Apologies for no Visible Origami today. It will appear tomorrow.
Dog Poet Transmitting.......
'May your noses always be cold and wet'.
The Earth shook the reactor in Virginia, where it had been placed on a fault line. It rolled into Washington D.C. and cracked the top of the Washington Monument and then broke the spires at National Cathedral. It shook The Capital and The Pentagon. It rippled like a creature from Tremors into NYC, where it undulated under the floor of The Stock Exchange and then traveled up the coast to say hello to Bwak! ...Obama at the Howdy Doody complex on Martha’s Vineyard. Martha’s bones rattled between the apple tree's roots, something there wondered if the resurrection was at hand.
There’s not one word of portent or meaning in the mix. It’s just business as usual, while the signs and wonders go about their business without any notice because they’re not listed on the Rupert Murdock owned, Dow Jones Index.
Fukushima is a massive disaster area bringing slow death in the millions to the Japanese, as it rides the winds up high that circle the Earth, just as Cliff High’s predictions indicated they would. The Macondo Well is leaking again, as vampire oil lords battle for the resources of Libya. ZATO wants to steal Gaddafi’s gold, while they bomb and destroy the magical waterworks he brought to his country. These are the Gog armies of Satanic, King Rothschild for whom there can be no independent currency. The face of The Beast must officially look out from the money in the hands of the enslaved. The Four Horsemen have left the paddocks.
Meanwhile a hurricane approaches The East Coast. One can only hope that the greatest area of force will be Martha’s Vineyard; that the cosmos will send a message and that Howdy Doody will be picked from a floating piece of timber, sans retainers and flunkies and all that formerly attended him. For as long as all these ‘dead zombies walking’ continue to dance on the banker’s strings, there will be no recognition or epiphany. As soon as Stepin Fetchit is back on dry land, he’ll be dancing once again to the fire fiddles of the damned.
Nothing moves these creatures. They have only maps of destruction and do not know what to measure or restrain. They are blind and brutal and cannot be stopped until the power gets rerouted or goes off.
The Christian fundies dance and sing, while their plaster of Paris Jesus is on the wing. He came off the dashboard of a Caterpillar D-8 that was tearing up the mountains so he’s just a little late. He couldn’t pave over The Lake of Fire because of all the mansions on the shore for when these Christians retire. They’re all going to the party in that make-believe heaven with Edgar Bronfman and Vladimir Lenin. They got orthodox saliva on their faces and clothes. That’s the Levin for the holy bread, they better bring a hose. It’s an endless rave in Rapture Town but God only knows what the band will be playing when the truth takes off her clothes and... so it goes and so it goes.
Nobody seems too surprised about earthquakes where there shouldn’t be earthquakes and high top, sneaker storms that ride up the coast. They just soldier on. They soldier on through the police tazers and the FBI raids. They soldier on through the murders and corporate theft. They soldier on through the empty strip malls, where nothing is left but strip clubs and Seven Elevens with Soylent Green Slurpies and suspicious looking corn dogs, harvested from the mass emasculations of a population, which broke every branch on the way down from their perches in The Tree of Stupidity. They soldier on through the dead manufacturing zones and into the waiting lines at the unemployment agency. They got a pocket full of food stamps and a wrapper of meth, as if they were looking to emulate the Peruvian workers with the cocaine paste. They didn’t get the real thing and there’s no ‘real thing’ in back of their minds. They soldier on, while the bankers and corporations whip their behinds on the hamster wheel to nowhere.
Nobody seems very impressed but maybe it’s the media blackout of all things real and relevant. If it’s not reported then it probably isn’t happening. One thing for sure is that, “it couldn’t happen here”. It’s in the same way that they couldn’t really be targeting independent journalists in Libya could they? They couldn’t really be the terrorists who are hunting for terrorists who didn’t exist, until they rigged up the necessary network of lies to trap whatever poor unfortunate was walking down the street at the time? The republican rank and file and the democratic rank and file couldn’t all be eating the same poisoned cornflakes that make them squawk like demented parrots at each other, in emulation of their glorious leader, the parrot in chief. They couldn’t be buying all the bullshit from the shelves of a culture that got discovered in the covered dish at the back of the icebox. In this nation of people putting food on their families, it seems that nothing is impossible, if it makes no reasonable sense and comes to you in shrink-wrapped plastic.
