Back on the Hill.

Blue skies and beautiful
a gorgeous day in paradise.

No photos yet.

Waiting the engineer...

Then the Editor.

solaris hill notes

madonthehill.blogspot.com

pretty fucking funny for a senile
seventy year oldman.

High on the Hill.

Back on the Hill.

A Chilly Day in Paradise.

Greetings from the Hill.

Perhaps the time has come to edit
the learning experience.
Not much else since ignores
an uneducated oldman.

Solaris Hill Notes arises as
madonthehill.blogspot.com

Does 'it' connect...
send a comment or email,
madjackgunn@gmail.com.

"Is anyone out 'there' or
indifferent to CHANGE
or the HOPE of the DOPE",
growled the madone.

Blue skies and breezy
above the Hill.

solaris hill notes madonthehill,blogspot.com.

Greetings from the Hill.

Due to technical problems,
Mad Jack has the above new spot.

Kind of hard to find????

Chilly day on the Hill.

No help from Blogger!

0704/1817 70/75 Blue Skies SSE20/25 75%
DOGS 10035 7271 1077 1530.

Greetings from the Hill.

Pissed off with Google...
the assholes can monitor every message
but not return help email,
Suckspies for the CIA.

bXcqnn4m, you fuckfaces!

joebageant.com on CounterPunch,
socialist ragbagger.

Continued from before the fuckup.

Money was the rule, the law the fool,
class separation in the cocaine nation,
as Ronald mumbled and Nancy smiled,
technology was creating the communication
to network the world...
The Wall crumbled as Capitalism
invaded Communism...
who would have believed
except Mitchell and Schultz.

This peculiar process of making money
by dealmaking had infected the economy,
financing became the profitable division
of the multinationals...
"Hey, fuck 'it',
why make it here, too many problems,
unions, benefits, pensions, insurance...
cheap labor and shipping,
warehousing and retailing."

The financial engineers designed the economy
according to Ann Ryand's secret lover
and Atlas Shrugged
as America got mugged.

And Boob Tubes were made by Mexicans,
then in Korea for the Japs,
then China for T Bonds.

"What a concept," enthused the senile Greenspan,
with Rubin and Summers,
mass producing derivatives
to ensure the insurance
against default and protect the bet,
hedging the hedge, both short and long,
bundling the tranches from the cellar
to the mezzanine...
shit in a steak sandwich.

"Billy Blythe, aka Bill Clinton
sold out for a blowjob
and a library, white trash
jiving like brother Barry,
Liars in the White House,"
fumes the madone,
disappointed with sellouts,
and pathetic actors,
politicians playing games
while Demons Rule.

No pictures today.

Blogspot a snot.

Greetings from the Hill.
bXcqnn4m attack?

The mind is overloaded with bullshit,
the continuous crap prevaricated by media,
commentators and journalists afraid
to explain the facts...
pawns of their sponsors who create
the fantasies of free markets
and an honest government,
both trustees of public monies,
schememakers of consumer fantasies,
the middleclass dreams of upperclass illusions,
a fine wardrobe and fancy car
covers a dumb mind...
A gullible brain who borrows his tomorrows
to pretend tonight,
cinderellas with granite countertops,
hardons with Viagra pills.

"A better life for the children,
a finer education and aricher lifestyle,"
my heavens, but wasn't that a fifties dream
that produced dropouts of the sixties
and drugdealers of the seventies,
assholes who made money breaking the law,
bending the law spending
on crooked lawyers.

Not enough Warriors to be Saviors.

0711/1803 62/75 Blue Skies NE10/15 77%H
DOGS 10561 7696 1112 1802.

Greetings from the Hill.

A beautiful day in paradise,
reading the New Yorker on the balcony,
classics through the open window,
in the morning sun...
CNBC fools ignored in the bedroom,
roosters across the street,
away from the madone's hose,
cat's sleeping in chairs of their own.

Swaying palm trees and quiet streets.

A message from Alida, the hot dog lady,
when Carter was President...
an entrepreneur with the aluminum wagon,
"Steam your buns
and relish your wiener."
She had a dream to be city manager
and change the conch corruption...
hearts are broken in paradise
minds turn to alcoholic slop,
and hope exists in dope.

"Hey, asshole, only for those who stay,"
laughs the madone, seen it all,
watcher of fools fall,
and the brokers call.

"Yeah, fucking blah, 'it's' all bullshit,"
said Billy to Henry Fonda,
when Scott Brown sucked ass
in the state senate, another Guardsman,
a JAGmaster and no kills,
strange religious background
that didn't get him into BAIN
and Romneys' circle.

The oldman watched him embarrass
his lovely daughters on National TV,
"They are available..."
even George Stupid Bush
wouldn't pimp his daughters,
this fuck is a fool.

And the grinning President pumped hands
in another losing show of support.

An earthquake destroys an already ruined nation.

The Three Stooges agree to help.

Three Assholes who have ruined America.

One wonders if the spokesman
is always the jokesman,
comfort the audience
and smile at the ladies,
humor the fat fool
paying the bill...
the credit card consumer...
"Spend, spend, spend,"
encouraged George after 9/11
on the road to debt heaven.

Clinton released the Three Headed Dog.

This verbal flowmaster believes his own shit,
whoever unleased this monster of deceit
will find the dog of CHAOS
with a fix on the River Styxx...


"Imagine what happened this year,
Hope and Change in Obamaville,
this jivetalking halfwhite geek
made whitefolk ghettos
out of suburbs,"
growled the madone
hating the Joker Clown.

FCIC to understand what caused the theft
of wealth and assets, the fortunes
of middleclass masses without cable,
for the Super Bowl...
a month to go before outrage
"And outage."

The Consumer Cow is out of Milk.

Curdled and girdled on wobbly legs,
too weak to eat green shoots.

"Sell your stock, take the walk,
or is 'it' all in name
of Cede and Company,
the shadow holders of all,
the bogus trust of DTCC,
a game one cannot see."
growls the oldman not blind.

The classics get static at sunset,
grey skies and palm leaves,
Angora squeezing through the louvered door,
cat food in the President's room,
Tony finished in the garden,
Alger at his computer,
this house not for sale.

"Make 'it' a home,"
said Mrs Albury,
when the oldman was young.

Viola jumps through the empty pane
broken by a raving rooster,
the attacks from unwanted birds,
pets of the indian woman,
rejected by Hollywood
and the neighbor on 'The Lane'.

Perhaps a star is needed,
a quarterback
not an Ombumboy
for George Soros
and the Moniests

Above the Horn,

Beyond the Reef,

On the Hill.

.