Friday 29th of November 2024

driving in the middle of the road......

 

All the women I made love to

Are now old grannies or dead too

Remember when time was free

And the apples freely fell from the tree

When sensual knowledge and carnal life

Was carefree living on the edge of a knife

 

Change has made us decrepit less bold

With only vague memories of naked old

For which Eve was blamed in Paradise Lost

Hard to know though who was first for lust

Together the apple was bitten through the crust

For moments of love being a pleasuring host

 

There was no consent needs, just mutual attraction

Drugs, booze and rock n’ roll in locomotion

Our roses have faded and dry leaves have gone

Replaced by respect and happiness of having done

New beautiful summer flowers have opened

Unreachable, too young and too prettied

All the women I made love to

Are now old grannies or dead too

 

Paradise is our time of having been.

 

 

                   Robert Urbanoski — 23/08/2023

 

 

 

 

DRIVING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD…

 

It is interesting to follow some independent information channels, especially those that do not commit obviously to any more than the localised squashed dog, the overturned bus, the voice controversy minus the controversy — or the mulchified news items as provided by reputable run of the mill, like anonymous sources from intelligence agencies, say the CIA or the FBI, on behalf of the Empire masters. The New York Times is thus held in great esteem by Justin Billabong because it shows without fear or favour that nothing done by Joe Biden is beyond reproach (I hope I expressed this correctly), while Donald Trump has been more crooked than a ten-times kinked garden hose on a dry day. 

All is well in the best of the world, despite Albo being a bit wishy-washy — being too nice locally and too brown-nosed on the Empire stage.

Joe Biden is so awake than he can rule the world from his bicycle with his eyes closed, like an angel of afternoon nanna nap on wheels — sometimes telling a funny joke to relieve the tension felt by people who have lost more than everything in their fire that he once felt when his house nearly burned down after a lighting strike. Imagine, Willybiden the family cat could have been crisped then… Joe is a family man. He loves his son.

 

While every one thinks of the Vatican as god’s empire, the Pentagon is where god really resides on planet earth, sending armed angels to make sure the poor natives obey the rules — rules now equipped with LGBTQi+ rainbows and human rights to acquire debt in US dollars.

Driving in the middle of the road, we are in the grip of equalised left and right values, because the Pentagon is only there to fight the devils of the others' militaries — those of China and of Russia. The Vatican is piss-weak on the important issue of armament.

So, imagine a world without the Pentagon — a Pentagon that does not run America! 

Who runs America? We and you know very well that god himself runs the White House from the Pentagon, through Archangel Blinken (Yaweh) and Sullivan (non-Jewish Jewish-impressionist Catholic Irish Christ) who has a strong background in diplomacy (if you pay attention, you will discover that he justly defines inspirational avoidance of diplomacy as a high level of diplomatic skills), establishing himself as a superiorly skilled strategist and advisor to the Temple of Russophobiazeusky.

 

We need to help Zelensky (not the corrupt one) win his (our) war against Russia, because the middle of the road is ours to own — and we want what they have. 

We, Australians, would never survive in this fictitious battle unless we accept that our brown nose is lovely. 

Our Western economies are flourishing contrarily to the bad news coming from the depressing bearers of bad news, including those serious Swiss banks that use a dose of depressive warning to make them profit a bit more, as we move money from one drawer to the other, in a panic that cash could become illegal. 

It’s just a question of knowing where to invest. The military sounds like a good place to park some dosh. 

The old stock — I mean the old weapon hardware that was perishing for lack of war against Lucifer-the-Muslim — that the owners had to wait forty years to achieve full depreciation before buying anew — has now been destroyed in Ukraine, by fighting against the faulty Orthodox. The (your) government needs to replenish the hardware warehouses with new planes, tanks, rockets, you name it. It’s costly… The weapons manufacturers need your money to make newer weapons, though the (your) government also give them your money as well — but you do not get any return on this public investment, unless you’re a member of Congress. 

All’s well in the worldly world…

 

Isn’t is wonderful? 

