This Isn’t Some Communist Daycare Center. 

Millennial looking for purpose and something to blame for lack thereof.

Finds YouTube channel preaching about the greatest man who ever lived and his much maligned ideology.

Finds Purpose in either Social Nationalism or Communism.

Learns about “The Enemy”

Finds someone to blame.

Tops over it.

Becomes angry.

Goes to sleep angry.

Gets a tattoo to show how dedicated they are to the cause. Reads books about said Ideology. Watches more YouTube videos on subject. Becomes obsessed.

Hate enters their heart for fellow human beings.

Starts hating society.

Looks for way to change it.

Joins group of like-minded individuals.

Puts on a mask.

Becomes empowered by mask.

Goes to protest.

Adrenalin and Endorphin’s justifies hatred.

Corruption sets in.

Gets invited to violent event.

Gets confronted with decision.

Purpose answers for them.

Punches “Enemy”

Spills blood.

Adrenalin, Endorphin’s and Loud Music justifies actions.

Told they are on the right side of history.

Family becomes concerned.

Goes to bigger gathering.

Things get violent.

Fantasy becomes reality.

More Blood.

Someone dies.

CAPTAIN AMERICA SMASHES HITLER/COMMIES

Fantasy becomes reality.

All over the news.

Told by authority figure that this is war.

Gets doxed.

Life ruined.

Takes another life.

Hitler/Stalin still dead.


KOBI 2017

We are all slaves. Running from an Ideology is sometimes harder than a whip and a couple of vicious dogs. Think. What’s really important?  Remember the 90s. That little kid who sat in front of that TV watching Saturday Morning Cartoons. Did they hate? No. You can’t progress like that. Be happy. Say fuck it.

 

Yeah I hate society. But only cause it basic. I still say fuck it though, I’m smart. I know. I’m the future. And the future is golden.

I don’t give a fuck. That’s me. 27. And fucking free.

As this is the prelude to the release of my brand-spanking-shiny-new-book. That and of course contemplating making this the last book Jakobi Kid ever writes – Yeah? What? So? It’s my life. Back off. – I thought it might be relevant publishing this little piece, if you will, that I wrote right around October last year. I wasn’t gonna. But whatever. Now I’m gonna. My new book is about White Privilege so what do I care? It’s a love song. A fucked up love song for a fucked up girl.

Enjoy. As they say. “Poetry”

Liberal Lover

She’s the mother of ice
On the outside she is
somewhat nice

she gets off on
pretending though
and at home
when she’s
all alone
and no one’s
looking
she’s kind of a
bitch,
but I guess you
have to be a
bitch,
when you’re that
rich,

she’s got an
ACE
up her sleeve
Gepetto’s
number one girl
he won’t
let her lose
face
She’s
got
grace
a resting bitch
face

She’s got a
husband,
but he’s just a
perverted
puppet,
there’s no way he’s
pulling the strings
don’t be stupid to
believe these
things

She’s
killed
She’s
had people
killed
Countries
Killed
Unstable
Destabilized
She’s
a
killer
Queen,
God
must be
drowning
in blood
it’ll rain
for
centuries

she’s so
mean
sex kitten
Killary
she’s
a killing
machine
more Pat Bateman
than
Pat Batman

She’s brought
down towers
cut down
flowers
sat with the
highest
powers
Been the
highest
power

ninety
ninety
six
six
six

Southern
Belle
Witches
Spell
Incantation
Black
Celebration

If she was a few years
younger
And our
paths
somehow did
cross

I’d take her
in that
barnyard
tumble
give her all
the grass root
sex she’d
ever want
she’s the
boss
I’d crumble
for
her
throw on a pale
white sheet
yes
sir!
hear
her cackle
as she
came

Cause strong
women
really
turn me
on
women like that
bad bitches
who just
doesn’t
give
a
fuck

more
balls than
liberal
man
Try your
luck
end up in a black
van

False flags
blame games
gay parades
ugly slags
all for fame
stupid fags
everyone in the first
three rows yeah
you already know
her name

Pity about
the smell though
striking as it is
it’s kind of a
hard
sell.

