You can write or yell or croon about it . . . paint about it . . . act about it . . . shit it out in mobiles . . . So long as you don't go and do it . . .
Senators leap up and bray for the Death Penalty with inflexible authority of virus yen . . . Death for dope fiends, death for sex queens (I mean fiends), death for the psychopath who offends the cowed and graceless flesh with broken animal innocence of lithe movement . . .
The black wind sock of death undulates over the land, feeling, smelling for the crime of separate life, movers of the fear-frozen flesh shivering under a vast probability curve . . .
Population blocks disappear in a checker game of genocide . . . Any number can play . . .
The Liberal Press and The Press Not So Liberal and The Press Reactionary scream approval: "Above all the myth of other-level experience must be eradicated . . ." And speak darkly of certain harsh realities . . . cows with the aftosa . . . prophylaxis . . .
Power groups of the world frantically cut lines of connection . . .
The Planet drifts to random insect doom . . .
Thermodynamics has won at a crawl . . . Orgone balked at the post . . . Christ bled . . . Time ran out . . .
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