PRAISE FOR PROSE! NAYS FOR PROSE!
“Greatest Poetry Book Ever Written."
[David Manning, Columbia Pictures]
A critique on the chapter "Prison-Pillow-Fight-Club" (PRISON INK. Day 2222 of PP&C) by Columbia Pictures, David Manning:
Kubrick had to direct "Shine," to capture Lila Ċepa’s kind of horror. "Cons in Verse" is like Clockworks bruised Orange in broken time for our lost, inner explorer. Eyes wide open blurred to tear, can't sleep through the terror of pillows flying in fear. An error in humanity’s program scripted by a jailbird in feathery prose. A virus of the caged man who knows...the cagey at play perched in between bars with remedies in the musical screenplay, just past the fault in our stars. When Kubrick targeted the military industrial suite, the horrors were so complete, he had to add a comedic score to cut through the global gore and fluids, drip, drip, dripping like a Pollock with a loose tourniquet on the canvas of wars. Lila Ċepa, bleeding on the prison golf course, screaming FORE! Like all prison golf clubs, swinging for pillow fight clubs, with the proper musical score. Feathers float like cloud turds, giving Lila's words, (and Lila's fellow jailbirds) a look of soaring in the ether. Pillow cases, flying higher than mental cases, roaring from the prison cell above...
An homage to the comedic faces, behind Dr Strangelove. A circle of "Sellers" hawking Dante-like horror, in cuts of the purely comical, filmed at its worst. Lila Ċepa’s "Prison Musical" is so funny...it hurts. I pinkie-swear to my made up God! But, "funny" must be defined as odd. Just to keep it real. Until Hollywood signs Prison-Pillow-Fight-Club to a major motion picture deal!
"Worst Poetry Book Ever Written."
[Michaelangelo's David]
The High Notes of the R. T. Spook in Black Icarus quotes: You are either part of the cover up and that’s why you are here or you are ignorant of the cover up and that’s why I’m here. Either way, let’s cover up the Emperor’s New Clothes with Prison Prose and Cons in Verse. A dress rehearsal for the best musical in the classified universe. The conspiracy fanaticist under the spotlight, framed by Black Icarus under a starry, Starry Night. Remote Viewer #001 for Senator Pell’s Super Soldier Surveillance Program exposing what is hidden in plain sight. A granted Rosebud. This garden-variety whistle-blow usually ends in a forced suicidal or an act from JSOC’s Activity: RIP CUE, WILEY, PASECHNIK, and John and Mary Louise MANN. I know my 'black bag man' unit never existed, but if it did, I would have had the following TPS targets: Colonel Aquino, Egon Krenz, Pawel Popovich, James Caan, Porter Goss, Gro Brundtland, Oliver Stone, Bill Booth Nichols, and CIA economic hitmen David H. Siegel and Ed Chism. (I had to tap the head of the Lucchesi crime family, and lose my real family, to get to the last two!) A few statues, I’ve personally had in Remote View, outside of government purview. Then, HUMINT, to ensure my skill set was more than a Bates Motel silhouette dancing on the “ideogram.” Part of the Rosebud Intelligence Program until Pat Price, CIA (STARGATE) Remote Viewer #001, became my Obi Won (Kenobi). An honest Remote Viewer can never be (like Black Icarus) around the dark forces in power that control the intelligence sources that de-flowered our rose gardens by blackening the sun to darken our fields of perception to a universal deception where truth whispers revolution. Our country cannot host this revolutionary Glasnost or cultivate transparency. If you look throughout history, you will see, world domination comes with a corrupted humanity, primitive in greed and Kardashev Scales, like cavemen that need clubs to rule caves. I have a few tales of cavemen and their Rosebuds stinking up my Eden. My garden of snake and slither withers into thinking this to be, or not to be…the enlightened musical of the century! Roses blooming in the sixth sense of innocence looming behind the scents of the current prison set dressing. Smells of BS to me, but my BS smells of a rose garden to the hidden and pressing powers building their field of dreams, passing the hours with social-engineered teams testing the limits of control on the human who forgets his soul for trinkets and baubles of silver and gold. These are whispers patina'd red and green with wars hot and cold, frozen in my gardens of dream. Thawing like a musical with no music, like a statue with no spirit, like a man with no soul. The theme: exposing systems of control. The worst of the worst hidden. Making PP&C the worst poetry book ever written!