Luckily for
me
I’m sure
her witch
has a spell
for that
as
well.

JGL Nieuwoudt 2016

Holy Muscle of Love.

I GOT A MUSCLE OF LOVE!

 

me libérer ce soir mon seigneur:

 

me libérer ce soir mon seigneur:

 

I eat.

And

you feed me.

I have a third mouth that’s insatiable

and

yearning.

Androgynous judge creep extraordinarily so.

You judge me with your feminism but you were born a man.

Keep my hand in the pie and my face in the makeup cabinet.

tonight we will see the court.

She smells so nice.

So radiance can be used as a noun.

If I had a hat I would take it off right now,

and

bow

before

you,

my nose touching the ground.

But since I don’t,

permit me

your hand,

so I may pucker up and pay my

respects.

She reminds me of a rock song that used to play on the

radio

when I was a

kid.

A song that would send my parents

screaming.

It was 1973.

But I’m only 23.

And

I must be

dreaming.

Yes,

it’s true,

I can see where no one else

can.

Want to dance?

I nod.

I need no music tonight,

we shall dance on that love at first sight.

Let’s

break for a moment and go for a drink

I’m parched,

Mademoiselle,

may I get you anything?

I bring you a sunflower

and

you bite off its head,

swallowing the sunshine

and

shining once again.

You wanna go upstairs?

She asks as she flashes her eyes.

I don’t know,

I need something to chew on if I’m

to spend the night.

chew on me!

she exclaims

as she pulls me close,

tonight we feast on love

and tomorrow

we drink.

I lower my head

and

steal a kiss,

you may be mystical but I need my sweets.

You dare make me wait?

Mademoiselle,

the longing will make it better,

trust me on this,

I disappear into the crowd

in search of some meat,

A man needs such things if he wishes to bring a lady to her

knees.

Waiter, get me something to

eat,

The lady is waiting and there’s really no time to

speak.

To look at you sir,

I suspect you want to sink your teeth into something

red,

in a matter of speaking,

yes.

I will go to the kitchen and kill you

a pig,

there’s no better

Aphrodisiac

than hearing it

scream.

Well I guess you are right,

I need every ounce of me if I am to

delight.

 

The waiter rushes off and you hear the swine

scream,

The curly veins on its head standing erect as the knife slides

in.

I find her eyes once again,

her hands finding adventure without

me…

Jesus Christ

hurry up,

Aphrodite is here

but

I am without.

The waiter rushes in with raw uncooked

me.

Sire

Forgive

me

I set the oven to high

but time doesn’t seem to be

on our side.

 

There’s no time for that,

give it here,

and

I take the raw meat

and

I bite off an ear.

But sire,

are you mad?

you might get sick,

I need to treat it first with

disinfectant.

I can be sick tomorrow

my green faced friend,

the lady needs a stallion

and I’m just the man.

I throw the meat back on the plate and

rush back up to her.

 

Mademoiselle,

I am ready for the main course

I’ve had my appetizer.

I was lying

and

I had realized she was

right

and

a man

can eat love

and

come out the other side.

Her lighthouses tried to bring me

home

but

tonight

I was going to

war.

We got to the top

and

I found her

door,

I tried to take her right there,

but she unlocked the

door.

La belle femme,

tu

es

tres

tres

belle

and

I thank God those Huguenot sons of bitches found haven

here.

 

What will it be tonight, Mein Herr?

Let’s close the door and find

out…

 

JGLN 2013

Full Contact

I can’t deny the fact that I’ve wanted to neglect this blog like an ex-girlfriend for some time now.

Why you might ask?

Sometimes I just don’t have anything to say…Okay, that’s a lie, I always have things to say but I don’t always want to communicate these thoughts. My mind is a strange and sometimes frightening yet arousing place. It’s complicated. Amusing. In a disingenuous sort of way.