You can’t have a music video anymore where the performers aren’t dressed in neoprene Nazi sex bikinis. You can’t have an American movie without a baby with projectile diarrhea shooting a shit stream into his daddy’s mouth, as seen in The Change-Up or penguins shitting into the face of a once talented actor, now phoning it in. You’ve got The Hangover series, where the profane is high art and I could give you an exhaustive list but why bother? I’ve no idea what’s on TV but I can imagine. I’ve no idea what’s in the magazines but I can imagine. I’ve no idea what’s posted in the bus kiosks and subway stations but I can imagine. I’ve no idea what’s in your department stores and on your supermarket shelves but the last time I was in one of the big ones, I actually had to hunt for something to eat, among the endless rows of soft drinks, potatoes chips and processed chemistry experiments, where the amount of letters in the names of the ingredients, rivaled anything seen in the German language and I could count up to sixty different additives in some cases.
Most of the people are engaged at some level in the whole superstructure of this socio-political, private prison complex and they direct their anger in an eerie simulation of the Two Minutes’ Hate from 1984. The mainstream media and most of the alternative media are all standing under the same golden shower of global corporate inspiration, as the Earth trembles and the foundations of landmarks shake, in a barely noticed introduction to the shape of things to come.
People rail at the mention of Kim Kardashians, Alex Jones and sundry, all mixing public cocktails at the spigot attached to their cloaca. They have to exist in defense of something. They have to protect their investment in something. They have to wish in one hand and shit in the other that they aren’t too much like what they insist they are so very different than. They have to mainline justifications for everything, so long as the truth can be persuaded not to appear before their eyes and demand that they recognize it. There’s nothing like people with feet of clay, insisting that feet of clay get a pass on the sidewalks of history.
Down it goes, down to the bottom of its possibility to fall. Down it goes into the shared personal darkness of everyone who believes that misery does indeed love company. Yes we’ll all be rewarded, yes we’ll all take a stand, we’ll all be in that number when the shit hits the fan. On and on it limps and lurches from fire pits to entropy. On and on it goes and where it stops nobody wants to know. On and on from the break of dawn until the creatures of the night come calling. There are screams in the park, in that hideous dark but maybe it’s just your neighbor’s television.
So what’s your solution in this talk of all things wrong? Where’s the exit into something better than we have? The answer lies within yourself and the answer is not to lie, or accept a lie, or live in fear of those who use it as a weapon for your control. The power of the human heart and mind is immeasurable and needs to be no more than a hosting ground for what is true. It does not have to speak, when the very presence of what is real, pronounces itself like thunder and lightning and which no dark thing can approach and they know that. They know that but do the rest of you? In the end, it’s your fear and confusion that get you because those are points of entry. One must seal the door where evil dwells and employ the proper wardens. It’s a proven fact of long standing that even wild beasts will not harm someone who has no fear of them. They are nothing more than physical expressions of those things we fear within. Everything in nature is an expression of something within the human dynamic and the first actions of the banker is to screw up the natural system of awareness, within the ones they seek to imprison. Then they can drain away the power of true understanding and replace it with the dysfunctions necessary for them to feed at will. They manage this with their human megaphones that spread fear and support fearmongers and the organs of confusion and disinformation that are the daily broadcast of deception and deceit that holds the public in its thrall.
Step by step, we carve out our passage through the seductions of appetite or the power and focus of aspiration. Step by step we are led by those whose knowledge of the way onward, we have accepted as being correct. It all comes down to who you are listening to. It would serve us all to take a good hard look at that in this very moment of time.
'Iridescent Dreams' is track no. 10 of 10 on Visible's 2006 album 'Songwriter'
Lyrics (pops up)