Dog Poet Transmitting.......
'May your noses always be cold and wet'.
I’ve been told that tomorrow is an important anniversary for a significant event. People have asked me if I didn’t want to do something special tomorrow in memory of it. I know that in America, The Big Lie Machine is being trotted out to celebrate the events of 9/11. The Big Smoke and Lie Machine has been running at full power for some days. It’s operating in tandem with the world’s biggest rotating disco ball that spins and generates the flashing, multicolored, illusions that are synchronized with the pounding bass and drumbeat, which is the official soundtrack that accompanies the flow of the First Matter, as it passes through the aqueducts of The Cloaca Maximus and then into the factories and foundries, where all the ideas, information, infrastructure and objects of this perverted world, are stamped out or constructed for the comprehensive confinement of our consciousness, in a world of denatured, lemon fresh shit.
The Big Smoke and Lie Machine may seem like just the catchall name for various, industrial kitchen units that are in existence the world over but those are just satellite extensions of one massive, central apparatus which, like The Cloaca Maximus and the disco ball, are connected by pipes, cables and transmitting dishes that make sure the shit gets distributed evenly across the globe, as if it were a seed spreader larger than the biggest harvester or cotton gin the world has ever seen.
An army of politicians; technicians, policemen, big hair preachers, pedophiles, cretins and criminals of all capacities and persuasions are employed 24/7 to keep this tripod, lie machine, cloaca and disco ball, pumping, flowing and spinning to the soundtrack that keeps the bitches and ho’s dancing and humping to the international anthem of Hell’s unfinished symphony, performed in English Major or Asia Minor, with a sympathetic vibrating G string that hides the promise of paradise beneath the billboard light. You can think about it in public and touch yourself in private but you can’t do both at the same time.
Domesticated dogs, wild wolves and hungry red-eyed rats are howling and chittering to the higher octaves that nothing formerly human can hear. They’re waiting for the carnage in the aftermath when there are too many bodies to bury or burn.
Yes, I’ve been told this is a solemn and signature day, demanding moments of silence and forced hypocritical gravitas, as we honor not only the fallen but every former freedom that followed them down. I can’t imagine where the moment of silence is going to come from with the steaming, screaming tripod, red lining the tachometer, as the wheezing, asthmatic car of our collective futures hums on the concrete blocks, going nowhere.
I’ve considered walking outside my front door and pissing into the foliage as some kind of personal statement. I’ve given the occasional moment of thought to some token act of engagement in the world wider, robot reflex of automatons, doing the John Philip Souza down the dangerous length of Anytown, Main Street or Commercial Street, while the relentless pressure of the times, sends hundreds of those with nothing left to lose into a postal frenzy upon everyone and everything in reach. A symbolic pissing on this particular magnesium flare is going to accomplish nothing good and I’m not in the mood to commemorate ignorance, stupidity and denial in any case.
I’ll take this moment to say that Israel did 9/11, with the assistance of well placed and important puppets who dance on the strings of international bankers. I’ll take this moment to point out that while marching through Libya, while caught in the currents between Scylla and Charybdis, or Turkey and Israel, if you prefer and while far more important dates approach, it is essential to remember that you usually get where you are headed unless you die on the way.
I take this moment and a few moments tomorrow to mourn the loss of human courage and integrity on the altars of materialism, appetite and fear. I’ll say a prayer for the bitches and ho’s and one for the pimps as well because the latter will become the former in what will seem like no time at all. It’s a cycling endlessness of role switching abuse that punctuates the centuries with suffering and futility. It’s a Sisyphean redundancy of adamantine fools, lashing legions of oxen, pulling the heavy and pointless up an impossibly slippery hill. My sympathies lie with the oxen.
I recommend to every witness and observer of the pompous and bloviating spectacle of weeping crocodiles and ostrich ass bandits that they cry bullshit after every sentence and significant, meaningful pause. I recommend a world wide flash mob of mooners, attended by cellphone camera operatives, with a Youtube hookup. I recommend scorn and ridicule. I recommend revolutionary action of comic performance and ingenious satire. I recommend contempt and indifference from the bullhorn of conscience, in every public and private venue. I recommend a moment of silence absent, as the entire world cries “bullshit” at high noon tomorrow. I recommend a hundred million, middle fingers raised in a salute to our leaders and prison wardens the world over. I recommend monkey wrench business of the most sarcastic and sardonic kind.
We hold this truth to be self evident that Israel attacked the United States on 9/11 and blamed it on the Muslim world. We hold it to be self evident that Israel is not a nation but a collection of banker gangsters who stole a land with people, for a people with no central criminal base, for the purpose of ritualized religious genocide, while seeking to economically enslave the entire world and then plunge it into a holocaust of war based on the recovered false memory of brain washed populations, who saw the movie and bought the t-shirt. If it is not self evident then your self is in hiding from the fear of oppression, slander and loss, which are an inevitable certainty as a result. We hold it self evident that when it is not self evident it will, sooner or later, become evident in the most unpleasant possible way.
Yes, beat the drums, strike up the band and weep on command. Open your ears and close your minds, nod your heads like a fluffer, felating the ones who must be made hard enough to rape and kill your friends and families on camera, while you watch. It wouldn’t surprise me if you got hard and wet in the performance of it. You are nothing more than a controlled reflex but you might wake up. You might wake up today and you might wake up tomorrow, in wonder at the confinements of your pen and the salubrious atmosphere of the sty. You may find yourself speaking in a foreign language, no longer grunting and squealing and running around on all fours. You may not understand the meaning of what is being said in your own voice. It has been such a long time since it has been in use. You may not comprehend the emotions of your heart and the thoughts moving in your mind may seem like an alien landscape but you have the promise of adjustment and accommodation to, soon enough, make it seem like you have been this way forever and that should be enough to make your forget your awakening once more, as appetite and deception begin to act upon you once again.
Those whose purpose is to deceive and abuse us are losing their grip. You can thank the cosmos for that. You had no part in it but you can have a part in it now. The devil that torments and confuses you cannot stand to be ridiculed and laughed at. It robs him of his power. For as long as you take him seriously, he is a serious player. When you no longer take him seriously, he is an impotent clown, someone to be pelted with rotting fruits and vegetables, tarred and feathered and ridden out of town... on a rail.
Maybe you will awaken and maybe you will be brought to awakening but awaken you shall. The wand has been raised and the command has been made and now there is nothing more remaining but that the power must precipitate down, into the place where soon enough either surprise, wonder or lasting shame will make an appearance upon your face.
'Have I Got This Right?' is track no. 2 of 10 on Visible's 2002 album
'911 was an Inside Job'
Lyrics (pops up)
There will be a radio show Sunday night.