1. The sound of cannon is like light fanfares of a boyish fifer to my ears. Like feminine fingers falling in form on keys to tickle a beholder's nape. When a yellow drizzle commences, you may mark my cockade make an arc away from my temple in the distance, to catch drops in that tricorn cup, while I relax my senses in the gentle wrath of war. Perforce each perfect fifth marks each perf fourth, in steady descent and subascent, marked my marksmen in alternating volleys. Heavenly arcs, drawn by the whim of wind, aimless aim of man; art of artill'ry. And should I keep my hat on, you may see my cockade rise unsheathed above the sea of hatless men, peering oer the breastwork, bullseye in plain sight, to put in plain sight the other side, intuiting whither her heart lies behind her breasts wide and tough hide.

    To wink in euphoria underneath the yellow rain, swallowing the transient fire, the holy glow, of a shot travelling through the air. To compel and lure the mysterious singer into giving her coordinates. The choral volley, and the whizzing light roundshot winds, and the cymbalic grapeshot, synthesize aleatorically and inuitively and contrapuntally to make the gallant song and dance of war. And in darkness the show goes on. Yes, the serenade of the cannonade lulls one to live up late and lay at arms. Fire duels continue making fireworks in the night sky, extending the dark hours with the stench of rum, echoing the crackling fire over which men cackle burning banter. The world lights up. The beams of mortars fly across the sky like shooting stars, creating a magical sight, and come down like meteors to divinely dent the earth.

  2. Ohhhhh, poor surenaga! Caught in the crossfire of a Gramscian preventative war to maintain our cultural hegemony in the cultural world order. In fact, this nation was born on a strong national monoculture, where Common Sense rang in every house in the colonies when it first dropped, but with the advent of globalization that unity was lost, and our own citizens are being picked off to niche foreign fancies like the vtumor menace. Hence, in satelliting and subduing it, we are actually acting in self-defense. Actually it's the vtubers' fault for falling for the old trick where we open the door and close it behind them. Stupid little sluts. Anyway traps, I mean America, makes everything better. Everyone knows that r/a/dio is better than mogra anyway.


  3. Prospect Hill Bunker's Hill
    Seven dollars a month. Three pence a day.
    Fresh provisions and in plenty. Rotten salt pork.
    Health. The scurvy.
    Freedom, ease, affluence, and a good farm. Slavery, beggary, and want.
    Young fifer boys for an officer's pederastic eye. Bitchfoxly, jades, hags, strums.
    Anyone can make it. Septuagenarians.
    Enjoying a beautiful bright FULL American drip coffee without some stupid biscuit on the side that I don’t need. Eat shit Euros! Oi bloody hell mate Ah reckon Ah fancy me a bloody crumpkin o scat in me mouth init *british slurping noises*
    Thomas Jefferson says TRANS RIGHTS!!!!!!! poor brittranner...

  4. "To gaze upon the possibility of our union is to contemplate the vast, nay, infinite potential of jubilation and despair that it could lead into!"

    -y, Santa's Advocate

    I've never met you, but you are all I think of. I've never seen you, but I know I was made for you. There are men that have suffered love on first sight, but my love for you was on first thought. As soon as the conception of your conception was inserted into mind, I've been helplessly and hopelessly in love with you. You are my angel. You are the meaning of my life. It may come to be that I die before I meet you. It may come to be that you don't exist after all, that you were just some strange concoction in my mind that developed as a result of my growing insanity in trudging through these desperate days. That you were a concept that I invented to comfort myself to sleep on cold nights. That I may reach the end of my days without ever being rewarded with the privilege of laying in your lap and being lulled to sleep by your sweet voice. In all your distant abstractness, you are the jewel of my thoughts. You are yet to come about, perhaps never to come about, but it is in that infinite potential of what could be that I have fallen in love with. With this lack of nerves I was born with, this secret sinful Pyrovisianical view of the world I have, all I've done all my life is trudge along. The day trudges on with transactions and constructions and pseudo-sorties and downed birdies and half-hearted harangue and deserters and orbiters and documents and complaints and spies and lies and boredom, all broken only by that intermittent sweet sound of gunfire. And thus my mind hungers for action, action of some sort, sortie of some sort, I feel as mentally unsullied as my men are physically, choking for want of sallying over the Neck attack those bastards. Ah yes, the ballet of bullets balance my billet here on the approaches of Boston, affixing this vassal's mansion with a view of action. But a view is a view, and action is felt. And we feel nothing. The men who volunteered in a burst of patriotism are now decaying in boredom, as the stalemate extends month to month. And yet I work all day in boredom desperately fortifying and creeping into enemy lines. Feeling nothing even I continue in desperation.

  5. I'm insane. I'm genuinely insane. They think of me as some bastion of dignity, chosen by fate to head this noble cause. But deep down I'm a maniac. This lack of nerves I was born with, this affliction of black bile, corrupts my inner workings into that of a madman. People are amazed and even frightened at how relaxed I am under fire. They ask me how, why. And yet, my love, all I can say is that it is how I see the world: All its sturm und drang as music to my ears. The variegated cannon fire like a mosaic virus on tulips. Perhaps I would be better off as a skirmisher, and I do wish it be known that I do not think myself equal to the command I am honored with. But here I am, misplaced and overrated. At least if I die by cannon, my limbs flying and my head detached and my body unreconstructible, my heart will have been in the right place: With you. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.

  6. Fake it until you make it, they say. But what if you fake it and don't make it? The more you "fake it," the more you descend deeper and deeper in a web of lies that, before you know it, you're stuck and set in, and it then becomes impossible to maintain because there's no "make it" to hold it all together. If you keep faking it, you might not make it, but become a bubble waiting to burst. And the bigger the bubble, the more catastrophic the burst will be. The truth is, I've been pretending for months that I'm conducting a formal siege, when I actually have 0 ammo. It is the most ridiculous, hailmary bluff imaginable and I've been carrying it on for months. I've been building fortifications here and there, erecting pseudo batteries, creeping into enemy lines, and it all looks very threatening to the other side, but none of these weapons can shoot. Most of the people manning them don't know how to operate them, and none of them have any ammunition. If they found out, they could collapse our entire army in minutes. That's how fragile we are. We are completely useless. Ammoless. Old Put's screaming powder—ye gods, give us powder! Yet all I get are broken buckets instead of quarter casks. Every day I worry that this will be the day I'm finally found out and all this false respect I've garnered will fall like a house of cards. Every day I'm kept up at night in fear that my ammoless situation will be leaked to them, and it's an utter miracle that I've gotten along for months without that happening. Any day could be the day my long con is found out. Any day could be the end of me.

  7. Between day and night, the sky takes on an orange tint. And then the flying fire above causes motions that make a moving mural in deep orange. Orange on orange, signifying movement: From inner infatuations to outer happenings. Those orangeish pulsations and contractions the fingers of God touching the overdrop oer the field: The blessed red sky of heaven. How does one remain calm in such distress, I'm often asked? How does one remain motivated in such stagnation and fragility? How am I working myself to death all day and all night, getting but a few hours of sleep, when everything is hopeless, and there is nothing to do? it is because I still want to meet you some day. for even when I retire to my bed, intending to repose my limbs, my head begins a journey anew to thee: Which like a jewel hung in ghastly fire, makes an ordnance its ring beauteous and her old brass new. And the days mix into the nights, and I can't tell two apart for they all bleed orange. And all yellows are orange to feel till I feel thee, and orange yellow days when screams do show thee me.