The Smile of the Unvanquished

in the mist,he picked up the call of the foghorn. there he made his way through the bracken, the nettles and the rocks to find haven in the light tower. a blustering gale sank its icy talons into his skull, though when he saw the true source of the howling roar, he behold a giant beast, hungry, desparate and alone. blades of teeth snapped him up, devoured the mammal insect, frustration now quenched, bellowing fatuously raised spirits. and the man's soul was indeed in some haven, but'twas not heaven, although it was at least, warm.

a leaf floats along a rivulet, and on that leaf, an insect, tiny core of clenched virtues, made base, unwitting victim of peradventure meddlings, foolish zest or to emulate itself in face of the inscrupolous ordinariness of tried path and behaviour. and it knows that soon somewhere out there the carrier will be trapped amidst the growth of the bank, or sink into the murky water, smothering in the fumes of rotting green, and it knows too that at each stage he may as well fly off, no hostage to any quagmire, decreed against a sentence anytime. that it sails up the blind watercourse to its terminus, wherever this one may lead, shrugging off the weight of atlas, while it lifts its body on its glassy wings, upon which the sun sparkles in flashy percussions of delight, to the breezy air that once broke off that leaf from a stalwart tree...

Scum sometimes I am so damned emotional and angered, playing at first things down by quirky humour, dry and absurdist at the same time, and behaving like a dour hard nut, but then I refuse to accept their iniquity and almost drown in the foaming drool of my madness, stirring my blood, straining my veins, flexing my liquified muscles to fight, lucidly knowing that my crusade will be as successful as any exploit by Don Quichotte, the reckoning of the heroicWehrmacht at the Eastern Front, the pleading death-rattle of an emphysemic old geezer, a baby's smile before it pleases the Lord Jehova to take its cadavre to heaven. I lurch into passion's intoxication, wielding stiff and rigid the teeming hatred of my ancient soul to crush the vermins of this world out of existence, with a pain and grief beyond forgiveness, with the horror and blood leaking from my cavities, the venom of my spit, the frost of my esmerald predatory eyes, so drunk to relish the hate, the hate for all these fuck...

The Song of the Astral Oarsman   Beyond the moon, beyond the stars, floats my raft across piebald nebulae drawn farther along by my prowess earned through sweat and blood and the dyspnoeal winds coughed up by a brooding vermillion star, conjunct forces of unlikely associates, but as miasmic woes cut into whispering moans, excaltation swirls in sultry approbation of abomination, spit, semen and blood fizz with life, infectious ectoplasma rampant for a greed that trades the sequence of birth to death berth in a mirroring dialecticism, and reverse it again, to branch off  measured yet unbound, unfolding the canopy of our polypious perseity, so am I aware that my journey will harvest many tributes, awe minds, inspire hearts and bolster spirits, whilst my name will only sow frowns and torpor among many others, long after I signed off  as my own archetype and my dust lay slumbering on celestial bodies... But now my attention is steeply pitched to this black invitation! I rake decidedly into ...

At Wintersolstice, the backbone of the night, as a ghostly dotted veil of campfires dancing in a whirl of fumes, arches longest over a world shivering and more dull than livid, stripped of fragrances, even of decaying fruits forgotten to be harvest before the barns were closed and icy talons raped the land. And for the few who dare the calamity of elements outside their cosy den, and whose eyes peel layers of crusted infatuations and inflations of illusory commonplaceness, there's this hovering reassurance, unperturbed and aloof, a canopy of light though that beckons to hope, sense and love in harbours formerly unknown, often obliqued in daily consciousness, and in the rush of events and habits, that pins the soul down in its self-created pool of direness, now lifted up to citizenship of the abiding grace.

Re.: Mercenaries, Private Defense, and Genocide http://www.lewrockwell.com/rozeff/rozeff125.html It is clear that the world’s system of states does not have a method of policing genocides, despite the fact that the states claim to be in the business of protecting citizens. Why not? Such a method would require interference of one state in the so-called domestic affairs of another state, and states do not want to interfere with other states typically. If they did, it would mean war and they avoid wars unless there’s something in it for them. Each gang (state) more or less respects the turf of the other gangs. In this way, each gang holds on to its power – the most important aim of the gang. Stopping genocide and saving lives is not the object of these gangs (states.) I don’t even have to say that states shouldn’t be in the business of stopping genocides or go into the reasons why they shouldn’t be, because they don’t do it anyhow. This is one government program they avoid like the plagu...

Re.: George Orwell - Socialist, Anarchist or What...? http://members.tripod.com/wintermute10/cbs-uk.htm 1984 nicely puts together how feeble the prospects of a revolution by the mass or merely the single well-meant intellectual action of an individual is, which is exceptionally true in modern society but also in a pre-industrial world; discontentment and uproars manifest itself in the latter not as a consequence of poverty, but primarily in reaction to intrusion into popular religion and folkloristic events or in case of famine. Mind you, in the book, the Proles are relatively spared from the party-control and live more or less like every underclass in pacifized exclusion. The cynical angle and in this Orwell wondrously foreshadows the fears of the Situationists is that the intellectual weapons and icons of the revolt are manufactured, delivered and orchestrated by the Party. "A new form of domination had been perfected, they( = the Situationists) maintained, in which every act o...