 

The Russians have no clue about depreciation. We tried to depreciate their countries in the 1990s, a bit like tenderising a tough steak, but we only achieved to create a few Oligarchs that we now have to take to court because we think they are more corrupt than us. Borrell is correct: Russia lacks the elegant sophistication of a Notre-Dame on fire. 

One must say that one has been looking to find elegance in our latest state of affairs, but it has become exclusive and out of our price range. We plod while burning a few sausages on the barbie… 

 

Did I say BARBIE? Hell… according to some critics, this is a great movie that exposes the male-y-tude (sometimes called the maleness) for what it is: Ken(s) is(are) misogynist. As one can see there’s a renewed relationship between the barbie on Sunday (exclusively run by men) and BARBIE (the dolly doll) that has woken up like a snow white in the middle of a dwarf-throwing (now illegal) convention in front of a crooked CIA map of the world.

May be we should drink far less of that lovely red wine…

All’s well in the world…

 

Isn’t is wonderful?

 

And driving in the middle of the road, you don’t want to know who’s winning: Russia or Ukraine (I mean The USA). In the middle of the road, your opinion is worth squat, because let’s be real, whether on the right or the left, your opinion is still worth squat… Not knowing is such a privilege…

 

Knowledge is evil and good is this forbidden tree…*”

 

We know, we’ve been to Religious educationism, haven’t we?…. The imageries of Paradise are mixed metaphors to keep us driving until we hit reality.

 

*“Knowledge of good and evil in this tree…” — John Milton.

 

Gus Leonisky

Cartoonist since 1951

 

 

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HE DESERVES MORE FREEDOM THAN WE DO.

Let’s avoid the middle of the road…

 

sexy subs....

 

Pat Conroy and the sexuality underpinning AUKUS    By Stuart Rees 

The sexual connotation of support for AUKUS should be obvious. An apparent fascination with phallic symbols as large as nuclear submarines, plus language describing how to dominate and penetrate enemies shows notions of security which reflect a top down, masculine interpretation of power.

The AUKUS fanning of an us and them idea of opposing forces, suggests a sexually binary way of thinking, and prompts questions whether women had any influence in crafting this policy.

At different times, former Foreign Minister Marise Payne, former Defence Minister Linda Reynolds, Foreign Minister Penny Wong and senior public servant Kathryn Campbell perhaps played key roles, and there may have been contributions from a few women in Canberra defence think tanks. Yet despite UN resolutions which have addressed the impact of war on women, which have urged the inclusion of women in deliberations about security and defence, the AUKUS outcome looks like a distinctly male achievement.

Sexual potency and masculinity displayed by nuclear weapons, is not new. The bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were code named Little Boy and Fat Man.

The UN’s Institute for Disarmament Research shows policies related to nuclear arms and nuclear- powered warships characterised by culturally sanctioned notions of masculinity and femininity, the former depicted by adjectives such as strong, rational, prudent, active and objective, the latter by adjectives, weak, irrational, imprudent, impulsive, subjective and emotional.

To that list can be added Minister for Defence Industry Pat Conroy’s accusation at the recent Labor Party national conference that those delegates who opposed AUKUS were appeasers. It looked like an exercise in domestic violence. The audience seemed cowed. No immediate vote was taken. Armed with a microphone, a man with a loud voice knew best.

In ‘Sex and Death in the Rational World of Defence Intellectuals’, Carol Cohn describes politicians’ confidence being bolstered by alliances with nuclear powers, or by their country’s possession of nuclear weapons. She records researchers’ explanations of the effectiveness of such violence: the ‘hardness of missiles’ fired from ‘vertical erector launchers’ to achieve ‘maximum penetration.’

Let’s return to the sexual connotation of AUKUS when announced as the US/UK/Australian alliance. San Diego March 14, 2023, a band plays martial music. In the background on a submarine, like eunuchs preparing for a triumphal march to honour a visiting Pharoah, sailors stand to attention. At the appointed time, as though caught entering a place of ill repute, President Biden and Prime Ministers Sunak and Albanese make a sheepish entrance. Attempting to appear slightly sexy, they boast about the identity of their strong, thoroughly modern nations, each country and each man to be boosted by a Viagra like substance, the promised potency of nuclear-powered submarines.

