The Ballads Of Mister Rhodes

“The paradoxical and tragic situation of man  is that his conscience is weakest  when he needs it most.” E R I C H    F R O M M  ..... Last time on the Ballads of Mister Rhodes (give me one of those ‘to catch a predator’ voiceovers) I took a brief look into the human being’s innate ability to decide -often at least partially blindly- upon certainty in a world of possibilities. Yup, believe it or not, that was in there. It all ties into the fear of freedom , and how the ego thrives for the concrete. I get it. I have a small lump on my right testicle that I never noticed before and the glands in my groin are the size of kidney beans. I think I have a little less energy than usual, but that could just be in my head. I keep getting the sensation that tiny bugs are crawling beneath my skin. I sincerely hope that’s in my head. I get pins and needles in my hands when I lay down for more than ten minutes and last time I checked my blood pressure was 127 over 68 but oth

Genuinely, I‘m cringing so much I could conceive my colon creeping right out of my ass crack, right now, and I’ve despised alliteration since my early-twenties. Ever since spoken word artists showered me with their animated and often misunderstood diatribes to love and life. Alphabet raps and misty morning meadows half way into the first stanza of some snotty notebook. But the snot doesn’t belong to the author. No. It belongs to one of their kids and the author is in their mid-twenties and they should know better. Some might also say they should have known better when the question of conception arose, but they were feeling emotionally mature at the time, and who are we to judge. They’d been feeling emotionally mature ever since they started writing poetry back in high school after mum was diagnosed with something or other and their friends started telling them how strong they were. Well, extinguish the camp fire and put those fucking bongos away, I’m about to go off on one. Did y