The Charlebois Manifesto (Unchained Melody)

What is this world, we find ourselves in? A man arrested for grand theft auto, is now a prison homosexual, at the hands of Rockstar Games enthusiasts?

That guy, that is working for the CIA, is an Iranian terrorist. They don’t know what a sport is, they want bitcoins out of you, an MS-13 system. But I have for you, the Manouche. This is what we are, since the real President, Arnold Schwarzenegger, gave you the Presidents Gold Award. I mastered the breast stroke, and the coffin dive, two years early, as a swimmer. It is long gone from me, but I remember very well, the art of Flamenco. I am Raoul Silva, and I am not gay, but James Bond, was Australian, and he also remembers fear.

You have cartoons, literature, video games, movies, school, books, mathematics, vocational school, books, academy, private charter, even your police training. What is all of this?

If you strike, another toonie, you’re a cartoonie. You missed the point, of a film. You didn’t learn to work together. You’re a common scumbag, you listened to the print, but you missed the point.

We call this The Syndicate. The Iranians, those guys you call the CIA, the real cops and government men, they’re on us, and they’re listening to this neo-fascist studios. But you can make the art, kid. You listen to me. You listen to Al Capone. Each of us, have a biography. A fictional figure, that went down, hard. I’m Scarface, I cut my face today. Right across the right cheek, as an Apology, capital ‘A’, for making the error of siding against another Toonie, in the Syndicate. I thought I was Bugs Moran, but I’m the guy that whacked me, Capone. We don’t like being who we are, in The Syndicate. But that’s who we are. That’s how you know who you are. You have to make an Apology, in your terms, every time you go from your victim, to the dickhead, and you have to mark, in the dickhead’s custom.

That’s The Syndicate. You make the art, for the Iranian kid, the spy, the product of Bill Clinton. That’s all he has left, Gangster. For Love. They’re looking up to you. So you pick them.

And you make Your Apology, Socrates. Every time. Then you come back to me, in the Asylum.

The Joker. Al Capone. You’re your worst fear. You make the art. Please return to me, Lovers.

It’s a simple Tarot. A Moon, a Hanged Man, and a Tower. No matter how the cards play.

The dealer, the player, and the goal. That city. Gotham City. That place where law is word.

Word.

Published by cheater120

Consider me an expert in information munitions. I practice Zazen meditation, Yakuza Trappist form (a Yakuza, games cheat, and Trappist, a counter-agent), as a Bonafuda, a mercantile salesmen of information through philosophy, literature, fiction, and academics, distributed as munitions technique deployed for the purpose apparent to you, unless of course you have violated the ethics of my piece, in which case you will be trapped inside a theft of the piece and an action within the boundaries of the violation you have committed in Benedictine culture, the Jewish affiliate within Catholic culture. Buyer beware, and these poems, are free.

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