I don’t expect anybody to understand but sometimes I go through things – terrible things – brought on I guess by my own doing if you were to believe the judge, jury and executioner – which also happens to be me – So. I guess it’s chemical as well. But not a good chemical either – Well. That’s debatable. Sometimes it is. – And when I go through said terrible things, I tend to keep to myself. I’m a very private person, you know? Pleasant? Maybe. People seem to like me. Even if  don’t share in their proclivity for my good nature.

This is quite personal. And I mean, why not? Isn’t this supposed to be a diary?

Fuck. I gave up on politics. It was depressing me. Joe Rogan put it the best I think, he said that he thinks that we’re bombarded with so much negativity everyday that we don’t know how to handle it. That’s why we’re always angry.

That’s me, I guess. Angry, Sad, Happy, Mad. Horny. Happy. Frustrated. Mad. Happy.

But I guess that’s everyone else as well, right? I don’t do well with negativity. I try to avoid it as best I can. But it’s hard sometimes. Especially when you can’t escape it.

So you escape. But whether that escape is healthy or not? That’s a question I need to answer still.

Either way,

I’d like nothing more than to take a break. But I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do. I spend enough time with myself as it is. The conversations, while lighthearted sometimes tread into dangerous territory.  Uncharted? Not really. I have my moments.

Regicide burns quite hot in my mind. But if you remove the king who will rule over the kingdom? If you delete the crown, will God abandon you or will he just frown?

Questions.

Funny things, aren’t they?

J.

 

Title

 

 

All I wanna do is dance and do drugs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’M NOT HAPPY INSIDE THE MATRIX ANYMORE

Who is your audience?

As a writer you’ll have to ask yourself some hard questions.

Not for me. I’ve always only written for one person. The reason I write is another question altogether. But for whom I write, yeah I know.

You write for?

Myself. I’m my biggest fan. Anything else would be a lie.

You get satisfaction from?

Creating whatever I want. Putting all of these ideas in my head onto a piece of paper and transforming it into something I’m satisfied with.

And that is?

Something fucking awesome of course. What else?

So why do you write?

Because I need to – for now  – I guess? It still satisfies me to. There’s a few other reasons that’s wholly selfish at this point. But as I grow, I desire this to change as well so that there is only my own opinion and perception left to motivate me.

And once it doesn’t?

God help us all.

That moment when you write an entire manifesto and then change your mind.

It’s true.

So, I changed my mind.

Should I re-write the whole thing now?

You probably should

Are you though?

Fuck no lol

You can’t do a Manifesto like that.

I know. And I haven’t. The thing is, I might have gone overboard.

Jesus.

Indeed.  Check this: http://verbmall.blogspot.com/2013/03/boring-boorish-boar_27.html
“The relationship—or supposed relationship—among bore, boor, and boar came up on the program. Boar and bore are homophones, and while boor is pronounced differently, there could be a very slight overlap between bore and boor. A boor can bore you to death.

A boar is a male swine. It tracks back to an Old Saxon word, bêr, which meant swine.

A bore is a tiresome person who causes ennui. It may be connected to the French word bourrer, to stuff or satiate.

A boor is a rude, ill-bred person who lacks refinement. It was based on the Old English búr, short for the Old English gebúr, a farmer or peasant. In turn, that was based on búr, a dwelling, house, or cottage. Boor is cousin to neighbor, which may be translated as near-dweller.

This brings us to Boer, which was a Dutch-speaking colonist in South Africa, especially one engaged in agriculture or cattle-farming. It was based upon the Dutch word boer, a countryman, peasant, or farmer. This is, of course, the word boor in shallow disguise.”

Well, now.

Well yeah…

Your posts are stupid

So is your mother

but I’m not allowed to judge.

Why don’t you write about something important?

Like what?

Like, I dunno, something topical?

My posts are all topical.

No they are not! They are stupid!

Like your mother, we’ve established this before.

Fuck you!

You see, they are interesting enough to elicit an emotional response. So my posts aren’t stupid after all.

Seriously?

Seriously. Move along. I’m not going to write essays on this blog, bro. Get used to it!

