Dog Poet Transmitting.......
May your noses always be cold and wet in The Season of the Witch (boo!)
Yeehah! Grab your partner!
As the awakening continues and much of the mover shaker world, goes around with tennis elbow from having their arms twisted up behind them all day long, welcome news from the resistance begins to surface and also to indicate that there is more to come from The Awakenings, Planetary Wide, Slumber Party, given the flashbang grenades that the cosmos is launching into the bedrooms of our not satisfactorily-conscious associates here on Planet Dirt.
I'm going to present a picture, an image for meditation, if you will. I would like you to consider it as an accurate portrayal of the way things really are. This kind of thing is helpful when it becomes resident in enough minds. I would like you to consider that the eroding PTW are, quite simply ♫just running scared♫, cue Roy Orbison. Don't be seduced by their power plays and bold fronts. Who, not scared out of their wits, orders billions of bullets? Of course, the prime motivator and motive for all of their twisted, fascistic carryings on, is due to their knowing, bone deep, that they are doing wrong and have been for a considerable period of time. Eventually this sort of thing gets to you, right around the time you start to notice that hot breath on the nape of your neck.
There's more than one voice that can be heard in the relative silence of the deep night. One of them, of course is the voice of comfort. The other would, logically be, 'the voice of discomfort'; a red-hued, bipedal, Hound of Heaven, tracking our several someones down “the arches of the years” and “down the labyrinthine ways”. Imagine these fiends, being tracked by larger, more powerful and more dangerous and vindictive fiends... red-eyed and frothing at the mouth, in anticipation of a tasty snack, if your tastes run in that direction, mine don't. First is coming the temporal judgment for wall to wall Tribe members, then, Pinhead is waiting for them on the other side. It will be a memorable Cenobite, cocktail party with 'eyes on toast' and no, those are not Vienna Sausages.
Imagine these two dimensional, 'all front' creatures, afraid to go out of their doors; racked by a determined, incremental ratcheting up of the terror and paranoia. Imagine that the shadows are alive in the darkness of their pending doom. To enhance the impact of your fine and detailed visualization of their 'in extremis' state, imagine yourself feeling compassion for the horrors of their fate. This may be your most difficult feat but it adds veracity to the whole pastiche; this melange of comeuppance; a righteous diversity of punishments, sequenced for the greatest effect, upon the hardest of hearts and most firmly closed minds; a huge horned hand is extended toward the handle of the heavy, heavy door. A creaking sound is heard, where none has been heard for a very long time and the door is relentlessly pulled open and sunlight floods the spider's nest of the vampire consciousness... sizzle, sizzle crackle, no, they don't like sunlight at all. But, of course, they are anti-life and life proceeds from the Sun, which is why we have all those sun gods in the first place; a big up to Lord Vivasvan! The present resident on the solar throne.
We need to see these desperate men and women as cringing wretches, startling at every sound; eyes whipping back and forth in search of whatever the hell that is that keeps disappearing the moment they turn to look at it. We need to see their knees knocking together like castanets, their palms being constantly brought to their cheeks, though they are unaware of this. We need to see them shitting themselves, every time a car backfires or a taxi cab horn sounds.
We can see the specter that walks behind them, so very, very close. It's disfigured face leans down to the backs of their necks and whispers frightening things that only they can hear. They race down to their temples of Set, Satan and Bubastis but what do they find? They find a fresh snakeskin, an angel of light and an abandoned kitty litter box. What's happening! What's happening! They are screaming inside their minds. Their faces are fixed in a rigid pose of control. They mean to telegraph to the world at large and to their intimates that everything is as it should be... but it's not, oh no, precious, it's not.
Not all the deodorants in the world can cover up that stink of raw fear. Where is it coming from? Is it coming from them? Windows have begun to open in their minds and they are being enabled to see the full measure of their crimes. Their mind scurries in all directions looking for any defense; “Who can I blame this on”? “What if I sacrifice my wife and children...? Whoops, I already did that”.
