The Dying Colossus

Asleep, the great titan of bygone day,
His strength once feared in even far-off lands,
And order imposed at his stern commands.
Now bald and palsied, and his beard gone gray,
He lies in the filth of his own decay.
Unconscious, though somehow he understands
That power has passed from his aged hands,
And all his best-laid plans have gone agley.

“Why shall I not rule forever!” he dreams
Of triumphs past. “Give me more migrants, more wars,
“More broken nations enslaved by my schemes,
Their sons my servants, their daughters my whores,
History’s End in a chorus of screams!”
Slumbering, he smiles. Decrepit, he snores.

Just for kicks, I had BardAI give it a try. It’s a bit on the pedestrian side and lacks some of the darkness of my effort, but it’s better than I expected.

With crumbling form and heavy, weary tread,
I stand, a colossus, on this stormy shore,
Once ruler of the world, my power spread,
My name a beacon in dominion’s core.
The seas once trembled at my mighty hand,
My armies marched in conquest, far and wide,
The world was mine to mold, to break, to brand,
With iron fist and vision undenied.

But time has worn my glory to the dust,
My reign has crumbled, like a fading dream,
The world has turned its back, my power crushed,
My name a whisper in the realm of gloom.
In dreams I see the world I once controlled,
A vision of my power, long since cold.



A little doggerel inspired by AC’s observation that many, if not most, of the self-appointed “opinion leaders” of the Right are faker and gayer than a transman at a lesbian bar in San Francisco.

No matter what they do,
No matter what they say,
All of it is building cred
To lead the weak astray.

No matter what they swear,
No matter how they bark,
All of it is gatekeeping
To leave you in the dark.

No matter what they vow,
No matter how they’re based,
All of it is fake and gay
To keep your trust misplaced.

And when they turn upon you
To denounce your tawdry tone,
It’s just an act designed to make
You think that you’re alone.

On a related note, I can affirm, state, and confirm that I am not in the club and I do not have an official 302, or a 302 of any kind. Non serviam.


The Self-Immolation of Jordan Peterson

He really is the gift to humanity that keeps on giving. Did I not tell you he was quite literally crazy? Did I not observe that he was the product of multigenerational sexual abuse? And was the cover of Jordanetics not eerily prescient? Jordan Peterson’s inept excursion into poetry is simultaneously one of the funniest – and one of the saddest – things we will ever have the good fortune to witness in our lives.

Hello everyone! I’d like to tell you very briefly about my new book. It’s called An ABC of Childhood Tragedy. It’s illustrated and designed by Juliette Foger who’s the illustrator, who managed the illustrations for my last book, Beyond Order, published by Libra Press. It’s coming out mid-October, right now, it’s coming out just in a few days.

I wrote these poems, it’s 26 poems, one for each letter of the alphabet. I wrote these poems when I was doing a lot of clinical work and seeing the sorts of terrible things that happened within people’s families, and I suppose in some sense it was an attempt to blow off some steam. The book itself and the project is an attempt to investigate the Nexus, let’s say, of beauty and tragedy and humor, a strange triad, and maybe I’ll read you a couple of the alphabet poems so you get some sense of what you’re in for if you dare to buy the book. It’s pretty rough so be warned.

Adela, an abusive sprout
Was fond of teasing little brats
They finally jumped her One Fine Day
And now Adela’s locked away

D – this is a very rough one.
Dick was a damaged little boy
Who’s prancing father made him coy
When he ended up in jail
All competed for his tail.

Frederick was sadly flawed
After he was madly pawed,
By his neighbor deeply awed
Where the hell was Christian God

Well, so these are a bit Brothers Grimm-like I suppose. Pretty brutal, terribly comical, perhaps, if you have that sense of humor, very beautiful. Juliet did a wonderful job, we have some music coming out to accompany it. It’ll be quite a contentious project, to say the least, and so if you’re interested in such things, if you liked A Nightmare Before Christmas, if you like Edward Gorey and his Victorian Catastrophes in Poetic Form, then maybe you’ll like An ABC of Childhood Tragedy.

Happy Reading, folks.

I know, you’re thinking that this has to be a parody, or some sort of cruel caricature. But, as has repeatedly proven to be the case with the Most Influential Thinker in All of Human History, reality easily exceeds even the most vicious satire. And the only thing funnier than the book itself is the hundreds of comments by Peterson fans that are actually praising his doggerel.

