…it’s the work I put into it.

…it’s the money I get for it.

…it’s the money I pay for it.

…it’s all ’bout the results.

…it’s the thought that counts.

…it can’t just come from nothing.

…it’s all within me.

…it’s what I don’t already have.

…it comes from mass production.

…it 1 o’ a kind.

…it’s decided by the buyer.

…it’s decided by the seller.

…it’s decided by everyone.

…it’s decided by no one.

…it’s what I say.

…it’s what the market says.

…it’s what the law says.

…it’s what the public says.

…it’s what the experts say.

…it’s subjective,

but can be objectively measured by math & stats.

…it’s independent o’ labor,

but if we don’t reward those who work to make it,

we won’t have ‘nough;

& we don’t know who works to make it,

’cause we haven’t found out what it is.

…it’s everything,

& is nothing.

A Marxist & an Austrian-schooler walk into a bar,

& after chugging 20 KG o’ ale,

the Austrian goes to use the loo for an hour.

‘Pon coming out, he holds a glass o’ urine

& says to the Marxist,

“I’ve spent an hour laboring to create this pee.

Since it clearly has labor,

you must be willing to offer a price for it.”

Unperturbed by this fellow’s strawman argument,

the Marxist replies stoically,

“$5.”

The Austrian-schooler can only wince & take a few subtle steps backward.

“W-what? Why would you want my pee?”

The Marxist straightens himself.

“Why are you so nosy into my subjective wants?

Have I not a right as any other to buy whatever I want with my own money?”

So the Marxist bought the pee & huffed it late @ home;

& he proved to the Austrian-schooler

that in a world wherein feces splattered on canvasses are considered high art,

all work, no matter how insipid, can hold value.

Thus, this proves that not only will capitalism inevitably fall,

but that it’s already fallen,

& has simply been replaced by dapitalism,

which is its cousin,

distinguished only by its bowler & handlebar moustache.

That is the only god.

Accept no substitutes.

Also, mud pies are quite useful, you fools:

I eat them all o’ the time.

They are the tastiest o’ chocolate pies.

People who do not enjoy the scrumptiousness o’ chocolate pies

must be eliminated.

Thus decree the scrolls o’ the Engelsist Order o’ the Red Star.

¿Dónde está la luna?

Debiste mirarla cuando puedas.

Está leja para siempre y no regresará nunca.

¿Where’s the moon?

You should’ve watched it when you could.

It’s gone ‘way fore’er & will ne’er come back.

& all the pulsing itchiness—

No, I speak not o’ those moldy hinges

on which your spoilt rattling paint cans grip.

I speak o’ mo’:

a rainbow jungle

whose palms o’erbrimmed with crisp crisps—

that’s how I spelt it; it’s Britican without the sharp-edged can openers.

You think salt water can’t be fresh.

You think the sea salt ruins warm brownies.

¡Fool!

¡Buffoon!

¡Ignoramus!

¡Fuck-cunter!

If you’d take 1 tiny break from all your fuck-cunting,

you could peel open the apple

or crunch into the grape.

But if I keep eating potato after potato,

I’ll ne’er stop,

& I’ll ne’er get round to feeding,

& famish.

So we must roll up our bags,

slap the grit into our knuckle wrinkles,

“Gotta write the bike in a fight for strife in a dive for pines with leaves for cheese & these are fleas for keys, please,” babbled the idiot as it stuffed greasy peanut butter into its blood-chapped lips & through its unbrushed rusty teeth.

But the suffocating pressure

o’ the flimsy arm bone o’ the lung

pumping blood to the brain

foretells the stitching o’ the heart muscle.

Someday the steel stiffness that won’t let my arteries bend will be filed ‘way.

Perhaps when it tediously figures out how to doodle its name in the dirt

‘gain & ‘gain & ‘gain & ‘gain,

it’ll find mo’ thread

for a true quilt.

Easy there…

Dijó mi supervisor,

—¿Por qué tienes tanto estrés?

Hoy es tu viernes.

Pero, lo dijé que no necessito sus vierneses;

todos los días podrían ser mis vierneses

con la ayuda de unas pastillas de cianuro…

—So there.

Y es por eso que busco para un nuevo trabajo, señor.

There’s still space on the star-lit streets

for smashed pancake crepe styrofoam cartons

parting my commercial from my residence,

presenting the present o’ presenceless.

It all makes senselessness.

I love the black boughs so snug in the black sky so tight in this black universe

so terse.

But I don’t like the seekers,

the flashbulb communicators on Fords,

causing rings spinning on my orbs.

They think I killed the crepes in wrath,

dashed its guts gainst the concrete just like that,

oozing milk ‘way out into the atomsphere,

smeared spheres o’er caking pebble

trembling under radio wave wheels,

peeled off like cotton masks…

But I’m not like that.

& I crack…le…

But there’s still space in this misplaced road,

known desolate by all who ne’er take it—

they only stay there, though they ne’er come.

That’s why the white crepe blood still runs,

splattering my black canvas in big drips

till the sun comes up.

It all makes none.

It’s the cream in your cup,

it’s the feather in your cap,

it’s the dice in your hands,

it’s the flab in your pan,

it’s the color o’ leaves,

it’s the holes in cartoon cheese,

it’s your knees’ bees,

it’s crease in your jeans,

it’s the tingling in your knickers,

it’s the warning before every trigger,

it’s the warming that hides in every winter,

it’s the only coffee that tastes sweetly bitter,

it’s the sickle in every sinner,

it’s the shadow under every winner,

it’s the boughs that only get thinner,

it’s a real-ass, motherfucker cool dude,

It’s the shit,

it’s the trick,

it’s, it’s, it’s,

chip, chip, chip.

When we finally use X-Zone on the vanished HAND,

that’s when the sexiness starts.

In Soviet Earth, you can’t elude the truth;

the truth only always eludes you.

¿How do you like them grapes?

There are no “them grapes”;

there are only “those grapes.”

Learn to write, asshole.

I mean it.

There is only 1 god,

& that god is love;

if ( !love_your_fellow_humans_even_if_they_smell_like_they_ rolled_round_in_pig_shit_for_hours_ )

{¹

you_love_god_ = false;

}

Remember that, you shitty pile o’ shit &/or secrets.

“Right, right. Hold it there.

‘Scuse me, sir, but I must stop this section.”

¿What?

¿Who are you?

¿How did you sneak into my book, you sneaker?

“I’m the Entertainment Police & I’m ‘fraid this section’s gotten far too silly. You’re under arrest for violation o’ Walrus’s Law stipulating that all silliness must be balanced evenly with seriousness so that they both fall into equilibrium. Come with me, please.”

Wait, but I’m not don—

“Come ‘long, sir.”

Bu—

---

Footnotes:

[1] All true Magical Socialists use Allman style. All heathens who use K&R or the 1 True Brace Style must be eliminated.