Dog Poet Transmitting.......
May your paws always be hard as nails.
Sail away... sail away you lumbering behemoth. I see you in the minds eye as a massive complexity and as unfortunately adhesive as a glue board. How many unknowing hearts and minds are embedded in this cotton candy fantasy? Allegedly it was built upon the concept of individual liberty. This meant that you could maybe make your way toward an island of prosperity as the fruit of your own efforts. It certainly meant that those grasping, conniving, greedy, loveless and driven, obsessed and damned... opportunistic souls, flagellated by self interest, could steal everything that wasn't nailed down and then come back with a crowbar. It meant that anything you could get away with was Okay and even things you might not get away with; odds are, would be okay. That's what lawyers are for and there has never been a more litigious experiment gone wrong as this one, this swaying and weaving, like a drunk at Mardi Gras, monstrosity with a mind of its own.
In these latter days, one might imagine that it more fits the image of a dead horse; a flyblown corpse and all the greedy little scavengers are at work. They'll be getting down to the marrow, right down to the hedge funds and junk bonds and business as usual insider trading, that no one does anything about. We are standing by the horse, this former horse, presently transitive ...but not too close. The smell is fierce. We thank our fortunate stars that we did not find it floating in the river and needs must haul it ashore with grappling hooks. Something very definitely crawled up and died in there. Here is wisdom. You cannot save a dead horse. This is past Stage 4, all the way to exit, stage left.
We see the swarm of flies and those particular bees at work. Worms are moving under the skin. Perhaps larger scavengers are at work as well. Imagine that these creatures are lawyers, politicians, lobbyists, bankers and stock market players, along with a whole bunch of Noahide Judges, waving a baton over the affair like the Phantom of the Opera conducting Hell's Unfinished Symphony in Asia Minor. This zombie Jabberwock seems to be alive due to the vermin moving under the skin. This gives a simulacrum of life for those copulating with the corpse. Still, they are dressed well for all that. There's no need for them to disrobe; simply open their flies to engage with the flies. Here is one of the marvels of the age; it all has the appearance of being acceptable. This is a gauge for how far wrong the horse traveled until it fell to the ground.
If you want to make wrong right you have to go after the sexual behavior of a country. That is the point at which everything else can be morphed under a malignant will. The beast is acanaceous. Bring out the ballistocardiograph! Is it truly dead? Is it walking dead? It is a zombie creature. It may well be macropterous over short distances. The very Earth has become malloseismic, as if it were adverse to the natural assimilation of this exponentially enormous cadaver. It leaps, it glides, like a flying fish and then shakes the Earth when it comes to ground. Now I see a mastigophoprous, six headed demon flailing at the beast with a flaming cat-o-nine-tails. It shrieks and howls, “Get up! You cannot die. You are Babylon the Great Whore and this is not The Last Exit to Brooklyn!”
Sex is the essential dynamic of civilization and the precursor to the family unit, followed by the village, the city and the nation. Most of our technology is based on it. Male plugs go into female sockets. Disrupt the natural order of this and everything else will go haywire. This is the intent of those who ride upon the back of the beast, who feed on the carcass, who copulate with the corpse. One might well ask if there is progeny from this last activity. Why certainly, after a fashion. All action produces offspring and one is, in the end, the beneficiary or victim of their offspring.
In its concluding phase it has become a paedocracy manipulated by demented kinder with all the ruthless and selfish force to be expected of the same. Hanged cats droop from the earlobes of this Rabelaisian raad. Money doesn't kill people. Bankers kill people. Money doesn't kill people. Moneylenders kill people.
Dark insidious relief one feels as they wait in the shadows of time. Time is just whimsy; an inconsistent fabric woven upon the face of eternity. Bankers need clocks. Bankers need time. When made up out of thin air, money is loaned out at interest, it's all about time. Suits need time. Suits are the uniform of the servants of the ancient enemy, who also needs and uses time. Time has a variable gravity. It is not the same everywhere. It is a construct in the mind. It is the measuring rod of perpetual futility. It is also a rod upon the back of all those in indentured servitude. Tick... tick... tick.