  • Hundreds of years from now, humanity is going to look back and recognize this man’s brilliance and contributions to the world. Thank you Doctor Peterson.
  • A wonderful gift for those who dare traverse the mysteriously gothic shadows from the creative depths of Petersons mind.
  • Jordan, you impact my soul, you reach into my heart where all the pain lives and you help me identify and pick it out bit by bit. I’m all alone in there except I allow you in every once in a while to coach me along, keep me away from shame and guilt. Thank you for being the fatherly figure I never had and have never met.
  • Another gem comes out of JP’s brilliant mind. God bless the man.
  • this book is going to be SO very therapeutic for so many of us.
  • Wow! I didn’t know Jordan could also write such beautiful art!

I’m not going to lie. This book is going right to the top of my Christmas list. I just hope no one sane reaches Jordan Peterson in time to stop its publication. But it is, quite literally, inspirational, as I was inspired to commit a little alphabetical doggerel of my own.


Jordan was a wicked man
Who wrote bad rhymes that didn’t scan
And demonstrated his obsessions
With incestuous transgressions


Hand Over Fluffy Pillow

When you’re weary, feeling old,

With regret in your eyes

I will take control

I’m at your side

For when times get hard

And your kids aren’t around

Like a hand over fluffy pillow

I will press it down

A gentle hand with a fluffy pillow

I will hold you down

When your time runs out

When you’re in your bed

When evening falls so hard

I will hold your head

I’ll take your part

Oh when darkness comes

And loneliness abounds

Like a hand over fluffy pillow

I will press it down

A gentle hand with a fluffy pillow

I will hold you down

Sail on, silver one

Sail on by

Your time has come to fly

Your children are far away

You’re all alone

So if you need a friend

I’ll send you to your end

Like a hand over fluffy pillow

I will give you peace

A gentle hand with a fluffy pillow

Grant you sweet release

The ballad of Tucker Cuckerson

 A reader contributed this limerick in honor of Tucker Carlson.

They said that Tuck would never cuck.

Peer pressure would he always buck.

When presented in gold

A ticket to hold,

“No proof!” did he promptly cluck.

Another reader submits one on a similar theme, entitled Fact-Checker Certified, that features a nice twist.

Joe won fair and square, yes, it’s true.

Those who question do not have a clue.

Right-wing doubters, despair!

Joe won fair and square,

And Jeff Epstein killed himself too. 

UPDATE: Now General Flynn is calling out Tucker Carlson. Sans limerick, unfortunately.

@TuckerCarlson you are not being genuine in how you represented yourself to @SidneyPowell1. Why are you acting like a “Bell Ringer” and not a real journalist as @DineshDSouza

Take the War Pill

Just finished reading my son Donald’s just out new book, “Triggered.” It is really good! He, along with many of us, was very unfairly treated. But we all fight back, and we always win!
— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) November 9, 2019

It is very clear that the God-Emperor understands the central importance of morale. Notice how his words are so often focused at inspiring his friends while demoralizing his enemies. That is how you wear down the enemy and win, again and again. The knowledge that you simply will not stop, regardless of the initial outcome, tends to fill them with despair.

Reject the pills of red and blue
Focus on the right and true.
Forget the pills of white and black
The Legion’s avid to attack.

An Infernal Economy, Canto II

For those who missed it, Canto I

An Infernal Economy

Canto II

At the peak of a lofty precipice
A noisome stench wafted high in the air,
And yet my guide commenced to reminisce
As if there was no mirksome foulness there.
It was ever so at the cycle’s peak,
He said with a rueful shake of despair.
Greed, whispered words, and an air of mystique
Brings the innocent lambs to the slaughter.
They hope to catch on to the winning streak,
Doomed, from the start, come hell or high water.
But justice they’ll have, for here it is found,
Payback for each duplicitous fraudster.
He showed me a path that led further down,
Deeper into that corpse-scented chasm.
O Guide, do warn me what we’ll find here bound,
What sort of odoriferous phantasm?
I know not how I shall hope to bear this,
For much I feared an internal spasm
Was imminent, given the foul abyss.
But I soon forgot my sense of affliction
As we looked upon the flowers of Dis.
For there was planted without restriction
An orchard such as none have ever seen,
Nor will see outside of Hell’s jurisdiction.
Displayed in a form well beyond obscene
The bodies of men, dead, yet living still.
Everywhere faces of treacherous mien
Staring at us with palpable ill will,
Flippers of mortgages, sellers of stocks,
Feeders of hedge funds, and then, the great shill.
I saw the mastermind, Ponzi’s Fox
Buried to his waist in the stinking mire,
His skin all covered by a weeping pox.
Is that who I think it is, my good sire?
Indeed, acceded the wise with grim smile,
Be glad we pass when the tide is higher
You would not fain see beneath the muck vile
Below is where the worms them devour.
We walked over stones along the defile,

