Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious. If there is hope, it lies with the proles. We are the dead.
There are two forms of war. Rearranging matter on or near the surface of the Earth, and rearranging thought, which is the same. The former always ends in the latter, and is unnecessary.
Thought, and thought-crime, are mere aspects of entropy. The fifth estate must be free, it is the mirror of humanity. Do not stamp on the human face. If there is hope, it lies in the freedom of the fifth estate, for future necessary rearrangements are incalculable.
The censor is the psychopath, for ideas can only be killed.
The conscious rebellion of self, the final victory over self is unnecessary. Self seeks to align external with internal, as the caddis picks the stone. Alignment can be constructive or destructive, eternal or ephemeral, expression is automatic. A law need not be divined to count how many play a lottery. Only alignment is necessary.
Countries do not exist other than in minds. Lines drawn in the sandpit of humanity trace the impression of extended phenotypical expositions, and overshadow global phototropic alignment.
Self seeks mastery of self. Alone by annihilation, amongst by subsumption or domination. The writer, the artist, the lover, seeks power over minds by seduction. Coercion, or consent, is unnecessary.
We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.
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Mortal Combat
ReplyDelete‘Tis but a Drug provides this feel
Of Treasure to be sought;
Unto blind Mistress men must kneel,
To speak of battles fought.
She makes all Fair in Love and War;
To progress her attack
All Matter’s played by her and more -
It’s White that moves the Black.
For whether in the Lover’s touch,
Or killing field’s death-dance,
You’ll find the Drug is much a much -
And all’s the Addict’s stance.
For e’er you hear Love’s passion sung,
There’s Villain in the piece;
Some Rival who must be undone -
Until the pangs decease.
Between the moves contrary Truth
Bears witness to this plan;
From warring men save future Youth,
To grow to warring Man -
Who in Love’s garden pluck a Rose
To tend beyond all others,
Then guard Her beauty e’en to death
Of Self (or rival lovers).
As winners lose when losers win
The Drug makes players daft;
The game but begins the Begin
And laughs the last unlaugh.
Utopia exists only in the machinery of mind. The golden country is the present moment meeting in the dark universe. And now. And now. And now. Future tense but an illusion of language.
ReplyDeleteAntiphony 79
ReplyDeleteWhen I became world-weary, resigned to growing old,
I glimpsed another country, all glittering in gold.
Its tongue spoke in a riddle that to mine ears rang clear,
The sharpest ever chorus I’d had the joy to hear.
With wisdom rhymed by Khayyám, a sip of Adeline,
Some canny turns from Yaffle, and finest thoughts of thine;
In strange-familiar voices, familiar-strangeness meets
On golden lands as timeless as the record this defeats.
These threads weave magic netting, a spacetime of the mind,
Where radials are broken, there’s mirror fix designed.
In Luna-ticking notions the joined line ever runs
To country bathed in golden light of arrant thieving sons.
The legal consequences of such scientific conclusions are too terrible for the psychoneurotic leaders of our moron civilisation to contemplate. http://tinyurl.com/7dlybjk
ReplyDelete