At this San Diego AUKUS orgasm, men filled almost all the seats. Like voyeurs at a stag party, a couple of photographers were the only noticeable females.

In Australia, as complement to the AUKUS agreement, Talisman Sabre war games followed. Thousands of troops massed to practice preparations for war, and in the process sully large chunks of a submissive environment. Four brave men lose their lives when their helicopter, earlier deemed not completely safe to fly, crashes, at which point, politicians speak of loss by dipping into masculine stereotypes about honour when service men and women make supreme sacrifices for their country.

To combat predictable, observations about honour achieved in death, there are other ways of thinking. Shakespeare’s Sir John Falstaff countered acceptance of military glory by insisting that routine references to honour did not compensate for the violation of dignity suffered by the dead.

Poet Wilfred Owen’s protests against the First World War included the same Falstaffian argument:

‘My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria more.’

There is a danger that the billions of AUKUS dollars spent on military force will be accepted as the means of security and so internalised in people’s lives as to encourage them to fear China, to believe that power through competition for arms – mine is at least as big as yours – is the only argument available to those who like to strut their strength even if they prove to be morally feeble.

Prime Minister Albanese’s machismo reprimand to the Labor Conference, ‘Australia needs nuclear submarines’, underlines the importance of assessing the motives of AUKUS enthusiasts. As with patients lying on an analyst’s couch, what is not said usually displays more meaning than repetition of what is obvious.

In deliberations about foreign and defence policy, thoughts about ways to enhance life by building friendships and non-military alliances have not been mentioned. Nothing has been said about a need for relationships based on trust, on recognition of the other, perhaps on tenderness, certainly on equal sharing and on love devoid of jealousy, competition and possession.

In making such observations I’ll be accused of sounding effeminate, of appearing to be an appeaser whose arguments will lead to individual and national defeat. Yet opposition to AUKUS requires rejection of the taste for domination inherent in a brand of sexuality which has contributed to centuries of conflict and to pandemics of domestic violence.

Reference to sexual motives behind individuals’ aggression, behind the arms industry and in their influence on an Australian government’s desire to possess nuclear powered submarines might be regarded only as light hearted speculation. But exploration and expose produce benefits.

Playwright George Bernard Shaw would have encouraged opposition to AUKUS. In deploring justifications for the First World War, he wrote, ‘War cannot bear the terrible castigation of comedy, the ruthless light of laughter.’

It is possible that rude or savage comedy, including questions about sexuality, may still halt the absurdities of AUKUS policy makers who think that alternatives to their ways of thinking are weak and irrational whereas strong men armed with huge submarines will have so much more to offer.

https://johnmenadue.com/the-sexuality-underpinning-aukus-pat-conroy-and-the-vertical-erector-launcher/

 

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HE DESERVES MORE FREEDOM THAN WE DO.

Let’s avoid the middle of the road…

of populism....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHhyLEFpgpc

Kalima Horra: The Logic Behind the Rise and Fall of Populist Leaders like Donald Trump & Boris Johnson Is populism necessarily a right-wing phenomena? Who is populist, and who is popular? What makes these populist leaders so successful?

 

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sexy waltz.....

On October 17, 1812, Lord Byron writes to John Murray, his publisher, announcing that he has a new poem to send him. He writes:"I have a poem on Waltz for you, of which I make  you a present, but it must be anonymous.” – It is in the old style of E. B. & S. R. [English Bards and Scotch Reviewers] " On the same day, he writes a second letter to Murray where he again mentions the poem: "I have in hand a satire on Waltzing which you must publish anonymously, it is not long, not quite 200 lines, but will make a very small boarded pamphlet – in a few days you shall have it."  The waltz was the most fashionable of dance in London in 1812. Lady Caroline Lamb was one of London's finest waltzers. Byron hated the dance. His club foot meant that he could never excel at it. The poem he wrote in October makes it clear how much he hates the waltz. The poem also has a curiously censorious Byron who is critical of the opportunities for public display and physicality offered by the waltz.... 

