a safe space by mike crumplar

Category: poetry

2016: The Year in Review

pepeSetting: Civic-theme Georgetown design well-connected well-to-do family, they knew the Kennedys, Georgetown design George Washington portrait on cream field dark brown furniture quoting Hamilton. Kissinger’s “On China” on the table. This is both a safe space and the Kali Yuga.

Being is in crisis—a significant threat to national security. NATOPS. SEINOPS.

America is already great. But we need to invade Annexia for intersectional Lebensraum. We have called our Israeli allies to drop rainbow bombs from their breast cancer awareness fighter jets. Mossad and John Oliver en route to EVISCERATE antisemite misogynist Bernie Sanders right now. #WITHHEROPS

The Absurd is the progressive negation? MAGA/PBUH/YHWH Let us return to the eternal unclimatechanging Earth.™ I’ve descended from my cave in the mountains, where I composed problematic broetry, to fight in the Ragnarok against the cucks and their algorithms.

When they go low we get high.

The memelord sets fungal ambrosia upon a peanut butter sandwich ever so daintily.

That was a million dialectical sublations ago. The moral arc of history is very long and bends, the moral arc bends, the moral bends, bends, breaks. Is Kojeve a wonk? Philosophers as mystical titan wizards, casting spells and performing deep intrigues with high stakes/stocks—Betrayal! Kojeve’s magic? But Brexit was just one dialectical sublation ago!

BROOKLYN: It’s time to admit that Hillary Clinton is an extraordinarily talented politician. She is Moses in Star Wars. What does the data say? They’re analyzing it in her HQ in trendy BROOKLYN. Even her algorithms are feminist. Took the Acela back to DC. Had to leave the quiet car to make a quick call to Brock. He wants a left Breitbart. Needs young blood. BrockOPS. PodestaCOM. Young blood. Liberal policy bro. Wonk. Words for @vox and @vice. Such filthy rich DC children can get away with anything. Crazy girl dating him, he’s the feminist gaslighter rapist type, she sighs out over cigarette smoke. Still in love, he’s a charmer. Took me on a date to Comet Ping Pong, he did. Call BROOKLYN later, to check in.

NEAR-FUTURISTIC MANHATTAN: Litany of cucks lining up at the great demonic tower to grovel to their new God. But not Glenn Beck—he doubled down on Ted Cruz fulfilling the Mormon prophecy of the (((priesthood rising))).

Nigel Farage, quoting Lenin: “Often there are decades in which very little happens, and occasionally, there are years in which decades happen.” He and Kanye West, Barad-Dur VIPs, get to cut the long line.

Donald Trump doesn’t read books. Socrates. TRUMPCOM. Meet the dapper racists in die Trumpenturmgesellschaft.

Žižek goes on the Alex Jones show to tell him he is more real than reality itself.

A million dialectical sublations ago they cheered the fall of the Third Republic. The Donald gazes down at the Tomb of Napoleon. In it, the vortex of all world history, manifest in a phantasmagoria of tweets and memes. Look closely, you will see some rare ones: the Traumatized-by-industrial-killing-at-the-Somme Pepe, the Mythic-return-to-the-question-of-Being Pepe, Mistah-Kurtz-he-dead Pepe, Wilhelm-Meister Pepe, Cubist Pepe, Moon Man crooning Dionysian dithyrambs.

Ezra Klein clears his throat. “You may think this is some kind of reactionary avant-garde, but actually, it’s a Russian psyop,” he says, pointing to Panslavist Dostoevsky Pepe.

Policy-dry fiction sold as truths—Just the Facts!™ Esoterica of politics, parasitic boredom and lifelessness smug tweeter factchecker WONK reaching consensus the Washington Consensus by researching the policy statements of dastardly Donald, around him swirling vicious whirlpool swirling around those hateful nerd eyes, you bastard you ironyyour shirts you. He dies of an epileptic seizure from the gif of a deplorable troll, planted terroristically in his mentions.

The President may not read books but he is well-versed in the forgotten wisdom of the ancients.

