Magpies burble outside frosty windows. Autumn sidles into view. I dreamed many things. Awakening is sharp on the spirit.
All the old heroes are dead and buried and pushing up wilting flowers, soot-covered, frayed at the edges, desperate for a clean breath in the sickly yellow-glow of the industry.
Red-faced oligarchs loot the coffers of citizenry taking human capital and freedoms of movement, speech, and association, running them through the great profit calculator prophet machine, the machine which conjures the specter of the invisible hand.
Acolytes of its imperceptible body gather round shadows on the wall and cry sweet objectivities while the fire creeps closer, the wavering images growing longer, blacker and deeper; they cost the waking dreamer, screamer of sanity’s alarm for speaking truth in the face of true lies told by the state.
All the old constants are broken in heaped piles on the floor of democracy. Values broken mid-stride by the leering eyes of corporate apparatchiks, lead Bolt commentators jeering for blood to oil the gears of the great machinery of the free market, which liberates through murder and frees man from his own choices and mistakes, feathering the nest of silent comfort for him to live and fuck and die in for all eternity.
The splitting of epistemology is at fever pitch, left eating left, right eating right, alternates popping up left right and center harboring fascists, ideologues, mad blood-traitors, sardonic agent provocateurs and every kind of “my say” write-in unconsciously upending the sinking boat containing themselves and family.
Science mumbles obligatory sets platitudinal well worn thin and hopes to corral the same peculiar mystics to which it addressed its most acrid of critiques, perennially late to the frontlines of dignity and humanity, lagging behind to avoid the thick of the battle for love, truth, and reason though it claims the latter pair as its own.
An answering cry rings out bold in the dark: where were you when the fascists came in suits to request the doomsday device? And the scientist replies that the fascists were elsewhere, and the Really-Good-Men promised to use it for good wars against bad animals. Gladhands have infested the temple and are having a fire sale.
Religion lazily condemns the great rape of freedom, peace, unity and democratic love, cumbersome mind too slow to come to realize that what it saw as the enemy was but the edges of its own basilica. Jilted by the separation, snidely remarking on the romantic affairs of a once married state, religion has let the devil in through the back door and given him a place to rest at the heart of the church.
The economists are mad with their own power, bankers create endless pyramids siphoning currency, politicians squabble over measly remains of once great and terrible empires. Truly these are end times for all familiarity, now fading fast into bittersweet memories as we get older and more tired and sorer, bodies shivering in artificial cold and sweating in the manufactured heat, homes sliding into the sea and down the hillsides into great heaps of rubble, borne asunder and forgotten into dust, into dust and desert storms over sand dunes in the distant future.
Ruinous vultures have settled on the eaves of this great city once vibrant and alive thrumming with art and mind the human clear cool light of radiant Buddhic mind, now carrion stench fills the streets of souls and hark! The cry of rapturous raptures muffled by the cotton wool of neo-liberal theory, ears stuffed of every man-in-suit trundling miserable way into miserable office building into the miserable death of the spirit of mankind.
Cancer heart of government beats tumorous and heavy each shudder breaking the backs of the original caretakers of this land. Ancient grandmother acacia weeps amber tears, songlines cut short by apartment blocks, superhighways, endless commerce and white man’s love for the land writ large in concrete prisons for the soul, writ large in money funnel highways sucking greed into the festering bosom of the city, writ large in the sickening loose grin of TV personality, who waxes lyrical sky is falling but climate change a hoax. Legalists overrun the temple of democracy, smiley glad-hands with hidden agendas draw maps over sacred land and divvy up the turf for exploitation. Hungry ghosts whistle, echoing down the empty halls of skyscrapers, void of the great void.
