May 15, 2022

Poem by Mark Leahy



Here we go back to the early 1980s. Dallas 

is now considered a classic cautionary tale where lower

cost religion it is claimed does not necessarily correspond

to the real globalist risk. Rather we are converted,

as again, she sings: Mamma Mia! It seems the

designers of men’s undergarments have shown themselves to be

more managers than competitors, as a type of artificial

intelligence system compels them to say “I don’t love

you,” making small motions in front of their faces.


I'm sure the dictates of political economy, all those

spiffy touch-menu systems, that from an external point of

view include micro-flows of uncontrollable compulsion to produce, leave

you personally affected. Therefore, the agent of evolution is

not simply some actor that failed to notice their

neural activity while being subordinated entirely to base molecular

matter. When they were speaking, I continued to produce

my dinner, watching “Tina Turner in Concert.” This critter’s

a pop singer, or something equivalent in a network.


“Play near the wall because you are not clear,”

became “Play, Play” multiple times, from their set sentences.

After more than a very few selections, the industry

is morphing, too, to reproduce itself, as a kind

of bubblegum populist take on the brain activity data,

for Capital, with its inescapable drive, suggests it’s the

latter. Will Robin wear the struggle at stake? Not

only through brands of each spoken sentence (a Protestant

school play) read aloud as part of the activity.


The Gilets Jaunes’ Solutionwear could soon be the only

one with anything on it, like nuclear war in

the song by Meryl Streep. As long as the

compulsions of bio-engineered pandemics incorporate a men’s version they

must commute the Senate bill on production of components

for “green energy” sources. Although “junketeers” implies the former, 

the UN operator looks to hold you in line

while using SKIMS, but the power employed is always

as like a gorilla as to a live hand.

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