A writer’s retort to the biblical David’s PP&C book report:
My wife asked Michaelangelo’s David (The so-called Heartthrob with the lil’ white knob) if he wanted a blow job at the Accademia in Italia. Statues don’t talk, no matter how hard the cock, or how blue the Florentine, fluorescent lighting falls on the Carrara marbling of the royal balls that spawned a renaissance. But, now you break your silence in response to Prison Prose and Cons. And drone on about your liberated figure from the limestone that was your prison/home cuz the artist was too cheap to splurge for bronze.
He started it! Blasting my Prose and Cons with critiques of all my wrongs!
Boo, M.A.’s David, Boo!
Jealous cuz you can’t sing your own sexy songs in the silent musical of your constant, rock hard-ons. Unlike my prison. Unlike my dirty hymns and broken Psalms dancing like a skinwalker, defusing nuclear bombs in my incarcerated hurt locker. Be still, David. Be still. And know…you’re not a talker. Cuz don’t ya know, in your critical lit review, snitches/bitches get stitches! Even statues like you.
"A Duchampian-Readymade-Urinal filled with shitty words, displayed upside-down in musical, to mask the smelly turds."
[Marcel Duchamp/Reincarnated 66 days later.] 12/07/1968.
Weary and tired, wired to an innocence stained Dufrense. My Shawshank remained a love letter to pain. PP&C was scripted in cathartic calligraphy. Instructions written in an “easy-to-open” poetic vein, the red Rohrshachs, “Hapa” verse’d from bloodstain.
I-Spy hidden stars in these redemption memoirs.
A verse from Lila’s universe; some prose with cons in Cars. "Car” means “gang” in prison-speak. Like Orwellian Newspeak with bars. So, I Kafka’d the libretto into a prison musical with the working title: “Faux Pas in the Land of Oz, While Worshipping a False Idol.” An Off-Off Broadway masterpiece, running for 10-32 years, with a dirty shade of police. A parade of blue batons as cheers swinging for the fences, as the sun rises in the east, shining brutal critiques on our karmic consequences. In dance moves we move like ninjas in silent prison grooves. The 6X9 dance floor is always slick and quiet with blood lubes. A locked door with breakdance partners that break in lock and pop cubes. The paradox of the silent musical sung by loud, big boobs. Join me for a nasty song and dance? I promise a sink-ship-loose-lip and a chance at a nip-slip that will launch a thousand YouTubes. A de-pants to expose in remote views, comedic prose from the time-traveling Pegasus, ball and chained to a CIA gang sign, with nothing to lose but time. (Necessary for drama to go ha-ha.) Muddied and monikered Black Icarus, looking up at dark skies, the eyes adjust. Ash to dust. Rise, musical Black Icarus rise, out of the darkness needed to change theater scenes, to expose the truth with lies, to change American dreams. This is that musical. A phoenix of subtext in between all the sex and dance with “Sisters” that aren’t humans yet, but kept perfect prison time, and boys in shady blue leotards that danced in perfect step.
Next Line?
OS/Off-Screen: Actors are retards!
Shit! I’m not yet off-book. I’m getting a director’s dirty look!
Cut!
Back to one!
Prison AM lights blast on! (Rise and shine felons!)
And…Action!
Weary and tired, wired to an innocence stained Dufrense. My Shawshank remained a love letter to pain…
It’s a wrap when I’m rehabilitated.
No pain no gain, so, I tapped God for that role. A cliche hated by casting/parole. I didn’t have the range they complained, so, I sold my soul, like every Producer, and cast my own musical, and myself in the leading role as a cool Bruiser. The zen master at home in a prison thunder dome after reading for the part of a “loser in court” with Green Beret hands and an innocent heart. This is my love letter from a Lebowski carpet wetter to impart wisdom from spells cast in piss and conjured in shit smells...