Please forgive me… I know not what I do…

Okay. Here you go. It’s synthy, but whatever.

New Jersey – Jacobus Gideon Louis Nieuwoudt

I was supposed to be Creepy Clause this year. Every Halloween one of us dress up like a creepy clown and hand out, well, creepy gifts, to the naughtiest of the office. It was a tradition the office loved. That all changed this year of course. I used to be an I.T techy before all this. I kind of loved my job, I was good at it. But that was before I got that one phone call. Much like Neo had in the Matrix. Difference was, my Morpheus wasn’t out to free my mind. My Morpheus never gave me a choice between the red and the blue pill. That choice was made for me so very long ago. He spoke the spell and I changed, like a switch being flipped – I flipped. I put down my pearl white receiver, walked over to my desk, got out a giant pair of scissors and proceeded away from my cubicle in that creepy clown suit. I’m twenty seven years old. I was engaged to be married to the single most beautiful girl I had ever laid my weary hazel brown eyes on. Not anymore. I saw Mary Beth’s lips break into a smile and then a grin when she saw me strolling down the hallway. Her demeanor changed quickly though when I started picking up speed. I was in front of her. Our eyes meeting for a few seconds before I repeatedly pushed that pair of scissors into her gut. Fifteen times I went at her before her grip finally loosened. The rest of the office thought it was a joke at first, they couldn’t have been more wrong. And when realization finally hit, they flung themselves around like crime scene tape in the wind. I killed them all. In various ways. I pushed Bill Hendrikson down a flight of stairs, he hit his head on the way down. I fed Tina Black’s pearl necklace into the paper shredder – while she was still wearing it. When it finally snapped I fed her hands into it. It cut her up bad. I threw my boss, Gary Blitson out of his window. It was the sixth floor. So he’s dead. I bashed Freddy “the office queer’s” head in with his vintage type machine. Would you rather have your son be gay or a hipster? I don’t know if I can answer that, unfortunately. I hung Carol Rose, my fiance, from an industrial ceiling fan by the neck. And then I switched it on. I still cry about that one. The moment her head snapped off, so did mine. I saw what I did, teary eyed I ran to my car, unable to process what I had just done to the most beautiful woman in the world. My Helen of Troy. Now removed from all thought but my own. Severed by a part of me that I had not known even existed before that ominous phone call, but only an inkling as if a stray kindling on a bale of hay. That was the first time. Since then? They always find me. I’ve trashed my phone but they call me on Skype. The worst is when you are in public and some random stranger whispers in your ear. That was not pretty, happened right after the office incident. Needed to clear my head. I was still in costume when I felt the air go thin around me, it feels like, it’s a fainting sensation, your head gets light and then it’s all over.

Covered in blood I made it back to my apartment.  You want to know something fun. This clown suit hasn’t left my side since. When I flip, it’s there. In a cubicle, in a bathroom stall, on a hanger in a clothing store. Is it the same outfit? Probably not? But wouldn’t it be cool though?

Now, one week later. I’m on the border’s ass like fried white rice. And I’ve been tailing it for some time now. Get to Mexico, that’s all that’s been going through my head. It’s been two whole days since I flipped. I don’t stop anymore. That’s a mistake. I learned that quickly. It’s just me, the radio and that damned cowboy on my tail. I’ll make it before he catches me. I tried to explain but he wouldn’t listen.

I’ll make it to freedom. Even if it kills me.
———————————————————————————————————————

 