Pigs, all of them, fattening on filth for the harvest, praising the master who measures them for the market. They fawn over Musk, worship his every move and sickly sweet words of deception and self-aggrandizement. Fools, who think they are geniuses, are easy prey for the rapaciously intelligent. They eagerly orient their bodies to the master-plan, believing themselves to be on the forward edge of “progress”, but in truth, they are its ebb, a return to a peasantry mythologically obsessed with their feudal lords and their claims to divinity. The futurist is no higher in his moral standing than the vassal lord of a King: he perpetuates the power balance as long as he ekes from it his own eternal living. Selfish, greedy and obsessed with survival, the ultimate egotist disguised as the Messiah.
The general public, the self-proclaimed centrists wax on and on about improved standards of living, higher gross national product, more profits than ever before, yet their grasp of history extends a page into a child’s introduction. They vomit their opinions on every wall for the public to see, poisoning the well of democracy and leveling idiot criticisms at anyone who dares to speak the truth, to talk of lived experience, who questions elite metrics of success and prosperity.
They reason out of a vacuum, out of the null zone which is the middle, and in doing so they taint every thought with their own suppositions of fairness and equanimity, yet their bias runs to the rotting heart of the corporate state that swallows their lives. Little do they know they feed its fires with every uninformed outburst of pseudo-reason, with every re-share of fascist propaganda disguised as edgy alternative content.
They wallow in the wealth scraped out of the murder of our democracy and claim superiority when what ensures their success is a safety net they didn’t build and which they clamor to tear down. They enjoin the poor to try harder, to get educated, while they lament the trivialities of their sheltered lives, complain endlessly about nothing and succumb to the banal conformity of a mind drenched in suburbia and all the idiot goals it presents: house, marriage, kids, pets, career; all of the external markers of a success defined by murderous robber barons, none of the internal integrity which saves the soul from sickness, suffering, and spite.
The world has turned into some great artifact of superfluousness and frivolity, of half-truths, lies, false images, demonic apparitions, hellish consumption, hungry ghosts, mad ideologues and a churning river where each drop is a useful idiot playing the masters game for them. Historical amnesia has crested above our world like a bloody wave, and in the last months, it crashed upon the cities, scattering the hard-won order of the civil rights movements into paranoiac chaos, upturning the carts and stands to proffer factual news and in their place erecting vaudevillian sideshows trucking in blackface hatred of the other.
Old Christian fools ramble their half glimpsed theology, the smell of it is overpowering and reeks of rotting flesh, something once vital and alive but now strangled by piety and literalism. The mystics have all been burned or cast out, and I speak now, here, from one bastion they call their own, on a mountainside overlooking the squall of poisonous legalism below. Flags raised to the ravenous beast of nationalism, which eats everything other than itself, growing fatter, heavier, slower and sicker with each morsel.
Where are the revolutionaries? The rebels? Those who think for themselves? Many of them have succumbed to tribalism, unthinking repetition of club passwords, ego fellatio and abject patheticisms traded as wit and intellect. Others are off enjoying the cheap holiday destinations of the third world, prices kept artificially low through the suppression of democracy, they walk through the marketplaces where parents sell their daughters to middle-aged businessmen and make no connection, see no relation, accept no responsibility for their own part in this gruesome drama. Others yet still have murdered their own free spirit, killed it in anticipation of suffering and signed their name on the contract of stability, security, and conformity, they hold down well-paying jobs and suck the deceased members of their superiors without so much as a flinch, and the corpse of the child they used to be lies bloody in the disused chambers of their hearts.
The man has traded his love of freedom for the promise of a warm bed, a hot meal, and strong borders to keep out his fears. Those fears, he sees not, are already inside him, have already corrupted the purity of his heart and the clarity of his sight and rendered him a broken half man, a shambolic creature anxiously glancing around corners, desperately checking the device in his pocket for a dopamine hit, paying with his sanity and his humanity for the privilege of being able not to think.
