we have no list of torturers no list of internment camps no list of prison guards no list of hitler's is found yet i found him in a bunker today, next to his love, crying squealing can i help and i cannot help you and i help you is not the help i offer, yet i grasp, "please, gasp, help." I cannot help you, and I will not help Hitler, nor his wife's peers, it's too many, too few, and too soon; good luck to you, in your war against normality, my spirituality has left you alone cold bereft and asking for help that I cannot give you that I would rather free my friend, whom is yet known as that party of yours it isn't kind of me to be kind, no more than I have been kind to myself, and when I ask; why, you answer "I want to have fun with you." Then, you don't mean that I don't have fun with him, for you. I'll see you soon, is a command, of my order, and my direction, as you push away, and I pull, tug myself towards hope, in a roped yacht, I'd hope you not know, I don't particularly care for you, and I'm not careful for you, it's not my fruit for you to eat, nor drink of my blood literally, you fucking psychopaths, it's not normalization for you nor me, it's for us, not to see you again, I don't bear your existence for my girlfriend is yet allowed only my peace, is spoken, you take your bitch take yourself and go to the dock of my bay, my arms are mine, yours, together, not ours. please leave, and now, take your money, and dance with it, you stripper of rights then wrongs, is it not enough, recording myself for you it isn't my recording, i don't record you to not know you, cowards, thieves, in your concentration camp is not that where I will go, you tug and push, I cannot pull you to shore, I will not go, I will suicide yourself away, homicide your stupid body, of filth, it isn't mine to see, and I'd rather blind myself than look at your lanky hero, it's not my fault she is ugly and unsightly, it's your fault, i've taken her away from me, with my money, of ours, not yours. take my money and take it to your game of thrones, it isn't mine to play your stupidity, is your psychopathy realized, and take your stupid son, your stupid mum, and put her away; there is little left for your rapists, to eat and drink, my fluid is yet given, then taken, and placed in you, without your consent, is your rapist, then drunk of mine? I don't drink for you, to eat of me, you sicken us, to death, then, i don't know you nor your talented abuser, is not my talented healer, take away my pain and steal away my heart.
agatha christie's, my dear, take your beer, and get drunk, I don't. It's too much. You're whiskey. And I'm not your nigger to be taken, is not your enslaved native. Take it and go of yours, my writing, you take, is yet your Clementine away from my tree.