PupPoets are heroes of the unworld where they maintain the undigested giants. They speak for Giants who might be compared to alien
farmers who grow PupPoets to serve and eat, as well as the general populace to consume. If we understand it is more the mind than the meat they seek, if more is eaten than they need, new planets are required to
devour. But giants aren't space aliens. They are endemic to earth to glorify space exploration to spread the disease. It's not as if poets couldn't think of anything else to write. Perversion, lust and dissolution spill over. "Stated boldly," one tweeter said: "Today's Tr[o]y is Freudian [Franklin] in myth, Jungian in archetype and pagan in scenery,
a surrealist combo of dreamlike change." There's no freedom of expression or inspiration in that metaphor, or dictation of the divine. It is the hydrocephalic obesity that death embodied long before on Mt. Hermon at Baal Peor. Spit-lust desolation angels, princes of desolation are lords of Mount Cognentis Olympus Solipsis. This imaginative poverty spreads in writer's workshop and its ilk. In the Book of Giants, and plenteously in Enoch, "the land is crying out," that giants are offspring of the defecation angels. Those angels' lust made "every animal, every bird [a target] for miscegenation (Book of Giants, 1Q23 Frag), "the outcome of demonic corruption, violence, perversion, and a brood of monstrous beings. Compare Genesis 6.4)." Oh dear. Writers surrender to the apocalyptic constant of their Troy, the excavation which convenes at the Troy Horse Neptune War Roundup, The Palms of David and The Book of Kurk Wold [where all OOks and Orcs] hold this view. PO-EATS-here!