“πάντα ῥεῖ …” whispers the primordial Donald in the quivering ears of Mittens over a plate of frog legs, “We shall destroy all of the calculations. τὰ ὄντα ἰέναι τε πάντα καὶ μένειν οὐδέν.”



steve bannon was an executive producer of julie taymor’s 1999 film adaptation of titus andronicus…. in itself not a bad film, unlike the absolutely unwatchable disney-beatles “across the universe” she made later… bannon, trump, titus andronicus, sex/rape politics, fascism… anthony hopkins feeding jessica lange her own children in a pie after it is revealed they raped and mutilated his daughter… trump almost certainly lusts after his own daughter, the only person it seems who is able/willing to articulate a feminine side of his entire faction, making her such a puzzling figure, and a substitute for his current wife, who, like lavinia in titus andronicus, is unable to really speak (i imagine her confessing her deepest thoughts about her husbands campaign in her native language, to a fellow countryman, perhaps zizek)…. chicago native and coincidental obama lookalike harry lennix plays aaron the moor, the scheming villain whose “soul is black like [his] face”…. the whole movie mixes 30s fascism and ancient roman motifs… according to bannon’s wikipedia page he had a messy divorce and domestic violence charges (that were later dropped)… this frog avatar guy i follow on twitter is saying that trump is the completion of the german idealist system, kinda like how caesar’s coronation completes ovid’s metamorphoses…. ovid, whose epic poem is the source for the myth of philomela, which inspires the mutilated lavinia to point out her rapists in shakespeare’s play… i cant believe how little about the world the data people like ezra klein actually know, the people who should be telling how to see/interpret the world should be those who have a MYTHIC not “data” understanding… everything flows, as heraclitus said… only a god can save us now…

The Lamentable Tragedy of the House of Trump: A dramatic fragment

Scene – Trump winery. On the wall is an enormous portrait of the late Donald in the style of high alt-right romanticism. Through enormous windows, we see the almost Mediterranean hills of summer Charlottesville, now the American Salò, and the war headquarters of the Trump regime, exiled from the war-torn capital.

Barron (contemplating a glass of Trump Cabernet Sauvignon)
Was it not Heine, who saw the
surging microcosmos of world history,
flowing and intoxicating, sloshing roundabout
at the bottom of a wine glass in
the Ratskeller of Bremen?
All the progress of man, swishing
and swooshing on this tiny crimson sea,
groundless, Jerusalem, Athens, Rome,
Constantinople, Paris, New York—
the palm trees of Beth-El and Hollywood,
the myrrh of Hebron. All the collective striving
and dreaming, the human spirit of hope and
the heartbreak of a thousand,
nay! a million holocausts.
All flowing chaotically toward one great purpose
(he swallows the wine)
To be drunken by me!

Enter Ivanka.

Barron, our army has been defeated at Manassas,
the rebels will march on our new capital unopposed!

Impossible! Our soldiers are the finest and most ruthless
in the world! Give me the head and testicles of
whoever conjured such a lie! Or was it you, jewess?

I would never do such a thing! You know my loyalty to
you and our father is boundless.

Bah! Our father?! You know that his destiny
is mine! I see your envious tricks!
Begone! Your guise of liberal charity
doesn’t faze me! Get thee to a nunnery!
The seduction that worked on our father
will no longer work likewise on me! You were
beautiful once, Ivanka, but now you are old,
wheras I am young and handsome.
It is my time to rule, and I’ll not
surrender my rightful inheritance
for the whole world, and if it must be so,
then I will let the whole world be consumed
and pissed out, like this wine!
And now I see you for the the scheming wretch
you are. Begone, you wretched Lady
Macbeth, you Tamora, Queen of Goths.
Jewess of the Trump House, begone!

Barron, my darling brother, surely you mean none of that!

I mean every word! All around me
is treason and traitors. I’ll trust no one until my rightful
place in the White House is restored.

Alas! Barron, you must act! The enemies are at the gates!


