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Thrusting deep inside the news pharynx

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Ἀργειφόντης
ne mē swōr fela āða on unriht
100% consensus trance

Zephyr

Better bad news, half-true more-or-less, 100% of the time

dragon024

breaking

1

schizophrenia corner

by Cyril Bazbaz

hello & welcome to schizophrenia corner, and a very big welcome from both of me, isn’t that right? Yes it certainly is.

We’d like to start off right away, wouldn’t we? Yes we certainly would; by introduci- uhh should i go on? Nono after you, you sure? yes please. Positive? Certainly… introducing our very special guests Simon Scuff-Jones, the psycho analyst taking the pseudoscience world by storm. Two psychoanals? No just the one he’s schizophrenic, too. Ah so sorry, not at all, i love you, love you too, sure? *sniffs* mmm.


—Scuff-Jones, welcome to the intervie-

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

—Pardon?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN? “I DRINK TOO MUCH”? I DO NOT.

—Professor you’re here about the condition of schiz-

WHERE WHERE WHERE? GET UNDER THE CHAIR!

—What!?

I’M GETTING OUT OF THIS CRAPHOLE! EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF! *jumps out window*


Well that was Simon Scuff-Jones, best selling psycho analyst, wasn’t it? Yes it certainly was.
Goodbye from me at Schizophenia Corner, and cheerio from me. We’ll see you next week with the ghost of famous chomo nonce, John Money. Tata for now, and a big kiss on the nose. Little forward.. Jealous? Not at all, you’re so controlling sometimes you know. Oh shutup.

Conspiracy Corner

by Juice Longshanks

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philosophy centre

by Splig Pipkin

Watch out, there’s an aggressive new philosopher on the streets calling himself “Kung Fucius” that’s been causing a ruckus, and even assaulting multiple philosophy softies during debates. Philosofties.


On page 72 we analyse a brand new theory by Zlavoj Sizek that “Plato loved critical race theory & was actually a sissyboy that didn’t wear any panties!


In local news, little Billy calls Maoam Chomsky “a goofy old honky“, a prole from Gorsty Knoll has called Deleuze & Guattari “silly little commie poofters“, Miss Pribble of Chipping Campden claims Rousseau was “a foppish, froggy fatty“, Willy of Winsbury says that Empedocles of Akragas “was a proper ponce just like that brothel boy, Nietzsche”, Pippin Pecker has called Foucault a “fucko“, & Mrs Brackets Pamela Betterment (of the tenements) Billston confirms that Marx “had a room temp IQ“.


In this weeks philosophy corner we examine a report that leading West End shops are selling their own philosophy, and we ask the question:
Is the viability of empirical knowledge simply the denial of a priori concepts of essence? Or, is the existential state (in the teleological sense of Cock Pooper’s falsifiability criterion) another form of Occam’s razor? or is it all just a load of bollocks?
Mr Usury, chief philosophy salesman at a leading West End shop is here to respond:

This is simply not true! Our philosophy department provides the best, the most exclusive, & certainly the most expensive philosophy in the world. What is more, our philosophy is sold by proper salesmen in suits, not flogged by scruffy little peasants! Fortnum & Mason philosophy starts at around 18k per annum but our shop starts at a whopping 20k per year. It’s based on what Kant called ‘pure wealth’ you see, we pander to the rich. Marshall & Snelgrove philosophy states that: ‘If thee hath no moneys, ye are as a tiny piece of auteur in the eyeholes of extremely ryche folk.’ It is as easy for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heofon as it is to stick a needle into a camel. Don’t believe me? Over yonder you’ll find the pet department where Maudlin the camel awaits the Doubter’s Needle. Conclusive proof.

—B-b-but Mista Usury sire, what if we be poor & such?

If thou’re poor then ye should sell what little ye have & give it to the extremely rich. It makes them much much much much much much richer. Harrod’s philosophy teaches us that ‘All wealth belongeth to the ryche. If thou were to steal from the ryche then thou must be kill’d, for better it is- to be dead than poor’, a maxim from the gift department.

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poetry corner

by The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!

Allo und velcom to ze poetry cornah! Ya, ya, ich bin es, Cyril Bazbaz again but I just love to writing in ze superior Übermensch accent, ya? I love ze techno musik sounds, electronic bleep bloop finger in my ash. Tonight we has a very fantastisch selekschun off poems for you! oo ya.
i wrote a poem once, and me, yes how did it go? that’s right, AHEM..