“Tell me, honey. You wanna get funny?” Carol Rose, what a babe. Raised Protestant but ended up a Catholic. Had nothing to do with me though, my parents were hippies, probably communists as well, who knows? I was too busy playing Super Nintendo to care. Met her at a comic book signing two years ago. Turns out we’re both massive Kid fans. Harvard being our favorite of course. It was kind of romantic. Time had just about been up, they called for the last book to be signed and it came down to us. She smiled shyly at me, her red curly hair sticking to her face. It happened to be a long and hot day. I looked over to kid and he, well, he happened to have a massive grin on his face. It’s kind of his thing you know? He wanted to see if I’d step out of the way. I did, of course – under one condition. We ended up in a milkshake bar discussing our love for Misogynist Fiction and Kelly Sue DeConnick – an oxymoron really, if there ever was one. She has the most beautiful dark brown eyes, and this sly smile that always leaves you guessing. We got our fix and we were on our way – Into the bathroom that was. If I had to guess and I am a gambling man it , it was probably the hotness of the day combined with the coldness of the milkshake. It made us wild. MSG is not supposed to work like that! Killer Frost’s lavatories hasn’t been rocked like that since. We ended up going our separate ways after that little toilet tumble as it were only to bump into each other at work the next day, and then again in a closet and then again in the boss’ office and then again in the kitchen. I asked her to marry me the next day. Sudden? Sure. But after that much sex it was meant to be. Also, and this is probably one hell of a shameful admission but there is a possibility that I forgot to wear protection a few times. I’m not saying it happened, but, there’s a strong probability that she’d be having my babies. So, why fight it?
Sold my Hulk 175 and my New Mutants issue 98 on ebay and got her a 22K diamond ring.
Ninety percent or bust right? She said yes, of course. I mean, why wouldn’t she? If I sell my X-Men comics from the 80’s I can buy her a house. Combined with the sex, the laughter and the fact that we both enjoy the genius that is Jon Bon Jovi and that movie Young Guns – she really had no choice. She’d found her soul mate. And today that very soul mate is set to be Creepy Clause. Bring the spooky to the kooky at tonight’s annual Halloween/Creepy Christmas Bash. It’s actually pretty old school if you think about it. Very 1970’s. Blitson Industries is pretty antiquated itself so it’s not that big of a surprise that they’d be doing something as retro as this. But, my time has finally come. Something I’ve been dreading so much up until now. And Carol, as you probably can imagine, is loving every second of my hesitation and unwillingness. She has her hands on my painted face. I have become Creepy Clause in body but in spirit I am still Lenin Starchild Marx. Mild Mannered Millennial and I.T Guy. Like I said, my parents weren’t all there.  Her soft hands are crushing my cheeks under their weight. “Look at you! So cute!”
“If you think Tim Curry in IT was cute, sure.”
“Come on, Lenny. Cheer up, you’ll get to do a voice and everything.”
“I look like a total -”
“Sweetheart! Come here, I’ve never kissed a clown before, or wait, I have, every time I kiss you!”
“Very funny.” She kisses me. She always means all of her kisses. Always have. Kisses me like it’s the last time. What a babe. “Now go out there and give ’em hell.”

I’d like to imagine that those are the last words Carol Rose ever said to me. The woman I love, loved more than anything else. But it’s not. As I dragged her by her fiery curls down that long corridor into the conference room, she was begging me to stop. She was confused. She was swearing at me as I put that cable around the ceiling fan and she was asking if I had gone mad. Maybe I had? But as she hung there, there was a moment, a moment where she tried to find me. She was knocking, silently, tapping away, but I was out. I wasn’t there to answer. She stopped kicking and then she spoke. “I understand, baby. It’s okay, I understand.” I can’t tell now, if she was lying or not. It doesn’t matter. I snapped out of it the moment her body hit the carpet. Covered in blood I fell to my knees. And for five minutes I sat there, staring at her severed head. Lost in an empty tired thought. A thought of utter helplessness. I got up and walked down the now empty corridor, got into the elevator and headed down to the parking garage. I got in our – my car – and locked the doors.

Started blasting New Jersey and cried myself to sleep.
Copyright Jacobus Gideon Louis Nieuwoudt 2016

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Bro, you insane?

It’s relative.

Don’t you just love Christmas?

Yes. Yes. Who doesn’t? Joy in the air, everything is chilled. Pretty neon colored lights.

You just love the 80’s don’t you?

And red light districts in foreign countries. Like Japan.

Bro, that’s not a red light district, that’s just Japan at night…

Whatever. I want:

Christmas all year round!