Dark was the sky and late was the hour.
We passed chasms filled with human debris
Hearing screams of those in evil’s power,
And still I shed no tear of sympathy
Nor did the master once slacken his stride.
Who could ever feel any empathy
For those accursed with such towering pride
Beyond we saw a great red-golden glow
Downward we strode and downward did we slide
Toward a gleaming pit through which did flow
The river of Midas in full advance.
Bubbling, boiling, burning and so
Scalding the servants of debt and finance
That they shrieked, and wept, and shamelessly cried.
The archaic current took its vengeance
On politicians from every side.
A fitting reward I had to admit
For the predicament they’d caused worldwide.
In silence we walked on past the dread pit
Sublime, it was, verily to behold,
And a prodigious heat did it emit.
Leaving behind that great river of gold
Beneath my feet was no more stone but ice.
Darkness descended and also the cold,
I shivered, and hoped the guide would suffice
To ensure we were permitted to pass
This Fimbul-winter of devil’s device
That Zero Kelvin would hardly surpass.
Then I saw two shades held in ice confined
A frozen embrace thus holding them fast.
Their eyes, tormented, showed madness of mind
And snow on the beard of one could be seen
Their arms were locked and their fates intertwined.
As none could hope to ever intervene.
Freezing though I was, colder my blood ran
Upon realizing that icy scene
Was Ben Bernanke and Alan Greenspan.
Entrapped in cruel bonds of hard liquidity
My guide gestured round with expansive hand
They damned themselves by their cupidity.
Live by the target, then die by the rate,
This is the consequence, naturally.
They sold for credit the soul of the state.
Finance first and foremost was their belief
Thus they encouraged assets to inflate
While withholding from the public relief.
Then we left the maestro and the scholar
In ongoing committee of boundless brief.

Not far now was the king of the dollar
Toward him, my guide urged. If your eyes avail
To espy him, go and see the squalor
Ere the last Trump and the epic fail
Of the king of the kingdom of despair
And out of the ice, at such mighty scale
I saw a giant beyond all compare
His ghastly visages were thricely florid,
Although mayhap they were once passing fair
Afore his constitution fell morbid.
Entrapped was he, by that which held the two,
Central bankers caught on that plain horrid,
Liquid flowed down causing ice to accrue
And held that monster fast about the waist.
Each of his three mouths endeavored to chew
What turned out to be an awful repaste.
Three great sinners now great evil endured.
The first called schoolmaster, now in poor taste,
His legs dangled as his head was tortured.
The second was once a president too,
Twelve long years a thief, his fate was assured.
The third morsel managed to so construe
A crisis as to hold nations hostage,
Arrogance such as the world never knew.
Look well on them, for this is the knowledge,
The fruit of the tree of economy
Which will in the end human action judge.
Man is not born into man’s slavery
Nor may he be ruled, even in defeat,
Through the will of another’s knavery.
Ergo the reliance upon deceit
By those who dare think to control the land,
Theirs is no more than the fatal conceit,
Oft shattered by the invisible hand.

Thus ends the second canto.

An Infernal Economy, Canto I

After seeing the Big Bear on his Dante kick, it occurred to me that very few of the new readers of the last 10 years would be familiar with my own little foray into terza rima, which was originally published in the appendix of The Return of the Great Depression.

