Dog Poet Transmitting.......
‘May your noses always smell out the truth in this landfill of noxious shit’.
Sooner or later you see what was inevitable and whether it’s just saber rattling at this point is unimportant, because when there is only one way to go, eventually that is the direction you head in. Please note that that is an active link that connects to the context and subject of this part of the post (grin). The revolution is under way. We’re looking at it but it hasn’t reached the mad bitch, drama queen stage. Or maybe it has but Madame Defarge hasn’t arrived with her knitting yet. The more The Apocalypse reveals, the more a certain dynamic imperative begins to take its foot off the clutch and the revving turns into driving.
When you look at the evidence at the Casey Anthony trial, you realize that even though O.J. Simpson might have been only 99% guilty, she’s at about 100%. This is an example of what has happened to the structure of what might have once been possibly, sane jurisprudence. Dear Prudence went out to play and now she’s tied up in the back of a white van headed for some deserted Green River bank, or Bank.
Like the traders that were waving bank notes out of the brokerage houses of The City, during that protest a few years ago, the bankers are doing the same, in acts of rampaging greed, whereby they already have far more than they will ever need and are going for the funds under mattresses and in secreted piggy banks. The awesome insanity of raging hubris is a gruesome spectacle. Not only are they eating you but they are eating each other and then they are going to start on themselves. Meanwhile they stay in their locations of business, as if there were some endless security for their heinous behavior. Sooner or later the mob is going to drag them out and hang them by their heels from the lampposts, outside their places of business and the police are going to stand by like they were working for the IDF in the occupied lands, if they don’t outright join in. Everyone can feel the bite of the vampires at their neck and somewhere in nearby basements, stakes are being sharpened and other accoutrements prepared.
You’re going to start seeing the ultimate in flash mobs. Anonymous is only one feature of what is going into operation. The cosmos lives inside of every player and it can be ingenious in the way it organizes the collective toward the fulfillment of its will.
Driving back and forth from Italy this last time, I began to notice all of the livestock trucks, filled with pigs around the area of Milano; headed toward Parma and other processing areas. We would see the fattened pigs, standing in the confining pens as we passed them by. I said to Susanne, “they’ll be dead in a few hours because they go directly to the killing floor from the transport trucks”. We were looking at 'dead pigs riding; sizzle on the griddle, riddle, riddle riddle, like the containment steel that also heats up as Yurasus Dragon is dragged and cooked on the coals. They don’t store them once they arrive. That makes no kind of sense business wise. It was an eerie thing to see them there, knowing that they were headed for the chopping block, the smoke rooms and the retail outlets. It was an eerie thing to think a few hours later, “Well, they’re dead now”.
The bankers are in the transport trucks right now but they don’t know it. When they get to the processing plant, however, they will smell it. They will know. It will be pigs who signed the transport orders and pigs that drove the trucks and those pigs will also be in line to come online next. I say this metaphorically because it’s not specifically like that but somewhere up the line, they signed their own death warrants and death isn’t the end of their journey. “Ease on down, ease on down the road”. So it goes.
You can’t tell these people anything and there’s no stopping them overstepping all lines of fairness and propriety. They don’t give a shit. It’s thousands of Humphrey Bogart’s going mad in The Sierra Madres with the same ultimate result. The stupendous imagery of unbridled greed and indifference to one’s fellows is a sight to behold and there they go, I pass them on the highway in the transport trucks. Through a trick of vision and perception, they think they’re still riding in BMW and Mercedes limousines. They’ve still got their hands all over the hired hookers. They’re still snorting all the good drugs they’ve made illegal for the rest of us, as they head for death in the afternoon; soon to be hanging on the hooks and then sliced real thin onto the plates of those who wish to become like them and given the opportunity, they will.
You can see them now, trampling each other at the Wal-Mart sales. Pressing each other into the chain link fences; dreaming in the aisles of the day when they get to murder with a fountain pen and live the high life of pneumatic bobbing breasts and asses crying out for the mastery of their horned hands upon the vulnerable flesh of the one beneath them. There they are crying out in the passion of triumph, over the flowering and emergent pubes of their reincarnated sons and daughters; signing decrees and visiting vaults and asking themselves, “I wonder what this buttons for”? ...As they push it and wait for the results, flying some new Challenger through the skies and disappearing in an inferno of stupidity matched up with a technology beyond their grasp.
They dream of navel rings winking under t-shirts that says “I’m Daddy’s bitch” and they’re safe and secure behind mahogany doors that exist somewhere in their minds, while their hands are busy beneath their trousers- trout-fishing in America, if they even have them on. “I want what Rupert Murdoch has. I want what Rupert Murdoch sells. I want it for real and I’ll use my imagination and death and rebirth to get it. I believe that nipples are nozzles made for bicycle pumps and I want to wear pumps when I get bored and maybe someone will do it to me. I can afford it. Whip it to me, whip it good”. They want to undulate beneath the cosmic dick, as a cordial following the operation of the cosmic dick, engaged in every perversion of Nature, motoring down the road to dreadful epiphany because really, that’s just another way to find God and you will find God, “Oh God! Oh God!” ...in Kali Yuga style.
I’ve walked the night time streets of LA and New York and I don’t have to go to Bangkok or Tijuana to see what’s possible. I can fire the ping pong balls into the shot glass in my mind and bring on the donkeys. It is out of this that the mobs emerge, inflamed with another passion, incited by the Murdoch’s who invite them to the castle gates. The Murdoch’s of this world advertise for the fury and conflagration of their terrible demise.
Goldman Sachs will be finding their sacks bronzed and mounted on the mantelpiece of history for the record and remembrance of their times. These institutions will not crumble. They will be torn to pieces by the maddened hands, driven by ravenous minds, in the flames of what they stoked on their own behalf. Dress rehearsal is at an end, as the pressure ignites critical mass against the unmoving wall. There is nowhere to go except outward into killing force. Selah!
...and so it goes and will continue until a cleansing rain or baptism of fire scorches the polluted world into an alkaline whiteness; even as it goes, the stagehands are busy setting up the props for the next sequence that will follow. Now’s there’s a bedtime story for you as Vishnu dreams on a sea of milk, except Vishnu isn’t dreaming now. Vishnu is in wardrobe changing into Shiva, while remaining Vishnu for the better half of all the better dreams that will not go unfulfilled.
Visible and The Critical List: ♫ Underground (We shall all be) ♫
'Underground (We shall all be)' is track no. 11 of 12 on
Visible and The Critical List's 1992 album 'Not Politically Correct'
About this song (pops up)
Radio show tonight, same place, same time.