 

The Waltz

Muse of the many-twinkling feet!  whose charms
Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore! - too long misdeemed a maid - 
Reproachful term - bestowed but to upbraid - 
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 
The least a Vestal of the Virgin Nine.
Far be from thee and thine the name of Prude:
Mocked yet triumphant; sneered at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high!
Thy breast - if bare enough - requires no shield;
Dance forth - sans armour thou shalt take the field
And own - impregnable to most assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz."

Hail, nimble Nymph! to whom the young hussar, 
The whiskered votary of Waltz and War,
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots;
A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! - beneath whose banners
A modern hero fought for modish manners; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame,
Cocked, fired, and missed his man - but gained his aim;
Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh! for the flow of Busby,  or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energise the object I pursue,"
And give both Belial and his Dance their due! 

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine),
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And Hock itself be less esteemed than thee;
In some few qualities alike - for Hock
Improves our cellar - thou our living stock.
The head to Hock belongs - thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to Wantonness the willing limbs.

Oh, Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 
Ere cursed Confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy d - d debts and dances! 
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still - George the Third is left!
Of kings the best - and last, not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and Highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions - don't we owe the Queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud:
Who sent us - so be pardoned all her faults - 
A dozen dukes, some kings, a Queen - and Waltz.

But peace to her - her Emperor and Diet,
Though now transferred to Buonapartè's "fiat!"
Back to my theme - O muse of Motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

Borne on the breath of Hyperborean gales,
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails), 
Ere yet unlucky Fame - compelled to creep
To snowy Gottenburg-was chilled to sleep;
Or, starting from her slumbers, deigned arise,
Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies; 
While unburnt Moscow  yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery Exit to a friend,
She came - Waltz came - and with her certain sets
Of true despatches, and as true Gazettes;
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match 
And - almost crushed beneath the glorious news - 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; 
One envoy's letters, six composer's airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs:
Meiners' four volumes upon Womankind, 
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast,  and, to back it,
Of Heynè, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo - and her fairest freight,
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a Mate, 
The welcome vessel reached the genial strand,
And round her flocked the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand Pas-seul excited some remark;
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight's Fandango friskier than it ought;
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another's head;
Not Cleopatra on her Galley's Deck,
Displayed so much of leg or more of neck, 
Than Thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the Moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!

To You, ye husbands of ten years! whose brows
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse;
To you of nine years less, who only bear
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear,
With added ornaments around them rolled
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold;
To You, ye Matrons, ever on the watch
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; 
To You, ye children of - whom chance accords - 
Always the Ladies, and sometimes their Lords;
To You, ye single gentlemen, who seek
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week;
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide,
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride; - 
To one and all the lovely Stranger came,
And every Ball-room echoes with her name.

Endearing Waltz! - to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish Jig, and ancient Rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt! and Country-dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz - Waltz alone - both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne'er before - but - pray "put out the light."
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far - or I am much too near;
And true, though strange - Waltz whispers this remark,
"My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" 
But here the Muse with due decorum halts,
And lends her longest petticoat to "Waltz."

Observant Travellers of every time!
Ye Quartos published upon every clime!
0 say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round,
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound;
Can Egypt's Almas  - tantalising group - 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike Whoop - 
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be born?
Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Galt's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz."

Shades of those Belles whose reign began of yore,
With George the Third's - and ended long before! - 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive!
Back to the Ball-room speed your spectred host,
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost.
No treacherous powder bids Conjecture quake;
No stiff-starched stays make meddling fingers ache;
(Transferred to those ambiguous things that ape
Goats in their visage, women in their shape;)
No damsel faints when rather closely pressed,
But more caressing seems when most caressed;
Superfluous Hartshorn, and reviving Salts,
Both banished by the sovereign cordial "Waltz."