The pederast alcolytes of fixed and rebar reinforced sarcerdotalism have spun a hideous web. It is a web of darkness and death, while at the same time it provides the ridiculous, so that any intelligent mind must reject it and... as is too often the case when the intelligence is not as great as it needs be, the baby goes out with the bathwater; unless they need it for a Satanic ceremony.
One is driven mad by the tachyphrasia of marketplace minders. To the ends of the Earth, peace has been extinguished, even into the wastelands and remote places. There yet remains those cloisters where the seeking heart might find respite from the noise but these places are elusive and personal maintenance in those places requires the possession of a singular art, obtained with difficulty. The totality of this uproar has reached into the hidden kingdoms that monitor existence and they have sent their representative, Mr. Apocalypse into the fray. Of all of his talents, it is his talent as a weaver that is perhaps the greatest in terms of the necessity of the moment. He weaves all of the plots and plans of the driven, all plans whatsoever, to a desired end; cosmically speaking.
We are resident in global wanchancy, looking for departed fortune. Can we survive in the nether regions of this dead horse? Should we migrate into the further unknown? Is there a caravansary upon the way? Are we the way we are because of what we are? Or are we merely deceived into a perpetuating Halloween of false appearances? After a time, one comes to believe that they are inseparable from the fabricated appearance of themselves. It is as if one dressed in a suit of clothes and never removed them. One then comes to identify with that. Of course, this is a temporary delusion that their inevitable departure will correct, or at least inform. Awash in the zabernism of local and national enforcement arms, we have come to the place where Push and Shove contend. For many there is relief only in being an automaton. If you keep your head down, none of those high blown thoughts about personal liberty will enter in.
Yes... presumably this beast was birthed in the promise of personal liberty and so... it goes without saying that in its last stages it motors into tyranny, becoming a travesty, in all things, upon that which it was originally intended to be, which is why that phrase, “eternal vigilance is the price of liberty', is such an accurate and enduring truth. Forsooth!!! In the end, mockery becomes the prevailing attitude and ridicule the instrument of abandoned fealty. When ones leaders have become dysfunctional clowns, there is little doubt that the beast will run off the side of the road.
Why did this gargantuan beast embark on a suicidal course? One reason is the radiating darkness from atop the pyramid. The other is the complicity of the people in the pursuit of pedestrian things. Were it not for the uniform and abysmal ignorance of the population collective, these marauders and reavers would not be able to prosper as they do. The strong arm dacoitage of government institutions has reached a level of absurdity never seen before. Small business owners are depositing cash from their business operations and the IRS, a thoroughly criminal organization, seizes their money under the pretense that it represents illegal gain. Then the victim has to go to court with all the expected expenses and generally settle for less than was taken. It's a scam.
Somehow the woodwork of the infrastructure has become riddled with termites. It seems no agency is unaffected. Wholesale theft is rampant as is abuse of power and the visitation of unnecessary force upon anyone who gets in the way for whatever the reason. This all has to be a matter of policy and WHO has recently been responsible for training the American police forces? So it goes.
Each of us must manage individually or in groups within the sad and irrevocable decay of the world we knew. It's decline accelerates with every passing day. As that progresses, conditions worsen. It will come to pass that many will find it no longer possible to live where they are, while at the same time, having waited too long, are no longer able to move away. Things can occur at a previously unimagined speed, while taking all kinds of frightening and unexpected turns. It stands to reason that the further away one is from the epicenters, the better ones chances are.
I wonder about many things, while I trust the moment I occupy. I provide no resistance to the natural course of my existence. Whatever anyone may think, what will be will be and all of it dependent on what we are, so... the only way to alter what will be is to alter what we are.
The Lost Plays of Shakespeare;
A Modern, or a Medieval Mystery;
are these truly Shakespeare's Lost Plays...?
...is now available to buy at Amazon.
This is wonderful read, but it is a slim volume -
and image is for illustration only
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