As usual this will begin arse about face then we go over to
the other place.
I wrought a poem once, called “Grapes”. Upon reading it my
friends wept. It is lost to me now as the subject matter was. All dead.
3 years out and closing. No answers yet, really, more
questions, and yet the way is clear. It is as a great big flaming path, burning
away, phosphorising the sodium fog on a bomber field of bared, beggared girl landing.
No strip too bare the teeth?
Before I round this one out read through this malarkey.
I particularly and peculiarly like this snippet.
“L.S.: Was the reason for the First World War basically a
trap laid by the British and Russian elites – and the German leadership was
stupid enough to step into that trap?
G.P.: A siege, yes, a mouse-trap. Yes, damningly stupid,
indeed. Von Moltke’s (German) Chief of Staff had been invested in 1900 with
political authority it did not know how to wield—and, in truth, it was not its
role to exercise such power in the first place: it was as if by surrendering
all might to the (dynastic and thus unfit) warrior caste of Prussia, Germania
as a whole had spiritually abdicated. And by doing so it has cursed the whole
of Europe ever since. A tragedy.”
There are no dates only a cycling long count.
He can go stick his head up his ass here.
“G.P.: From Gavrilo Princip (the Black Hand in Sarajevo ) to these bogus Islamists by way of, say, the
Montoneros in Argentina , the
RAF in Germany or the Red
Brigades in Italy ,
all of them are useful idiots, by definition. The terrorist’s psycho-sociological
typology is fairly consistent across time and space: s/he generally is of
low middle-class/upper proletarian status, very young (well below thirty), not
particularly intelligent, and death-prone. S/he is by definition, again, an
expendable: or, more specifically a manipulable mediocrity. These useful idiots
may come at certain junctures to play a critical role, of course. Terrorism is
(elite) politics, never the weapon of the voiceless, but the very opposite.”
The magik numbers, the spell cast by only looking at the
numbers 1939-1945.
The numbers, squadrons of them.
Like fleas.
Numbers do not exist.
Terminus frees me and should open my eyes to an answer for
something I did not seek when I dumped in the ausphart 36 months ago.
2000 years is the least time it takes for power to remodel
itself.
No numbers, no figures, no letters, no graves, no grieving,
no empty space, no tears, no more death on demand, no wankstators.
Ritual, ceremony and worship are the jester’s clown.
Stop it.
Over we go.
