way;

Even to-day

your royal head

may fall,

I think

I will

not

hang myself

to-day.

There is nothing after death!

On the side of his head

the accursed black hole!

He has departed

with the fateful mystery

of

his

last

days

and last thoughts

And

what has ruined this young life

has remained [---]

Ugh! Who wants your filthy money? "Mr. Committeeman from the provincial capital." When people talk to us about others they are usually dull. When they talk to us about themselves they are nearly always interesting, and if one could shut them up, when they become wearisome, as easily as one can shut up a book of which one has grown wearied, they would be perfect absolutely. Oh, government was taking too much of your money in high taxes. Where the labor association is powerful, mahjong, dominoes and card games are completely banned. Our MOST PROCUDTIVE citizens-the ones we depend on to carry our flag in a highly competitive world market-had their investment capital taxed away and were hamstrung by well-meaning to free our economy and get government out of the way This week, following through on an initiative we set in motion at the Tokyo economic summit last year, we proposed dramatic reform of the free world's agricultural trading system. Our idea is to open world markets and, over a 10-year period, to end the costly subsidies and price controls that are a heavy weight tied around the necks of the Western economies. Free from this burden, everyone, including the farmers, will be better off. Trade, commerce, and competition are positive forces carrying mankind to new levels of prosperity. And, as usual, Americans are leading the way for listening, and God bless you. It's terrible! It's fine!

This here's a free country. I don't have to if'n I don't want to. I'm an anarchist and a sex pervert. I don't write much poetry. There's a band here tonight. Well, while you have been playing, I have been turning over the pages with some amusement, though, as a rule, I dislike modern memoirs. They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering; which, however, is, no doubt, the true explanation of their popularity, as the English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity is talking to it. Beefheart Street, I think it is called. Yes, this year, for the first time in two decades, the Federal Government will spend less, after taking out inflation, than it did last year. It is the mind that is creating your mediocrity. The brain is part of your body. An intelligent person is bound to become REBELLIOUS. That's an historic step on the road to a balanced budget, and it couldn't have happened without the Gramm-Rudman legislation. I am getting tired. The wind maybe, or the rain, or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking, Paul is a strange fellow. He gazed idly at a billowy white cloud that rolls lazily over and over along the edge of the blue sky. I had pictured in my mind; some day I would surely find someone handsome, someone true. But I never thought of you. Now my dream of love is o'er, I want you and nothing more. Come on, enfold me. Come one and hold me, just like you never did before. Come one. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on

I am tired of planning and toiling

In the crowded hives of men;

Heart-weary of building and spoiling,

And spoiling and building again.

And I long for the dear old river,

Where I dreamed my youth away;

For a dreamer lives for ever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming

Of a life that is half a lie;

Of the faces lined with scheming

In the throng that hurries by.

From the sleepless thoughts endeavour

I would go where the children play;

For a dreamer lives forever

And a thinker dies in a day.

I can feel no pride but pity

For the burdens the rich endure;

There is nothing sweet in the city

But the patient lives of the poor.

Oh, the little hands too skilful

And the child-mind chocked with weeds!

The daughter's heart grown wilful,

And the father's heart that bleeds!

No, no! from the streat's rude bustle,

From trophies of mart and stage,

I would fly to the woods' low rustle

And the meadows' kindly page.

Let me dream as of old by the river,

And be loved by the dream away;

For the dreamer lives for ever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

