About the ‘fish

It once happened that, out of a bottle of black-label vodka, ancient dim sum, and the ragged profundity of three a.m., there arose the suggestion that, all philosophy, spirituality, social conscience, and ubiquitous Wi-Fi hotspots notwithstanding, human existence at the dawn of the twenty-first century is merely “a never-ending, blindfolded rocketfish ride to hell”.

Thus was born The Rocketfish Manifesto: unassailable stronghold of inscrutable intellectualizing; unstoppable vehicle for inexplicable perception; imperturbable platform for ineffable social engineering; thirty-foot screwdriver in a world filled with nails. Fitting then, that it should be the brainchild of a man who intentionally calls himself thebeatpoetwarlord.

There are rumors that thebeatpoetwarlord is a wayward engineerling with with delusions of creativity who discovered early in life that the internet, from a distance, looks a lot like work. Of course, it is also said that he is a hitchhiking barista with one leg, that he studied Homeric verse in the Guatemalan hills, that he wandered Europe for a decade reliving the life of Ernest Hemmingway and making a delightful mess of it, that he is a principal figure in the Machiavellian political intrigues of Ennis, Texas, and that he has his bodily fluids exchanged only slightly less frequently than Keith Richards.

The truth in any of these things, or indeed, the truth in anything you’ll find here, it is ultimately down to you, dear reader, to divine. I can only offer to tighten your blindfold a bit before we get under way.


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