Kludge
12-09-2009, 08:10 PM
(by Discordian "Jack of Turnips")
All things having been said, and repeated, and repeated again until the bile rises in the throat...now the only sensible action is to destroy the government.
The Capitol should be ruins, a grassy rock-scattered place where children go and their parents tell them, “This was where the bigwigs approved torture, this is where the fat men legislated their robberies, this is where they voted for war and left the poor and sick to die. This is where the ones in power proclaimed that all the money will go to the rich and everyone else can eat dirt.” That’s what the parents, those who knew and who put the dynamite under the foundations, that’s what they will say.
And the children will pick dandelions in the ruins of Washington, DC.
Yeah, America’s dead. She has been dead for fifty years now. Nationalists still love her, still kiss her dead lips; they are making love to her corpse even as you read this. But she’s dead. Get over it.
Your allegiance must be elsewhere. Your allegiance must be to a new life. It is 07:30 and the October sun bursts in a flood of orange light through the window. What the hell are you going to do about it? Get the guitars and the djembes, the harmonicas and the fiddles; get your crazy trousers and your hat with the ribbons; walk on stilts and let the dogs run free. Dance for your life, you bastards. Dance and sing and work and fuck like you mean it. It’s all that’s left.
For fifty years money has been lavished on corporate barons while legislators deny food and basic medical care to the poor. For fifty years America has used lies to wage wars of aggression. The killings -- Vietnam to Iraq -- number in the hundreds of millions, a holocaust. A murderous American holocaust. For fifty years the US secret police have operated without restraint of law, and they have been set loose to imprison and torture at will. America’s Constitution is a joke, ignored in practice and mocked daily by the actions of the government.
Dance like you mean it, brothers. Spit on everyone in power.
I heard there was a man who said that no matter whether Thing One or Thing Two gets elected the inauguration should be the same: a hollow-point bullet to the forehead. To be immediately followed by the execution of each and every congressman and senator. I did not say that, I don’t know who did. It is illegal to say that, illegal to write it, illegal for an American to think it. (Just as it was illegal for a Soviet in Stalin’s day.) I don’t know who would say that.
Spit on everyone in power.
We will learn this or die: the only tribe is the human tribe. The streets and parks and fields belong to us. We own the sunlight on the grass, a bottle of warm wine in our hands and a cheap guitar hung ‘round our necks.
We own life. Late at night, alone: frost forming on the windows, a 40-watt bulb in the bedside lamp -- the one without a lampshade -- and a thin book by Jim:
“The bullet tumbled toward the girl’s head at 1250 feet per second. She wasn’t the president, you say, too young for politics. Despite theological gooseshit the gods don’t keep time in light years. We’re slowed to the brutality of clocks.
Listen to the alarm. Wake up.”
That’s it, then: wake up.
Every one of us will die, but we will continue. We can’t go on, but we will go on. The chain of souls sings in our blood, in the only tribe there is, the human tribe. There is a reason the officials are on top: it is because scum floats. And therefore be no respecter of government. Subvert the powerful. Mail your congressman an envelope of spit. Your allegiance is to humankind, not to the corpse of America or the stinking remains of a nationalist fantasy. Grow up. And learn to sing.
All things having been said, and repeated, and repeated again until the bile rises in the throat...now the only sensible action is to destroy the government.
The Capitol should be ruins, a grassy rock-scattered place where children go and their parents tell them, “This was where the bigwigs approved torture, this is where the fat men legislated their robberies, this is where they voted for war and left the poor and sick to die. This is where the ones in power proclaimed that all the money will go to the rich and everyone else can eat dirt.” That’s what the parents, those who knew and who put the dynamite under the foundations, that’s what they will say.
And the children will pick dandelions in the ruins of Washington, DC.
Yeah, America’s dead. She has been dead for fifty years now. Nationalists still love her, still kiss her dead lips; they are making love to her corpse even as you read this. But she’s dead. Get over it.
Your allegiance must be elsewhere. Your allegiance must be to a new life. It is 07:30 and the October sun bursts in a flood of orange light through the window. What the hell are you going to do about it? Get the guitars and the djembes, the harmonicas and the fiddles; get your crazy trousers and your hat with the ribbons; walk on stilts and let the dogs run free. Dance for your life, you bastards. Dance and sing and work and fuck like you mean it. It’s all that’s left.
For fifty years money has been lavished on corporate barons while legislators deny food and basic medical care to the poor. For fifty years America has used lies to wage wars of aggression. The killings -- Vietnam to Iraq -- number in the hundreds of millions, a holocaust. A murderous American holocaust. For fifty years the US secret police have operated without restraint of law, and they have been set loose to imprison and torture at will. America’s Constitution is a joke, ignored in practice and mocked daily by the actions of the government.
Dance like you mean it, brothers. Spit on everyone in power.
I heard there was a man who said that no matter whether Thing One or Thing Two gets elected the inauguration should be the same: a hollow-point bullet to the forehead. To be immediately followed by the execution of each and every congressman and senator. I did not say that, I don’t know who did. It is illegal to say that, illegal to write it, illegal for an American to think it. (Just as it was illegal for a Soviet in Stalin’s day.) I don’t know who would say that.
Spit on everyone in power.
We will learn this or die: the only tribe is the human tribe. The streets and parks and fields belong to us. We own the sunlight on the grass, a bottle of warm wine in our hands and a cheap guitar hung ‘round our necks.
We own life. Late at night, alone: frost forming on the windows, a 40-watt bulb in the bedside lamp -- the one without a lampshade -- and a thin book by Jim:
“The bullet tumbled toward the girl’s head at 1250 feet per second. She wasn’t the president, you say, too young for politics. Despite theological gooseshit the gods don’t keep time in light years. We’re slowed to the brutality of clocks.
Listen to the alarm. Wake up.”
That’s it, then: wake up.
Every one of us will die, but we will continue. We can’t go on, but we will go on. The chain of souls sings in our blood, in the only tribe there is, the human tribe. There is a reason the officials are on top: it is because scum floats. And therefore be no respecter of government. Subvert the powerful. Mail your congressman an envelope of spit. Your allegiance is to humankind, not to the corpse of America or the stinking remains of a nationalist fantasy. Grow up. And learn to sing.