Then I bid you adieu.
Methinks my child brother doth squander his
noble inheritance on wine, muttering to himself,
raving mad from before noon until
the wee hours of the next morning.
But is he truly a brother in this twisted family? Nay,
moreso a nephew, or perhaps a cousin.
A cousin, born of the same father, noble
Trump and strumpet just a few years my elder—
the bedrock of a broken promise made
in an incestuous bed, noble Trump, my father,
and my king, and I, he said, I he said,
his princess, his queen. A promise consummated
in incestuous bed, a promise for which two truer
brothers perished, a promise broken by the
birth of a darling new babe. Little boy Trump,
a puny brat, all for nothing other than locker room
talk, he said, but what is locker room talk to
bedroom talk? Just guffaws and cuckaws,
cockcrest strutting. Oh! What is a kingdom to
a woman! To handle the affairs of home,
of state, to be domestic with a smile,
to suffer the crudest vulgarities and be
rewarded with half the praise of rulership;
and so Barron, the president, in the image
of his father, his job to “preside,” to pose
by virtue of no more than a chode.
(an artillery shell suddenly explodes nearby)
Oh the rebels come! I shall have my comeuppance
before the cock caws in the morn!

Exit Ivanka

(returning to the contemplation of the wine, ignoring the distant sounds of artillery shells)
Oh joyous wine, joyous Trump Cabernet,
your vibrant black cherry aroma fills
my nostrils with memories of father,
who, though himself a Pearly Baker,
after all—preferring Diet Coke,
an acid that polishes jewels,
drew his power from the Rausch
that moves the world, stone sober,
the world’s turning, not around him, but
somehow expressed in him,
he sat in Madison Square Garden as
Bacchantes brought forth Crooked Hillary
and tore her limb from limb, consumed
her flesh on live TV, as her blood spilled onto
the gold leaf stage, gold stained by bloodsour
wine, the end of history, the fulfillment of destiny
was our bath salts. And the camera
zoomed in on the golden face of my father
as if he were a classical bust, gold
spray on marble, glitzy sparkle Vegas
Caesar Germanicus, stern face father
over the blood orgy, a promise
of return to the greatness of the classical
age fulfilled, consecrated in fratdrunk
Eucharist initiation of his SS. And so
Crooked Hillary, writhing in agony
turned into the lowest of birds,
the pidgeon, and flew from the arena,
to be condemned to forever eat garbage
in Hauptstadt Americania, the refuse of shit
and bile-drenched filth—though only before
the great purge, like the wholesome purge
of a blossoming virgin starlet, after which
Trump Avenue was no longer a feast for rats—
and so she flew to Brooklyn.
And my father sat on his Manhattan throne,
overseeing the great metamorphoses
of history into poetry, for his
final coronation in the stars, was yet
to be finished.

(he pours himself another glass)

Enter Generals with Retinue.

First General
My lord, the rebel army is on the march,
they have our troops scrambling. And to
make matters worse, an unprecedented
number of vile deserters have left our ranks,
shrugging the defense of the women
and children of our beloved nation.

Deserters! Impossible!

Second General
There are hundreds, wandering the countryside
in aimless packs, or alone, always slowly,
as if totally uninterested in the fate of the world.

Well what is the problem then? All the easier
to round them up and have them shot for their
treason! Send our toughest team from the front
to summarily execute any deserter!
Have them shot, nay! Hanged! Or better yet
have them drawn and quartered, have them
crushed under the feet of an elephant,
as was the Lakhmid king Na’aman
when he refused to allow his daughter into the harem
of a Zoroastrian, and have others
thrown into a vat of boiling water, have their
heads bored through with a slow drip of acid
and have them hanged with a boner, so
that they ejaculate and shit themselves
simultaneously, as did the mugwumps
of Naked Lunch to their sex slaves. Bring
about their deaths! And do so spectacularly!
Do so, bigly, as befitting a Trump!
We must send a message to motivate our forces
in preparation for our final counteroffensive
that breaks the back of the rebels once and for all!

Third General
A counteroffensive would be impossible!
And sending our finest unit from the front
to kill our own, is wasteful in these crucial final hours!