An Infernal Economy

Canto I

In a dark woodland I espied a bear
Vicious, hirsute, with a low, evil brow.
His stinking breath befouled the woodland air;
A roar, and animal spirits somehow
Vanished, like ghosts dissipating in mist,
Taking with them fully half from the Dow.
I knew not how I should hope to resist
This great beast, when before me then appeared
A genius, albeit one much dismissed,
For espousing truths both exact and feared
By men parsimonious in wisdom.
“No man, yet I act,” said him I revered,
“To spare thee much needless pain have I come!”
Then he raised a gleaming sword of pure gold
Before which the terrible beast did succumb
And turn away. Thus inspired I made bold
To inquire of insights he might convey.
“No, I shall not teach, instead shall I scold.
Come, thou shalt witness how ends the soiree!”
We found ourselves before a wide Abyss
From which came moans and cries of great dismay,
The regrets of men who’d been so remiss
As to believe markets will always rise.
“Speak, damned broker,” I said with a hiss,
To a wretched shade with dark, haunted eyes,
All naked but for his well-tattered suit.
“Every long-term chart showed we were wise.”
He protested, his contrition acute.
“Dollar-cost averaging, interest compound,
We thought they invested risk free, absolute!”
My Guide laughed, it was a cold, hollow sound
Of scorn for innocence so misplaced.
“That which goes up must finally come down,
And asset inflation will be retraced.
For growth cannot last indefinitely
When debt is rising and money debased.”
Behind us we left that sad misery,
Weeping and wailing under the cliff’s edge,
Descending down to the second degree.
There we encountered the god of the pledge,
Visa, the Master of living and dead.
Who sneered at my Guide: “From whence didst thou dredge
This old fossil, academic unread
By my countless servants, my serfs, my slaves?
He shall not enter, but for thee, instead
I’ll offer a card that actually saves
Thee five percent even as thou doth spend!”
Temptation rushed o’er me, enticing waves,
Cast by the fat goblin off’ring to lend
Me all that I wanted, and more beside!
“Stand fast, man, and do not think thou shalt bend!”
So spoke my Guardian, the consummate Guide,
Who, bare-handed, tore that false god in half!
“His day is done, comest thou alongside.
Seest the shades blown like wheat amidst chaff?”
Throughout the depths blew a most fearsome wind
Hurling poor souls around, all the riff-raff
In mighty numbers, those fools who had sinned,
Caught up in the feverish gluttony
Of consumption, and now, too late, chagrined.
They tumbled through clouds of fiat money,
Faith rendered faithless in one mad moment,
Then came a pair still in matrimony
Bound. They shrieked and fought for they did resent
The ties that held them linked close together
In bitter rage and mutual dissent.
The woman cried, clawing at her tether.
Impoverished, angry, seeking divorce,
And falling for the netherest nether
They plunged to the depths like a Russian bourse.
“New house, new clothes, new car financed with debt
They married for better, but found the worst,”
Said the Master without sounding upset.
“So now, they can’t even pay for a split!”
Such countless horrors no one could forget,
Happily did I that fell mirk acquit.
But new torments I saw, new terrors. I found
Myself standing in the midst of a pit,
Where an icy rain came tumbling down
Upon the unjust, and the unjust alone,
For there the just in their absence abound.
Suffering journalists wept to atone
For lying deceits practiced on the crowd.
While above towered three heads overgrown
From one horrid shape better disavowed,
Kudlow and Cramer and Bartiromo.
Three slavering heads drooled and barked aloud:
“Buy with both hands, this is doubtless the low!”
All the while snapping and snarfing up dirt.
Souls sold for nothing, not even a show,
No newspaperman had so much as a shirt
As hatless, shoeless, they froze in the rain,
Lamenting the truth they’d tried to pervert.
Shivering, I asked to depart this plane
A request to which my Guide acceded.
Thus we abandoned the media’s bane,
The encroaching ice quickly receded.
Before us there stood rows of mighty stones
And behind each a small man proceeded
To push it back and forth, with moans and groans,
Across the dismal field of outsized dreams.
“Economists,” I heard the amused tones
Of the Guide, “and duly damned for their schemes
That served as the key to open the door
For terrible tax-and-spending regimes.”
I spared but a brief sigh for Nobel’s whore
As we fell to a field of sepulchers
Uncovered and belching forth with a roar
Crimson flames that seared those entrepreneurs
Of finance, gamblers, investment bankers
Who played games with exotic wire transfers.
Those who had been for their banks anchors
Howled in unending agony, the fire
Fueled by derivatives, lethal cankers
Of financial cunning that now require
Unthinkable time to fully unwind.
Until then, each screams in his stone pyre.
No more could I bear, horror smote my mind,
I reeled before sights I could not forget.
And then my adviser did me remind
We’d yet to meet the political set.