Rochesterissa, New Yorkin osavaltiossa, poliisimies Brian McCoy erotettiin, koska tämä teki väärin ampuessaan kuoliaaksi miehen, joka uhkasi tappaa veitsellä itsensä (ks. myöh.). McCoy valitti "korkeimpaan" oikeuteen [---] päätös piti [---] sielläkin [---] sillä ampuminen ei ole [---] hyväksyttävä tapa (lol) estää itsemurha (lollo) [---] vaihtaa ajatus liikkeeksi, tappaa [---] filosofia askeleilla [---] askeleet rakastavat totuutta [---] filosofia [---] yhä vain pyrkii totuuden rakastajaksi [---] tongit, tongit [---] vasara, vasara [---] nyökkyväpäinen saksanpaimenkoira [---] nyökkyväpäinen mietiskelevä mandariini [---] nyökkyväpäinen Beatles [---] lopussa, alussa, aina [---] paluu samoihin paradokseihin [---] ehkä olen vain paranoidi [---] [e]hkä olevainen antaa olikean kuvan helluintailaisuudesta [---] ehkä sittenkin meni jo [---] tuo ei ole lämminhenkinen kuva [---] [k][u]ljetko bible-bootsit jalassa [---] jutustelu on kuin silittäisi villikissaa [---] niin olisi varmaan jo helpompi sanoa ettei pahaa ole tai jos rakkauden luvun (1Kor.13)käskyihin lisäät niin sinä huomaisit ettei sotia olisi vaan kun ihmisenä kannamme niitä puutteita joita alkupari lankeemuksessaan sai aikaan joten [---]

Euthanasia, an easy and desirable mode of death – for you "Dreamer Citizens". It should be the recognized duty of the medical attendant, whenever so desired by the Citizen, to administer chloroform, or such other anaesthetic as may by-and-by supersede chloroform, so as to destroy consciousness at once, and put the sufferer at once to a quick and painless death. Naturally, all needful precautions being adopted to prevent any possible abuse of such duty and means being taken to establish, beyond the possibility of doubt or question, that the remedy was applied at the express the neutral economical analysis of the Citizen.

Why, it must be asked again,

Should all this unnecessary suffering be endured?

The Citizen desires to die;

His life can no longer be of use to others.
His life can no longer be justified.

His life has become an intolerable burden to himself;

His friends submit to the inevitable,

But seek the means of robbing death of its bitterest sting —

protracted existential pain.

The medical attendant

Is there at his office

With all the resources

Of his knowledge and his skill

Ready to his hand.

A new cure for incurables!

He could, were he permitted,

Bring to the Citizen

Immediate and permanent relief.

Why is he not allowed to do so,

Why should not his doing so be —

a recognized and sovereign duty? 

Why?

Will we ever find the answer?

Why?

Why can't love be all that matters?

Why?

While we try to understand

Faith and hope are slipping through our hands

Tears are falling down like rain

A flood of questions come

It is getting hard to wake

Is really love so hard to find?

Note: It may well be doubted if life have any sacredness about it, apart from the use to be made of it by its possessor. Nature certainly knows nothing of any such sacredness. The man who could voluntarily give up his life to save another from months of slow torture, would win everybody's good word: why should he be debarred from taking a like step when the person to be rescued is himself?

You may be poor,

But you needn's exist!

Patria o muerte!

Candida pro causa ense candido!

If you have become a sannyasin you have already committed suicide.

It is not destroying the body,

because destroying the body is not going to help.

Committing suicide means you are thinking of life,

you have have great lust for life.

You will be born again.

Sannyas destroys the mind.

It takes you beyond the mind.

And if you are beyond the mind you will not be born again.

The true art of committing suicide: my name for it is sannyas.

I know you are bored with life.

If you are really bored, then meditation is the way, not suicide.

Unless you grow and become a Buddha, you will be thrown back into life again and again — suicide won't change you.

Don't miss this opportunity.

Learn the real art of suicide:

The body is beautiful, the soul is beautiful.

But between the body and the soul there is something which is neither body nor soul.

It is the mind.

It is the mind that is creating your mediocrity.

You would like a totally different kind of life.

That's why you are committing suicide.

Not that you are really against life — this life you are against.

But no life ever fulfills anybody's demands.

The soul is a gift, the body is a gift.

The society has played tricks with you: it has created your mind.

It gives you ambition, jealousy, competition, violence.

Parents give stupidity to their children.

And the children will hand over it to their children.

This is the heritage, tradition, culture.

The mind can be put aside.

The mind is not a must.

The art of becoming a Buddha is the art of questioning everything.

An intelligent person is bound to become rebellious.

infinite universe

If you can love this existence,

if you can feel blessed with this existence,

I promise you that when you die —

you will not be coming back again.

under white clouds

out of all this beauty something must come