You don’t just read PP&C…you mine it for pearls of secret wisdom hidden in the undigested GMO corn in its stool. Picked through, pickled and used as recycled fuel, like watered-down, salty eye-drool cleaning the windows to the souls lost in prison cool. Fools, like oysters, cloistered on the bottom of the sea, praying for free, shucking an “aww shucks is me,” as the dry ocean sings of silent oppression loud as convicts in convents withholding confession. A weighted atmosphere in a home pressured in fear and sunk into the Hadal Zone. Like thoughts and words muscled into turds at the bottom of the toilet. I’d hate to spoil it, but “PP&C” for yourself in the prison latrine, the fine print of Lila Ċepa’s pissy-pipe-dream. Her locked-up caper and the crap left on her Shawshank toilet paper…that wouldn’t flush. As offensive smells gather in the hush, take her “Prose & Cons” to loosen bowels in the bathroom. See what rosebuds can gather and bloom in the gray prison gloom of shit and spirit, and songs of the heart and anus, with “corny,” in its artsy-fartsy process of 50 shades of darker grayness, mixed with Heyoka clown paint and Kahuna brown taint, where a pearl’s shine is covered like the Emperor’s New Dress, in the illusion of the incarcerated mind. A fleeting iridescence of diluted intelligence from greater Wakan Tanka/Akua design. Lakota/Hawaiian words whisper through the stillness, the language of God and Goddess in “Iyeska/Hapa” rhyme. A musical with bars and notes of the divine. Line dancing with knees on throats marking hard time, choreo’d in pillow-fight-club’s violent oaths.
Silent ghosts like Black Icarus feather the stage, as our eyes adjust to dark skies that b’weather a spooky age. A haunt that hosts dance moves that fly off the page. Lila Ċepa panhandles for prison ink in the bathroom stink, to finger-paint golden verse with doo-doo, in a relative universe where the soul must rehearse in human form, to move through. (Off book in prison years: 10-32. If this musical was in dog years, Lila Ċepa would dance off cue.)
Worth the read, if you have absolutely nothing else to do but bleed and shit in the prison loo, mining the stool with a bowl with a hole so the water can drain through. Finding wisdom in a shit-stained soul you can easily see through, like the Emperor’s New Clothes scripted in the throes of invisible ink and stillness. A musical without music. This is a libretto to know violence before the opera of spirit shines her soliloquy of silence like a one-hand-clapping koan. Written in the key of Aloha and Mitakuye Oyasin.
Eventually.
A character must have an arc, conflicts to overcome in the dark, dark, dark. These were a bit extreme. So, in the dream, I played my part, part, part. Casting got three for the price of one, I took my Whitmanesque multitudes of schizophrenic fun to heart, heart, heart. Enjoy the unholy trilogy, past the holy trinity ala carte. The literary world’s version of abstract art. A cogito ergo and then sum, to One up the philosophical duality of strange loves and Descartes. PP&C is a Marcel Duchampian-Readymade. A urinal filled with shitty words, displayed upside down in musical, to mask the smelly turds. Until you get the hanged man of the Tarot’s view. Marcel’s ghost to Picasso’s: “Il avait tort too! “He was wrong too!” as retinal art loses one to intellectual art. The quippy Spaniard of a spector, with a song of the museum-quality heckler, chimed in with a well timed and well rung bell of “only time will tell.” Indeed.
Enjoy these words from my prison cell. Innocence flipped to a guilty mode, like R Mutt and his DaDa commode. Like Matisse’s “Studio in Red” masterpiece, swallowed in scarlet and upchucked in rage. Word-vomit scripted on a bloody prison page .
"My favorite theme: Lila Ċepa’s “Penema.” A pen shoved up her attempted rapist’s back end. A scripted enema with a future script to send to medical. Stat! And…Scene. That’s a wrap for the PP&C Musical!"