The authoritarian threat of our time is fractional, the historical lesson was learned: gather not under idea but over the product. Instead of a Swastika, a Hammer and Sickle, or a Red Star; now a grey office building. The symbols used are silently ideological. They do not shout their intent like the Swastika, they whisper it in a hundred years of a hundred managers, one piece of the hundred-piece puzzle for each. They murmur pleasant associations into the ears of children, yellow-arched associations of joy from smiling mascots. And fools who cannot see past their own greed see nothing afoot, and sign cheques to the silent fascist in boardrooms, all the while singing songs of freedom.
In blissful irony they pay lip service to hard-won truths: “any one of us could have succumbed to that relentless war-machine and sold our neighbors into gas chambers.” These same creatures buy Nike, wait in line for the new iPhone, defend corporate agendas and see no iterations, notice no patterns repeat.
May Day is approaching, and a welling dissatisfaction is brewing.
I have a persistent dream that turns and tosses in a hard bed wishing to wake and see the light of the real,
that one day the banks will stand as burning skeletons in the streets, their iron curtain was torn asunder by the love of a united people.
That one day the liar will stand naked before his flock, flayed of his armor by eyes unfettered by convenient lies.
That one day the rights of the people will triumph over the property rights of the few.
That one day an education will be a given and not a taken and ransomed thing.
That one day the sycophants in ivory towers will break a sweat paying back their debts to society.
That one-day democracy will dawn upon this broken land and lift up those trodden under by the jackboot of capital.
-You may say I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one.
For those who would save themselves, these words are heresy, madness, treason, betrayal, these thoughts are corrosives, melting apparent surfaces away and revealing the inward poverty behind their outward finery.
All the emperors are naked and all the guillotines are oiled.
The world crawls with self-proclaimed rationalists. Smirking self-satisfied smugness and simpering apologists for false logic they themselves have failed to so much as begin to understand! They wax lyrical in vacuums of context, hypocritical generalizations falling from their diseased mouths, tongues slack and rotting with the pestilence of a slumbering intellect.
They crown themselves as defenders of the temples of science, soldiers of reason, but in truth, they defend the sword itself, not its use as a tool of dissection, in truth, they soldier not for reason but for the passions it may disguise! Liars! Contemptuous of nature they decry a God who has spoken their same hatred of form, who has given voice to their Manichean desperations, their disgust at the flesh, their disdain for the smell of humanity and their endless covering scents forged from the weepings of small animals and other abominations, all justified under the aegis of progress.
Progress, that foul specter haunting the happiness of man, that myth most murderous and mad that drives men to the gutting of their brothers, the myth of momentum! A myth, a virulent fiction that corrupts the mystery and makes it a problem to be solved, an unanswered question, and a great suicide pact are signed with the blood of our children.
Slothful minds suckle on the teat of material comfort, fattening on the agreement, on the self-righteous appraisal of possession as wealth, slothful minds that ooze a viscous bile to trap the free man and bind him to endless reams of debt-paper.
Would that a solar flare lash down like a great whip upon the miserable back of man’s earth and jolt from his system the virus of debt, the colossal satanic mill that turns the wheel of commerce and grinds genius into profitable conformity.
Would that the fool, the company man, the government man, the chief justice, the officer, the sergeant, would that these Gatekeeper Narcissi be pierced by the sting of their arrogance and succumb to its deadly poison, would that their passing be a warning to all those with the wretched urge to grasp at power: here lies decide.
An eternal feudalism is nigh. Even as I speak, men and women across the globe make arrangements to exclude forever the voice of the people from the halls of power, hewing from the rock of human suffering a heaven and a god-body for themselves and a hell and wretched debt flesh for all else. All the old Gods are dead, religion is a mockery and dignity has clothed itself in filth.
Gaze out across the wasteland of human potential and discover hamlets of beauty, all too quickly crushed under by the relentless march of progress and modernization, the murder of the spirit of everything. Mankind has succumbed to greed, and where before restraint and subtlety reigned, now the frenzy of gross hedonism writhes and judders in a destructive masturbatory fit.