“I'm coming for you. Prepare yourself. I'm coming for you”. This is what they hear. This is what some of us hear too but in a different tone of voice.They are very tired but they do not want to go to sleep. Oh no, not after what happened the last time! Not after what they saw the last time!!! ”Tonight's dream is brought to you in luminous 3-D with 7 to 1 THX sound by H.P. Lovecraft Productions and there will be commercial interruptions”.
They're surrounded by bodyguards but they have no internal protections. Their bodyguards have seen the mean suites appointed for their lodging and have noted that there are only so many of them. They can count; no room for their families. All the money in the world won't do you much good when there is no longer a marketplace. They hear the unmistakeable bells of an arriving elevator. Baron Samedi, dressed as a doorman, or a third world general, leans out of the door and announces, “Going down”?
The awful smell of dead bodies begins to enter the noses of these black souled reprobates. They don't see any bodies. Could the smell be coming from their own body? They feel heat rippling under the surface of their skin. When they close their eyes they see a big wheel of fire, through the aperture they see a large banquet hall being set up by a group of upright lizards. Someone is already sitting at the head of the table. Oh no~ They most certainly do not want to look! ♫Do you see what I see?♫ Far off, behind whoever that is they can see shadowy gibbets and a large platform with a raised structure that looks like a pub bar. Some very unpleasant looking life forms are sitting behind that dressed up in outfits that make them look like Halloween Popes. There's something sinister about the whole thing and that rotating wheel of fire is not helping.
Meanwhile, back in our dimension, which still shuffles back and forth like a Thorazine Queen, dancing with her imaginary partner (Hey, there's a cigarette butt! Quick! Snatch.), we are all much gratified to know that Drones R R Friends and whether they are being operated by two brush cut (Semper fi fo fum!) troglodytes in blue, or a blowsy, porcine 2:00 AM blond sweat-hog, in brown khaki with a gun and a taser, we're being looked out for, if not looked for and they are working on X-ray eyes for the thing, just in case you have to cover a Victoria's Secret's Fashion Show in Vegas.
It's hard to keep a true vision of what's real, given all the morphing (and morphine), shape-shifting and prescription drugs but if you can, if you can, you know that everything is going on for the purpose of demonstration and it's going to turn out well for them as acts well and rather badly for them as don't. This is not a new presentation, coming down from Aldebaran or Betelgeuse. It's the same grand finale we run into at the end of every cycle. Sure, the boys and girls from central casting have whipped up different extras and the appropriate props for the time zone, period piece we're in and maybe the major player is fire this time and not water but that's just show business.
The good news is that you don't have to worry about whether you are in the cheap seats or the VIP section, that just sort of forms around you wherever you are standing. Wardrobe and the set designers will be moving invisibly among you and making those last minute adjustments; getting you all gaudied up or stripping you naked, as the need may be. Don't overly concern yourself, if you should happen to be standing by a mirror, at the sight of your face looking like a backdrop for a GPS highway screen, or something out of The Matrix with iridescent green numbers scrolling by. That's known as the 'miles on your face'. It helps with the identification process.
Yes, it would please me if you would see those, who have devoted their lives to doing us harm, as being frantic with panic and fear. Visualize them as making a wrong move every time they move. See them literally shooting themselves in the foot, or any part of their anatomy that matches up with your expectations. See them afflicted with a peculiar Tourette's Syndrome, which forces them to turn their head to one side or the other and spontaneously shout out their crimes to anyone who might be standing near by.
They should appear as the most pitiful and doomed souls you have ever witnessed in ineffective actions taken against their fellows as a passionate avocation. Observe them stuffing hundred dollar bills into their mouths and hooting like Chimpanzees. See them naked and walking blind in broad daylight, seeing nothing, tripping over everything. Hey look! There's George W. Bush.
You get the idea. See them for what they really are, or use satire to blow them out of proportion and make them ludicrous. Laugh at them (laugh at the devil and he will flee from you), these phony pretentious losers, who fancy themselves as powerful monsters. They haven't seen any real monsters yet but they will. They will.
'Bush Family History Lesson' is track no. 5 of 10 on Visible's 2002 album
'911 was an Inside Job'
Radio show tomorrow night.