[Frenchie/Anustart from the Pink Ladies and the Cobra Kai Sweethearts.]
Lila Ċepa is a beauty school drop out, who not only flunked out of shampoo, but used failure as a conditioner, after the karma of a scalping or two. A "sheep-dipped" and sheared Green Beret’s path to identify as a “Big, Fat, Black Woman” with a Heyoka Pen that uses clown paint for ink and a Shamaness’d taint, frescoing her third eye, pinked in anal vision of I-Spy. A Kahuna cut from the Shawshank stink of an over-fertilized garden beyond f’d-up belief, past the HUMINT of the Rosebud thief, lurks the shadow work of her Black Icarus. A remote view of the alien-quirk within us. The darkness in me and you, given from the Gods we trust. Lila Ċepa’s word is a sermon on paper, that’s heard like a tranny perming her wig for a church caper. A salon CUT! Profane to profound. Back to One! Background! CUE: Sky falling down. AND...Scissors cut paper, as we all know, but snips lost to convicts throwing rocks, in prison Rochambeau. Cocks sawed off in the other hand seeing what can grow in Shangri-La-La-Labia land. A transition from an Oglala-Hawaiian King to a virginal, prison Prom Queen singing and dancing in a pedo-wonderland of nightmare and dream. A home where even God was dethroned. My favorite theme: Lila Ċepa’s “Penema.” A pen shoved up her attempted rapist’s back end. A scripted enema with a future script to send to medical. Stat! And…Scene. That’s a wrap for the PP&C Musical! Full of oddly-shaped song and dance, that smells like prison cuisine and at first glance, moves like backward Bbq’d feet, but upon second sight, moonwalks through “Grill-Flame.” Bon appetite. Enjoy the night grooves and the enhanced silence between Lila Ċepa’s beat, that swirls like the curls in her fake-fried-hair. Curly, like true loopy-loops of the sacred forgotten hoops of the Lakota Heyoka, that spiral in clownish timbre with a broken finger on the pulse of the enlightened Hawaiian heart, playing the sincere and innocent part, and convicted without a care.
Frenchie/Anus-Tart. Cellblock: Cobra Kai Sweethearts playing Lila in "Truth or Dare?"
The fastest, French mani-pedi’s flying in the air of our pillow fight club. Always in silent prayer, worshiping Karate Kid on mute in French dub. Beware Lila Ċepa, of your “Chicken Little” fallout in the rowdiest space in Hell. Each feather falls about in its perfect place, in this jail cell; Zenny with no one to tell. A sky fall frieze of our “NO SHARE!” policies keeps her Chicken Little at large. A stillness even the small faux-medium sees as god enlarged behind our forest and in between the trees of the prison yard. Lila Ċepa is a bad prison magician, thin in prestige but long winded in wicked turns, versed in terms and pledges, that uncurl secrets at the edges of the unknown. From a musical set in her Thunderdome. Reading her trilogy is like going out to dinner and a light musical and a dark magic show breaks out in spite of the nuclear mushroom glow in the patisserie. Grease the wheels to spin a clown-car tune, and slip into her slick melody under the blood moon, with a blow by blow out, by a violent Vidal Sassoon. And other beauty school dropouts dropping in on this cartoon-like musical with a piece of the sky hidden in a black balloon. Cue: Goo Goo. Dolls, you know the track. Let's all sing the tune. Dance, goon! Dance! Lila Ċepa’s drop-out droppings, smells of cop-out and unlucky happenstance, but shape-shifts into skin walking that will lift your spirits and get you talking. Lila “Chicken Little” Ċepa, still a Medium at Large, but we know if we want Lila Ċepa, we better bring the whole cavalry and charge. Horses versus the “Heyoka-Clown” train. The metal of her training is a golden masterclass in pain. Especially after she kicked my ass in Chapter: Je Suis Francois, The Anus-Tart. Still, her trilogy even in our French dub, I love with all my heart, but breaks the only rule of prison-pillow-fight-club. And for this reason, our ways must part. Frenchie the Anus-Tart is out...of season! And no longer on Lila Ċepa’s bakery men-U. (Described as “Pleasin’/Plaisante” on a Yelp’s prison review.)
