ROCKET TO NOWHERE

Who is this corporate Anti-Ray Speen? He is Roy Spoon (formerly Ro Spain).

To escape the stigma of Our Nameless Decades, Pantheon Books, on Jan. 1, 2020, will publish 40 books at once by Mystery Man, Roy Spoon ("'It' Boy of the Twenties," "Voice of Our Time," ) including novels, poetry, science fiction, Westerns, sex mysteries, essays, memoir, and prophecy. The publisher can expect to dominate all best sellers lists for a year at least and Spoon will soon be accepted as an immortal. He's a 27 year-old trans-man, from Kansas USA, no less! Expect a Nobel Prize for Spoon by age 40.

According to anonymous sources, "Roy Spoon" is not one man but instead an army of 100 English Majors creating Immortal Masterworks for a half-cent a word and no royalties or credit. My world and welcome to it.

THE AVENGERS "Avengers"

Last Revision of SEPTEMBER 1, 1939 by W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-Second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade;
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
Find what huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I
will
be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair.

THE STORY OF TUESDAY

I walked to a deserted public library and used a computer for the first time and strangely, I felt vaguely to blame for these new USA super-horrors. I can almost recall a public conversation in the Nineties about hating the way the grotesque World Trade Center ruined the NYC skyline, and wishing out loud that the Twin Towers be demolished. Just idle talk in coffee shops, discussion of the bomber that crashed into the Empire State Building in the forties, and speculation about weaponized passenger jets. Not sure if this is delusional or accurate.

SPORTY SPICE IS YOUR ONLY FRIEND!

I know it's not wrong that she only feels comfortable when everything---everything---is wrecked, but see, you see, Our Sporty Spice is pretty fukkin' vulnerable tonight. Yes, she's even asking God why He has to be this way, and yes, she knows the answer already, the only answer even possible: The Usual Nothing.

She asks anyway, maybe pretends that she has at last got the attention of Someone who never paid attention to Us before ("God in Three Persons, trapped!" she might exclaim, only if.)

Now, in a backwater, from the furthest reaches, out of East of Nowhere, way outside, here comes the Umpteenth Anti-Christ, and now Sporty rings out a worldwide alarm, no one nowhere does not know and all us fux pay no attention. In this New Now, it's left to Our Sporty Spice, she saves Western Civilization (which she worse than despises) again, and Now, most likely, she's horribly damaged in the effort, and sadly, Post-War, these specific symptoms, her Fuckin' War Injuries soon become The World-Wide New Emblems of Occidental Female Sexuality.

Sporty sells Stupid Sad Sex to YOU for decades and--for then, for now, for always ever----Look Around----SS has without killing one worthless Alpha Primate-Image-of-Highfather-King-Christ-Holy-Ghost AKA the Anti-Devils Kill Squad, she has from yesterday, until today, and going forward from here toward what? The Stupid Sick High-Hilarity Fact of all of this is that, you might as well face it, chum, Our Sporty Spice has without any effort at all taken over almost all of this in every way Wrong and Worse-than-Worthless So-Called "Spaceship Earth." [Please Kill Me!]

And for then, for now, and always and ever...witness the True Last Collapse of the West...certainly this is...finally...at last [!]...most truly...Sporty Spice World!

Get bent, ya Flowerpots!