Treasonous words! Desertion at even
the highest of ranks! You must be the commander
who speaks for the traitors, with your
lack of conviction most poisonous, likely the source
of this strategy of retreat. Well has that strategy failed us!
We must cull the weak and motivate our troops
to ceaselessly and mercilessly attack! And first
and foremost, for change starts at the top,
I’ll have this Archdeserter shot!
(Barron gestures and the troops immediately carry out the execution of Third General)

Exit Generals and their Retinue.

Barron (returning to the wine)
Joyous wine! Oh you joyous wine, how profoundly
you stir the passions of men, turning hags into
models, turning broken republics into
great empires! Joyous wine, you fulfiller of promises!
How you turn me, a timid mouse, who
found only solace in his pet frog, and sucking
the voluptuous teet of his busty mother, all
around a shy boy, loathful of others, frightened of females
into a lion worthy of my father. You saved me
from languishing martyrdom, driving down
the taunting suburban boulevards of
Santa Barbara, cursing perky asses
of blonde bimbos bouncing in the
sunset light under the arms of brutes,
that sunset: in those final colorful twilight moments
the warm embrace of the sun embers kisses
a promise of the events of the mysterious night,
something heavenly, but forever absent,
like the dead god of a passionless church,
forever hidden by treacherous conspiracy.
You spared me that suburban fate that
killed lesser men, that suburban fate
of unrequited desire, dangling teasing
symbols, symbols! Empty symbols,
just out of reach, but vivid. I am ever stronger,
born of ruthless New York, immune to
California neuroses. Oh what hell!
Los Angeles, uncentered haze,
ungrounded simulation, tease of a city,
how it could use a big, thick tower!
I shall destroy it and remake it in my image.
But alas, joy! Wine! You fulfiller of promises, you
againmaker of greatness, you
had me staring from the heights of
my father’s own great tower, out at the rising sun
over Queens, congratulating me with a morning
kiss for the divine ritual of the night, lost in the
formless bliss, experience indeterminate
between wet dream and waking life,
whereby I would fall so deep into and out
of my body, I would forget my own name,
“Donald,” she would say, “you’re amazing”
and I would dive back into the ancestral
indulgences, completing the circle
in my return to the loving walls of the womb—
Oh joyous walls! Oh heavenly walls!
Hungover from cosmic warmth, I’d rub
my eyes when the brilliant radiance
of the sun intruded on the primal scene,
rub them so hard I could’ve
gouged my eyes out, because no
other sight could rival the
sublime unveiling of night.
(he finishes the glass of wine and chugs the rest straight from the bottle)
All this cosmic dreaming leaves me,
of exhausting exciting memories,
yearning for the real kind. Noon, yes,
noon is a good time for a nap—for a
king! A noon nap, a sweet siesta
in that foul speech. There is no better
time for a good rest than now!

Exit Barron. The sound of the artillery grows louder, closer.

End Scene.

Arnaut Daniel

Imagine Arnaut Daniel
under palm trees and grayblue sky
that dry air of genius
longboard queeblo down
Abbot Kinney he
flees forlorn lovers
flowing flaxen locks
shirtless belly of
ambrosia burgers our
naïve God falls
and is
dismembered by

City Pantheism

It shows itself as immanent
in the city skyline. The glittering lights
of Manhattan from the Williamsburg Bridge
—there must be as many of them as
there are Wikipedia pages—
are cells of discrete desire. It is, they are—
the result of endless self-transformation
of raw Earth, picked up by its own bootstraps.
You, too, are included. You may not think so
but you are just as at home in New York
as anywhere. Your gaze is none other than
its own soul-searching. You are rolling tonight;
material reactions close a spiritual gap.
Weltgeist to brick and mortar (and all the rest)—
—to reflected light and to the optical nerves—
straight to the pineal gland.
You are merged with it to maximize efficiency
like it was a part of a cosmic corporate takeover.
You, you spectacular cell, are strolling
down the electric synapses of a Great Brain.