Obituary For Donald J. Trump

"And the nations were angry, and thy wrath is come, and the time of the dead, that they should be judged, and that thou shouldest give reward unto thy servants the prophets, and to the saints, and them that fear thy name, small and great; and shouldest destroy them which destroy the earth." -- Revelation 11:18           

The Secretary-General of the UN is a noble person of moral standing and good ethics. But news about climate change burns a page of madness on the cover of the last available newspaper, as ashes for mankind. (Don’t mistake this for Bi-Polar Blues or God Kill The President.)

The marching band marches with their heads cut off.

Bill Clinton has difficulty getting it up with Viagra.

Internet hacking creates a job market for toddlers.

“Here lies a dead president,” the killer said, before blowing his brains out. I am truly sorry about writing a premature obituary for Donald J. Trump. What you stand for is dead. There is no brotherhood of ISIS from the needle in a haystack or flies to the wildebeest or skinheads to Nazism or godfathers to the horse’s head. The intended result of Trump defeating the woman, Ms. Clinton, occurred in the last American presidential race. Nazism is better for it. Trumpism is a crude form of American fascism, but Canadians are not better or worse for it, and we do not care. Canadian boys are buying Russian-made laptops, dying in the face of retarded politics after losing a pay check to on-line dating websites run by elderly Ukrainian women sending selfies of a czarina on the toilet in a melted igloo of the Northwest Territories in the money-grubbing north.

Excuse me. Excuse me, but there are many Canadian presidents (of companies including a President’s Choice empire). NAFTA might loan a chef’s hat to fit over a better machine-made rug before tweeting pics of another fake Don to inspire hiring and firing at the Food Network. The Don is alive in well in Canada, but it has got nothing to do with Donald Trump and we are damn busy studying The Godfather trilogy, Goodfellas, Donnie Brasco and The Sopranos.

President Trump can go straight to corporate hell, as the rich tax fraud he is, and always will be; and I would not know the difference, and I could care less. And what if President Trump is reading his death and I am writing this for him? What would I write for a delusional mind? I would go to Trump Tower and Skype him ways to improve the dictatorship and absolute rule.

Do you call yourself a true Republican? Shame on you after opposing Richard Nixon and dodging the Vietnam War. Do you really control the city states, inner cities and campuses across your vast empire? And why do I waste free time? There is no better justice than killing you on paper (or the screen of a computer will do). You unapologetic bastard-ass Republican mule. Actually, Ivanka looks pretty hot dressed in all-black. If there is anything I can do to dig a hole, great enough for your mountainous rug, please let me know, because I would work on it in heartbeat. But it’s not over ‘til the Rosie sings. 

There are walls to be built, speeches to make great and fake news to give to your people. Party in the glorious paradise of hell that you have built, and then tell them that the apprentice sent you. There is work to do, conspiracies to build around a wall, and your ego to grow impossibly bigger. And you are not actually Donald Trump. It is your fake alias name. A stage name to make yourself into the president ass-clown of a nation. Chinese talk shows are waiting.

Please remember me when you are on your knees begging to Satan and asking to apologize, begging for mercy, as your first and last act of forgiveness in the Chinese ghettos of morbid hell. There is a special kind of hell for you. Only the good presidents were fondly remembered with untalented speeches before a greater wall, greater fake rug and greater dreams to deport your soul to a black hole in space. It’s aliens thinking huger. Trumpism ruined the common dream, and dreamers are pissing bigger puddles in the back alleys of streets (soon to be named after Scott Baio). Make drugs great again, before escaping into Trump Tower and hiding from the embarrassment and shame after selling out America. You shall be missed. There but for the grace of God, goes Donald J. Trump.

Where The Hell Do We Go When We Die?

Nazi Germany? Or St. Petersburg, Russia? Or Syberia? Probably not. We’ll go somewhere where there's no pain. It’s somewhere greater than The Great Beyond. There’ll be truth. Trust me. And real fiction from wonderful worlds of make-believe brings us new characters and imagination.

His name is really Peter Cannonball and he died performing a cannonball onto cement. We regret to inform you that poor Peter missed the pool. Let’s say Peter wasn’t Christian and practiced Atheism with his loving family. Does Peter still go to Heaven or Purgatory or Hell?

Probably Heaven not Purgatory nor Hell and the after-world is a mystery. Jesus Christ kinda freaks me out, because he wanted to die (maybe he believed in suicide). Or Jesus God, I believe in it all.

I don’t want to be experiencing Acid Flashback No. 67 in the end. I don’t want the coroner to report bad make-up causing my creepy inevitable death. I don’t want to be dressed in a clown costume. I don't want my final meal to be a plate of the freshest mushrooms from the grocery store. Suddenly I'm imagining myself choking on the biggest, juiciest mushroom.

