The Racket
The people on top are liars and cheaters,
war is a racket when you're sellin' heaters,
They sell to anyone, it doesn't matter your roots,
whether your in a wife beater or three piece suits.
The ghetto needs food, housing and meds,
they're selling you guns and liquor instead.
They're contaminating you with poisonous sugars,
they're pimpin' you out, you corporate hookers.
Recruiting you like an athlete to die in their wars.
They are the pimps, and we are the whores.
Flesh pressed in the orgy of modern destruction,
a gun is a machine with only one function.
The schools are filling up with active shooters,
grown men are posing with barbie doll Lugers.
If they wanted fewer guns they'd just make fewer,
instead its filicide to cater to connoisseurs.
Your children are bleeding out on the floor,
and if they survive they'll die in a war.
Butler compared himself to Capone,
your kids will be flying or dying by drone.
Recruiting you like an athlete to die in their wars.
They are the pimps, and we are the whores.
Flesh pressed in the orgy of modern destruction,
a gun is a machine with only one function.
Patacelsus
A Discordian for 20 years, Patacelsus finally got comfortable when the 21st century “started getting weird.” When not casting sigils, taking part in Tibetan Buddhist rituals, or studying the unfortunate but sometimes amusing stories of the dead, he’s been known to wander the hidden ways of the city, communing with all of the hidden spirits one can find in a city. As Patacelsus sees it, we’re all already free; after completing the arduous task of waking up to that we can then proceed, like a doctor treating a patient, to try to rouse others from the bitter and frightening nightmares of Archism. He laughs at Samsara’s shadow-play in lovely California, in the company of his wife, two cats, and two birds.