Great dissatisfaction breathes forth from every surface. Where once was love, now loss and searing aches stumble in the bleak darkness, grasping at shadows. Where once was the bright light of intellect is now a dull confusion and a vicious hatred, lashing out in a blind fury. Where once was the dawn of the open mind now lies a night-grave of rigid pseudo-rationality, weaponized against the unfortunate.
What poltergeist burdened our backs with the sympathy of the simpering middle, who break their ankles throwing themselves onto a pyre of vanity and virtue? Pledging allegiance to all and therefore none, eating the rotting fruit of the Swastika while enjoying the garden of democracy, claiming moral superiority over those whose hearts bleed freely. With cataract-ridden eyes they scream self-proclaimed tales of visionary clarity while averting gaze from the bubbling hidden costs of the profit economy, shoring up their own lives in comfort while the just man starves with his child by the roadside.
Inside the unwalled cities of wealth, they discuss manufactured issues and wail bloody logics while their fellows burn from the heat of their fiscal pyre. They absolve their own conscience, borrowing from the toolbox of rationality they denigrate the spirit of those they have deemed lesser than themselves, they play the games of their enemies. They feign outrage, curry sympathy, thunder false equivalence, bastardize science, ally with demons; they wander in the maze of narcissism, drunk on the smell of power and status and murderous of the messenger who would free them from their madness.
Grey lines of despair and the eerie void wind of disappointment fill their rooms. Turning child hearts towards snickering dismissal, they gather the vomitous opinions of the well-off to justify the murder of the poor, to justify torture of the foreigner in island prisons, and, placing the ideal before the actual, they smilingly condemn their fellow man to suffer out of a self-imposed sense of rational fairness. Desperately they cling to the familiar, and in doing so breed contemptuous thoughts.
All of this useless consumption, this Molochian ravening stuffing grasping desperation to fill the void inside instead of allowing it, letting the void scream its songs of emptiness! Great and perfect emptiness, mankind should be without! Mankind should live in the void and call it home!
Now, breaking over these battered minds, mad visions of grand cloud forest treetop poesies echoing down the mountainside and breathing new life into dormant hearts slow-beating, raising revolutionary fervor in the blinded populace, re-mind-ing the mindless consumerist hordes of their original holy bodies and natural indignation in the face of the notion of nations. Mad visions of the cloud forest rippling code into virtual and actual reality and the gaps in between, joining firmament and earthbound phenoms, a bridge across the veil, across the wailing chasms of nowhere into nowhere.
Rise and break the back of fascists, rise and break the chains of number and measure as applied to man, the great false debt of our time, rise and shoulder the burden of humanity, which is free truth and heartful awakening spread wide and far without discrimination but with the discerning eye of the god-within.
Rise, Indians-not-Indians but by location, for ye are not nations but true human beings destined for the heavens and of the flesh of love and truth and free beauty, rise and scuttle the pigs from their dens high on capital’s hill, rise and bring torch to the tinder of the vast self-made bed of the freemarketeers, rise and pry the rod from the policeman’s complicit hand, rise and throw the gates of the offshore gulags open and throw thine own arms open to receive whether blade or gratitude for it is not this body that matters but this inextinguishable light of love that dwells within the seeing self of every man woman child and human.
Rise and shine, my fellow human beings, rise with that indomitable light and burn away the darkness, for while these vicious children toss and turn in the violent sleep of reason, a New Old God is born deep in the heart of the forest. Air shudders crackling, a ritual fire burns far from the number and meter of Descartes’ angelus. Voices rise in consonance with the firelit clouds, smoke rises in runic assonance, splitting the sky. Agnosis descends, hidden from the world, that sets mountains trembling and caverns wailing, trees turn on their roots. Great gales dispel the heavy clouds of identity and conformity, and yes, now a God is born deep in the heart of the forest: Hail! Hail! Great Pan is returned to eat the machine!