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In GOF We Trust

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'Spy Vs Spy'
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In GOF We Trust

by John Kendall Hawkins

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Shocking Lessons U.S. Military Leaders Learned by Watching Putin's Invasion

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Well, I dunno. According to the link above

(God used to be a link: Then the Tree fruit made us think,

and my reader-response to Voltaire tells me we need more such links,

because "Man" still hasn't ironed out the kinks.)

"We," the People's reps and shadows have quite taken to GOF.

Gain of function. Sado-machismo surprise.

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Beat the snot out of them until they reveal their secret plan

Beat the snot out of them, make a doco, show it at Cannes

Gain of Function.

Gain of Function.

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Roper Doper Ali's feint until Joe Bugner's nose just ain't.

It's Spy vs. Spy. Why lie? Fix your tie.

MAD's gone, Lampoon's gone, Rampart's gone, f*ck You's gone.

We've been inoculated against the absurdity of it all.

We're almost ready for the Second Fall.

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The Steele dossier was g-o-f to see what Mother Jones would do.

The Cambridge Analytica was to see what Facebook faciles would do.

Wikileaks was to see what the rest of us would do. (Nothing.)

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NATO's cuban-missile-crises to Russia peppering Europe. GOF.

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John Kirikaou said we "tortured" AZ 83 and KSM 183 times to see what would happen:

KSM rapported with a dooshbag and wrote poetry to his torturer's 'ball-and-chain.'

One poem was called "I Hate You More Than I Love Life (But I Can Change"). The poem, an instance.

That's what. John said. Waterboarding leads to Poetry. Gitmo is filled with poets.

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It's not nice to fool with mother nature. That's the elephant in the room. (Yeah, that one.)

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When we get to the hivemind I'll be able to beat the snot out of you (and you me) just by thinking about it and let's just hope our collective doesn't turn into an Animal House food fight.

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They'll say that it's a Conspiracy Theory, but we'll never find out who they are. I reckon.

Spy versus Spy. Here's mud in your eye.

Just leave me in the room alone with 'Rona for two minutes. I'll get some answers.

He'll spill some beans: I like teens.

Spy versus Spy. Laugh so hard you cry.

Spies up the yin/yang. Laughter 69.

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If you look too long at the virus, the virus also looks into you.

Can a pop song be far behind? Look at Kelly's new spikes!

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We goad. The Russians attack and we see their flaws.

They see "us" seeing their flaws and note our reader-response and act. We re-act accordingly. And so it'll go, said Turd Blossom.

The military budget goes up. Kissinger's on his ancient knees praying to Nixon's Ghost, Please?!

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9 Eleven├ "× was to see what "we" would do. We cried, after crying Be Strong!, Oh my GOF, you'll pay. We took off our gloves, as if to say

But the Saudis never even apologized. MBS even swarmed Bezos to see what he would do. Space is fragile, his deep report.

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Now they have machines manned by monsters. Manimal machines who hack minds. Baboon behinds issuing double binds to human kinds.

GOF your thoughts all day. Step in front like bullies. Annihilate your privacy. Programmed to see no difference between thought and utterance.

Gitmo by gizmo. This is the future of Man. Slaves to AIs already.

Posses of serial killers, night riders,

John Wayne Gacy in costume on 60 Minutes explaining his practical philosophy, showing pictures of the kids

tictictic

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You'll know the end by the absurd laughter of casual sadism creeping in.

Te-hees out of place. Schadenfreude becomes a virtue. Waterboarding parties are held.

Joseph Kony swarm stories told by confidence men and gypsy grifters.

American sadism as gross domestic product and chief export.

The sense of return to Eden, God waiting, Didn't I tell you to stay away from the tree? Now go to your room, I'll be up with the belt.

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The Earth turned into a Gothic Asylum of the lunatics, for the lunatics

like Danvers State, just down the road from ergotty ol' Salem,

the cover of Foucault's Madness and Civilization. A leer between fingers.

The sense that the world is a helium-filled balloon let go, laughing gassed away into flaccidity

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If you had any sense, Ophelia, you'd get yourself to a nunnery.

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This is no time for visions. Hit the light switch on your way out of the room.


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John Kendall Hawkins is an American ex-pat freelance journalist and poet currently residing in Oceania.

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