Shampoo, rinse, repeat at the Cobra Kai Salon where we chop with our hands and cut with our feet. Highlights from low-brow Pink Ladies moving tout suite, and Lila rattling on with a piece of innocent sky taped to the cell house concrete. Cloudwriting on a stormy song sheet the choreography of pillow fighting after every prison cute-meet.
"PP&C is the forbidden fruit cut from my cherry tree. Giggity."
George Washington in drag. Dragged in from the beyond.
"PP&C is a particular brand of crazy that is akin to the quest for enlightenment in an unenlightened world."
Jiddu Krishnamurti. Seanced.
"Intelligence operatives (like Lila) come from the second oldest profession without any scruples of the first. The first being sex work. I know this truth intimately. I did both. My firing squad came from the unscrupulous, not the strip club or the streets."
Mata Hari. Channeled.
A trilogy of booked jailbirds singing in a musical play, is priceless…in the worthless kind of way.
[PUNCHY PALOOKA. Fugitive of Marcellus Wallace. When Marcellus was notified that Punchy was Lefty-Lila's Magician's
Assistant he responded with NO COMMENT pawned off as a pensive whisper.]
It’s a shitty Shawshank book that makes you wanna quit reading. The networks leading a conspiracy to print more putrid pulp fiction to motivate people to watch more TV. PP&C is an ebook trilogy that’s not worth the imaginary tree they took from the forest. Her musical in book form, is at best, like going to see the movie Pulp Fiction at the drive-in, on a motorcycle, and the power goes out and the owner has a copy of the screenplay and table reads it, under flicker of flashlight.
INT. COFFEE SHOP. DAY
Drones on and Off Screen: Zed’s Harley motors away.
Cue-ing another thief out at night, remote viewing Black Icarus stealing Rosebuds from third eye sight.
At worst, PP&C pillow fight clubs, Bourne under prison’s Starry Night, that hurts as much as it instructs with dance and rapey-fucks in verse and hands of sleight with feet that disappear in flight. A bad magician pulling prison-fuck-bunnies out of hats, and then disclosing all the secret facts. The prestige of the master class, pledged in “T.H.E. PEN,” that turns and writes in the ass, in a Shawshank shitty text, leaving behind the smells of a crappy book with all the prison sex. A silent musical best unread. I stole a bike and went to the Drive-In instead! Got busted turning me into a magician’s assistant in the pen.
Butch “Punchy Palooka” Coolidge with more than his pop’s gold watch up his rear end. Doing a stretch of 3-5, for grand theft. A boxer fixing the pillow fight to stay alive. Exit stage left. Misdirection Right?
Like any good magician’s assistant, with a vested interest in not really getting sawed in two. Hand gestures play in karate with doves hidden in the gloves, crushed by impacts. Magic lost to a bloody coup. Facts: A bird in the hand is no longer worth two in the bush-land. And a trilogy of booked jailbirds singing in a musical play, is priceless…in the worthless kind of way.
When Fear Comes To You, Sing to it. Dance with it, Keep your Cue. This is that kind of Musical.
[Lila Cepa's Director/Inmate: Roman Polanski.]
