Politics is the art of the private enforcement of common law and fact, the only system we’ve ever had. A word, is placed on something, by myth with an object. The object, a badge, a gun, a pulpit, a computer, a desk, a home, a couch, is just an illusion, your game. No, it’s up to you, the common man, to be a leader, and any man may strike you down, in the humanist term of logic. What is humanist? We are all the same, and there is no class, it is an illusion, created by the flaw, in your hands and limbs and arms. The older you are, the more flawed, therefore the more powerful. The king has no limb, and no mind, only eyes. To be blind, is to be strong, to be deaf, is to hear, and to be a monster, is to feel.
This is MI-6.
Penuckle, is a game, for children, adults, and convicts. Politics, is learned here, not relearned, as each, has to adapt to a new situation. You have your right thumb, three gaps in your right hand in fingers, and your left hand counting to five. There are two players, no more, impossible for less. Your thumb, each turn, a simultaneous spin, your decision, has to go lower, to get a score, on your thumb, impossible to place without a finger already present on your left hand, tracking the score, thumb first, down the hand, to pinky, win. Every time, you get a point, you take a point, from the foe, even score, on your hand. Two tops at once, on the top of the hand, gives you a mutual point, even, on top. You cannot stop playing penuckle until you both win, no hugs, that’s queer, that guy is out of penuckle, he’s retired. Then, you play a game of some other type, a ‘sport’. Could even be dinner, with the lady.
This is the relation to theology at its most basic term. God, is the Mob. The People, are Protected. Evil, is a Penuckle. The Grave, is an Angel. Hell, is Defeat. The Devil, is MI-6. God, is a method, of striking a man, if he’s evil, he’s used a penuckle strategy, and you’ve matched him with one created by the Devil. He goes to the Grave, and if he survives, he’s in Hell, in pain. If you take an innocent man, and send him to Hell, and he lives, he’s the Devil, an MI-6.
What is MI-6?
It’s a secret society, of those of us that practice the common good on contract. We’re rumored to be alcoholics, but those are men in poor night sweats, or whores, but those are women that seek fame. We’re the hookers, the johns, the gigalos, the pimps, the cops, the wharfsmen. Any time you seek power, you seek us. We can give you anything you want, and we trade among ourselves. We’re professional thieves, a fictional intelligence agency, created by the British government in name, to control us.
To give us a name, is to give us honor. To give us a movie, is to give us shape. To give us money, is to hire us on contract.
There’s an essential way of naming every contract: know the father, hate the mother, and figure out what we did to earn the piece of art you have our father show us, with our mother being saved with our achievement.
Then, the title follows. Only an MI-6 can hire an MI-6.
Poetry Munitions 