A Cultural Mess of Pottage [by Cyril & Cyril]

some lads try to pick up birds & get called an arsehole.
but this never happened to Fabio Gestapo.
he’d walk down their street & ladies couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.

women would turn the colour of an avocado
when he drove down their street in his Eldorado.

so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.
oh well, be not bitter machismo, el goblino, this is the story of Fabio Gestapo.
he’d slither down their street & birds couldn’t resist his bravado,
so Fabio Gestapo never got called an arsehole.

not like you. grow some bollocks.


Zank you zank you, now onto our local submissions. Our first piece is by Tina Bourshan who’s an 11th year sociology student at Chicken-Soup University.


Freud Is My Daddy [by Tina Bourshan]

cocoon
gravid, damp
rubbing, longing, crying
worship, cave, fantasy, slave
weeping, riding, birthing
arid, pink
piss
(this is a critique of terminal kapital)
(subscribe to my onlyfriends btw)


Woawee, supah stuff! A big zank you to Tina, don’t you just love modern artistes? who even needs discipline, ya? Poetry Corner truly is a catch-all vegetable drawer for any & all mouldy neuroses! 
Now our next piece is a real banger called:


Highschool Hermit (Metaphorically Speaking) [by Neil Vivian-Twang]

He’s cheesed off with Chaucer, thinks James Bond is cool
Can’t wait until he grows up & leaves school
Harvey the hermit lives in his cave
Too old for train sets, too young to shave
Highschool hermit, metaphorically speaking
Do you wanna be cooool? Is that what you’re seeking?
Metaphorically speaking.


Oo ya, herrlichen! Now onto our next poet who is completely illiterate, a recovering alcoholic, looks a bit weird & did i mention illiterate? A modern day Cynewulf! Here’s Johnny with his first ever poem:


Phantom Future [by Lȳthwōn Johnny]

o dreadspawn! thou that mediateth thru cloudz of subtlety @ the watchdoorz of hades… blinded all 2 the course of single raindrops.. ladiez & jentlemen, every moment a tremendous celebration.. but we tear up & trample the invite. each chain’d 2 a pinhead of light, brizzle drizzle webs the horizon while the realm spins immaculate thru silver strands. shell holes pocking roof tiles; this landscape of nouns. hwicce, ēðel.
now a clown frowns & opposites fall ounce by ounce making innocents of criminals & turncoats of all. in fickle frenzy the poet’s eye & pencil’s point shades no more, & as imagination fades, the form of things known turn 2 babylon’s whore. a body w/out organs 2 airy nothing giveth shame, a distant whimper shown in cinders of extinguished flame.
harken 2 the beat of swaying feet that creak beneath bare treez; the breath of yesterday playing in leaves. a rhapsody of rags & moth-eaten flags & worm eaten poles unstirring our soulz. the rebel sons of mirth, þēow & serf, whom toil’d
in fog & field the eorð. thousands of years of people’s blood wails through soil & mud & wassail while the incel ponce squeaks ‘chud’ @ prole & bloke, on angelcynn neck a norman yoke..
a tale older than magna carta. the caves groan w/ the shackl’d & martyr’d. rivers of gore that in streets of yore & stone were paved & bartered away, orphaned, betrayed & hid, robbed of history, bowdlerised & rebranded. the woruldcandel blinds & the realm shines benign as amorphous blobs waddle thru smart cities in search of foreign dine. mutants w/ every week a spectacle to keep them in line, clapping & tapping they’ll cheer the decline. viddy w/ dumbstruck wonder crystal domes of plunder, a giddy & feckless fable; gobbling crumbs from under the merchant’s table.. syncretised, colonised, appropriated.
what happens when historicity is forbidden? rewritten? revised & castrated?

whoooo caaaares.
however much these jabot twiddling nonces try to murder & rewrite history with their dribbling fantasies for narrow political purposes, the remains of the corpses lie everywhere to be seen, and even heard. 
the arcane simplicity of verisimilitude. their fictive reality, a phantom future.


Woaw he said it, he said the thing! Wunderbar! Just unglaublich. Not really, very amateur trash today but we will see you next week for even more poetry by local weirdos, only available at The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!