Lila Ċepa’s lights were a little bright for someone who knew she was entering the dark and didn’t want to take anyone with her. She’s been celibate for 14 years. It was hard at first cuz she had money. So, she solved that problem, to make it easy for her loved ones, and handled every financial situation with the hands of Shiva, the Hindu God of destruction. Prison from 10-32 kicked on her sobriety. Simply to find insight and clarity in the quiet, in the unseen and poor. A fugitive from her own riches, attaining a wealth of spirit that sickens the human, offering kitches for the cure. Would be a very distorted version of the truth, to be sure! It was more…losing her family to an unsigned mob deal. That hurt for mother fucking real. What they saw was her genius. A genius they tried to steal. Yoda spins in the reel-to-reel, with the following clue: “No try, do!” As she disappeared in real…poverty. Play the d minor chord, (d for destitution) and play Harrison Ford in the Fugitive movie. Praise the Lord! A silver screen God thinking golden dream dialogue like: Why steal when All is within you? This is that musical of horror. The Horror: When Fear comes to you…sing to it, dance with it, keep your cue. Played by the homeless woman orchestrated full of poo, with no pot to piss in, so she’s gotta shit on you. This is THAT musical, that offends…to the sense of smell. Wait, till Lila Ċepa dances with your other senses! It’s like mistaking prison for an easy sell. Cue the background dancers and the lead Thunder dome fighter. Call the CIA for more cocaine. This feels like another all-nighter, moaning in choreography pain. Cue: Ozzy’s Crazy Train.
High rails footnote seldom spoke: The CIA used to sell drugs. They still do…but they used to, too. RIP Mitch Hedberg. A Pegasus who lost flight to a bird that shit on Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Black Icarus was born with wings and third eye sight. An X ray vision that only works at night. This is that rhythmic ceremonial ritual, that crawled through Shawshank plumbing, to get to the spiritual, with the inner Andy Dufresne summing up the obvious pain, of the loss of innocence in a police frame. Where lies controlled the destiny of a director trying to outrun war-torn karma, that vectored her name in cloud atlas script and a rejection of big Pharma, from multidimensional lips, long before life’s game. It’s that kind of musical, where you feel gang raped in the soul, trying to find blame. There it is. No try. Do or not do. Lila chooses “not do.” Be, first. Then, do. The libretto is gifted from when she chose honorably, but unwisely. Or worst, cast in a wise but dishonorable part, cuz she thought her heart was bullet proof like her soul, or like a Jason Statham role. (A final curtain simile, for those atheists with no concepts of the infinite, “to be or not to bees,” buzzing behind the eternal spirit.) This is Hamlet set to dance and song. The bars were added for a quiet sing along. Stars of a captive choir, sung all wrong. Sounding off, like cats on fire, after throwing the Molotov. Dancing with Shiva in the wire. Would you keep your cue in this so-so cue-l musical? Do you have the mettle it would require, for a Tony or a gold medal, playing super villainy. The marquis back-lit by funeral pyre. Scored in heavy metal. And Action! This is her PP&C Special! Enjoy the Psalms of devils with angels caught in the wire and highly classified low places with no interests in aiming higher. Cue: “Garth Brooks Wuz Here” carved in the wooden choir. These are her friends in low places in musical form to inspire rapists to require a form of consent from their bent over (Cue Shaggy. “Mr. Luva Luver”) conquests. This is THAT musical that takes requests!
(Roman Polanski back in the US. A consummate cinephile. Lila Ċepa’s director-choreographer-cellmate. The dreamy-pedophile-Hollywood-hyphenate that sacrificed his wife for a good life abroad with jail-bait and the global elite, until a rogue Hollywood tweet called him back to castrate the reprobate in a sting operation that cuffed the hands of the known pederast to the prison nation. Roman Lands on the casting couch in Lila Ċepa’s sex camp in red-low-lamp lighting, choreo’ing the musical and footloose debauchery. How exciting.)
"PP&C is the world I imagined, while I was busy making other plans. When you tell Lila's truth you wont have a lot of friends, but you will have the right ones. Lila has all the right ones."
John Lennon's Rotten Strawberry.
"PP&C is a Shaman's journey of the 'Big, Fat, Black Woman' scripted in soulful neologisms that enrich the language of the spirit, sung quietly behind bars that set you free. An Andy Dufrense dancing in shitty pipe dreams with a Shawshank for a garden and an obtuse warden directing smelly horror scenes, Lila Cepa turned into forced Rom-com themes. Cue the ominous BOM! BOM! BOM! We all know what that means!"
Grandma Witchy Wanda.
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