Shrooms? Aliens? Spaceships? Is that a fucking UFO? I’m coughing badly, sick from this blog and I can hear strange noises coming from outside. I’m looking away from the computer screen and out the window, and now up into the sky. No, it's the giant fucking Moon. And it’s getting bigger, man. It’s a bright, giant Moon, but there’s also darkness. I’m trapped in self-sorrow, self-pity, tripping out -- and there’s a world of wonder to share. Then I mess up my hair and a nose hair is out of place. Then everything just stops -- and everything just freezes slow and beautiful and crazy ugly.

I don’t want anybody to mistake me to be the second cousin of Rob Ford in the end. There will be no mistake about it, everything goes to the Queen when I perish from this brown, ugly world. I’m giving everything I own to Her Majesty. It’s my choice. I don’t have all the answers, but this is not a friendly, vibrant green world. It’s a confusion of colours closer to brown (and the colour of the ugliest sweater in the ugliness of a white winter stuck in the depths of February somewhere in the Yukon). 

A YUKON POEM

From Canada to Cold-FX.

From America to a giant germ,

Genital herpes, a cold sore of the heart

Beyond Skyping your politics

Of Thanksgiving in October

Or Thanksgiving in November

And feeding your bloated head

Like Alice stuck in Wonderland.

Nevermind Nirvana

Never played in the Yukon

Or for sexy teen robots

Now dead

In HTML.

If this is totally off the wall,

Just imagine cold death

From Jefferson Airplane

To Jefferson Starship

Building cities

Of robots in the Yukon

With Courtney Love

Dancing madly

As a GIF.

Is death like sex with a hot robot? Imagine getting stuck in a wire and screwed forever. But maybe there’s something magical about death, like listening to insanely sick beats infused with thrash metal from Anthrax to Megadeth.

Celebrate life before and after death. Celebrate somebody who just changed their last name to October. Imagining Gary October as the creepiest jazz musician playing hits from his unleashed rare version of Autumn Cravings would be cool. Now imagine Gary October playing your funeral ceremony. A month when we least expect it, everything will come to an end. Who knows when we’ll go, but wouldn’t you want to go out to Gary October playing his jazz in a beautiful garden where the flowers never die? Some might call it heavenly, others might think it’s crazy, but have you planned your end? The Doors have their version of The End. Sometimes a show ends or sometimes a course or career or life ends. Sometimes it happens later and not sooner or vice versa. Right now, I’m imagining the sounds of Gary October and it sounds new like nothing I’ve ever heard before, and that’s how I’m imagining death. Death is something new like you’ve never heard and force yourself to hear. It’s nothing to fear, and it’s something you might find cool and play over and over again, because it’s always new and something magical. Death is stupid, but it might be far, far better. Trust me. I’m writing this for The Great Beyond.

Peace.

All The World's A Stage Of Consciousness

My consciousness scares me. This is heaven, not hell. This is opening The Doors and finding me listening to a religious experience happening every Sunday in the church of my basement. But there's a beginning and end to everything. He rises again.

Fare Thee Well: Celebrating The Grateful Dead was a series of concerts, but never say goodbye if you still want to try. Reincarnated in my basement, I don't want to try and I'm waiting for the end of The End. I'm listening to blessed Jim, and The Second Coming gives me new life. I turn out the lights in the basement and hear my heartbeat as the music rudely stops. Finally. Skedaddles everywhere. Just the pussycat as a screensaver on the computer and it's on the chair. I throw her off the chair and Iook around, but there's nothing but darkness in a cold, dark basement. Who's really watching Sin City on Netflix?

The Basement

I close the door to the basement and exit the house. It's just after eleven at night and I'm heading to the nearby woods. The forest is quiet. My skin is cold. There is darkness everywhere. There is just utter darkness and I'm thinking I'm miles away from the laptop and cat. I look up at the stars. We're going to be landing on Mars in eleven years and we're going to have driverless cars in twenty-two years. Everyone will be reading instead of watching TV. It's going to look a lot different. I sleep under the stars and when the sun comes up, I'm a day older and praying to Jim Morrison from a new religion and a new era of time where there are no doors and everything is wide open to anyone who can read. Who's actually reading books or hearing a story?

Credit Valley Footpath

be·yond

bēˈänd/

preposition & adverb

1. 1.

   at or to the further side of.

   "he pointed to a spot beyond the trees"

   synonyms:

   on the far side of, on the other side of, further away than, behind, past, after

After normally goes before a noun, like after midnight when I stayed up all night and all day writing and revising because of my passion. And there's no replacing feeling good. Sometimes a mean piss just feels so good.