Seductive Waltz! - though on thy native shore
Even Werter's self proclaimed thee half a whore;
Werter - to decent vice though much inclined,
Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind - 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Staël,
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball;
The fashion hails - from Countesses to Queens,
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes;
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads,
And turns - if nothing else - at least our heads;
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce,
And cockney's practise what they can't pronounce.
Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts,
And Rhyme finds partner Rhyme in praise of "Waltz!"
Blest was the time Waltz chose for her début!
The Court, the Regent, like herself were new; 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards;
New ornaments for black-and royal Guards;
New laws to hang the rogues that roared for bread;
New coins (most new)  to follow those that fled;
New victories - nor can we prize them less,
Though Jenky wonders at his own success;
New wars, because the old succeed so well,
That most survivors envy those who fell;
New mistresses - no, old - and yet 'tis true,
Though they be old, the thing is something new;
Each new, quite new - (except some ancient tricks), 
New white-sticks - gold-sticks - broom-sticks - all new sticks!
With vests or ribands - decked alike in hue,
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue:
So saith the Muse: my---- ,  what say you?
Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain
Her new preferments in this novel reign;
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such;
Hoops are more, and petticoats not much;
Morals and Minuets, Virtue and her stays,
And tell-tale powder - all have had their days.
The Ball begins - the honours of the house
First duly done by daughter or by spouse,
Some Potentate - or royal or serene - 
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien,
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush
Might once have been mistaken for a blush.
From where the garb just leaves the bosom free,
That spot where hearts were once supposed to be;
Round all the confines of the yielded waist,
The strangest hand may wander undisplaced:
The lady's in return may grasp as much
As princely paunches offer to her touch.
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip
One hand reposing on the royal hip! 
The other to the shoulder no less royal
Ascending with affection truly loyal!
Thus front to front the partners move or stand,
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;
And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of - Asterisk - and Lady - Blank;
Sir - Such-a-one - with those of fashion's host, 
For whose blest surnames - vide "Morning Post."
(Or if for that impartial print too late,
Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date) - 
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,
The genial contact gently undergo;
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk,
If "nothing follows all this palming work?" 
True, honest Mirza! - you may trust my rhyme - 
Something does follow at a fitter time;
The breast thus publicly resigned to man,
In private may resist him - if it can.

O ye who loved our Grandmothers of yore,
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more!
And thou, my Prince! whose sovereign taste and will
It is to love the lovely beldames still!
Thou Ghost of Queensberry!  whose judging Sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night,
Pronounce - if ever in your days of bliss
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;
To teach the young ideas how to rise,
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With half-told wish, and ill-dissembled flame,
For prurient Nature still will storm the breast - 
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?

But ye - who never felt a single thought
For what our Morals are to be, or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say - would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?
At once Love's most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so pressed by none but thine;
To gaze upon that eye which never met
Another's ardent look without regret;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough - if not to touch - to taint;
If such thou lovest - love her then no more,
Or give - like her - caresses to a score;
Her Mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore forgive! - at every Ball
My wife now waltzes - and my daughters shall;
My son - (or stop - 'tis needless to inquire - 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree
Will wear as green a bough for him as me) - 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends
Grandsons for me - in heirs to all his friends.

http://1812now.blogspot.com/2012/10/october-17-1812-lord-byron-and-waltz.html

 

BOLD BY GUS....

 

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the house had six rooms (R 18+)....

 

Her magic beauty always silently slithered into my bedroom

I never went to hers in this shared house in bloom

For sex

She wanted sex not love

Always on top to play above

By pushing herself easily on my wood

Naked body against naked body — me immobile understood

While she moved up and side, according to her wants

Her white skin and blond hair of Scandinavian heart

Her mountain climbing physical health and discreet chants

Were like Himalayan jewels in the spinning starry night

Until, having reached the pinnacle of her pleasure, she said now

For mine extasia

Orgasmic release of animal juices filled her vagina

Beyond her vagina — and exhausted we embraced like lovers

Without being in love

 

I never met her parents

Those who created her — this wonderful basket of presents

I only knew her first names

Sasha Jane she was and she remains

 

 

ROBERT URBANOSKI — 23 DECEMBER 2023

 

SEE ALSO: is the pleasure of sex democratic...

 

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