About | Writing & Articles | Image Vault | Links | Manifesto | News | Store | Subculture Generator

Home » News

New Rome, A Reaping

Posted   |  Posted by

The last time Saturn, the Reaper, was in this alignment, The French Revolution butst onto the world stage with all the bloody fury of an underclass violated for countless years. Romans, the first fascists, worshipped Saturn, foolish enough to blindly believe he was their pet, their personal assistant, a validation of their entire value system. These arcane nazis saw their empire as a giant clockwork, the way they fought was without passion, cold, precise, practiced. brutal unrelenting machinery of death and enslavement. But Saturn, my Master, does not play favorites. From the beginning to end of time he has not and will not favor any god, king, man, or prophet. We all fall to his scythe, sooner or later. All that mankind builds, he annihilates, when the time comes.
Rome fell because it expanded as wide as the happy bellies of its beaurocrats. In its arrogance it aimed to cover the entire planet. Stretched thin, the fierce, the brave, the hungry …found ways in through the cracks. Those closest to death become instruments of death, the blades they swing are imbued with the lustrous hex of his Righteousness. Inevitability.
Are we brave enough to dust off the guillotine? even if only symbolically? Has the internet , by becoming the end all and be all of our ‘movement’ actually made our slogans hollow? We must remember the taste of blood in our mouths, the covenant we made with Rage the first time a bully shoved us down and we felt it rise from belly to heart. The fist exists. Know this.
There are atrocities, agonies, miseries spreading like crowned locusts of gold, theyre destruction cannot be undone, but it can be stopped. We can end this. The enemy is a fool, a gutless bumbling clown crowned with bullets, bankrupt of imagination, full up with deep fried lifeforce ripped from the shattered souls of Mexica children. There is a spell buried in plain sight in the depths of this spinning technicolor hell. Find it, warrior of light and Holy Night. Find it.
Rebel peasants, told to work the fields, to tolerate the rending of the social fabric, the violation,the curse of monarchy…said the most holy of words.
“No.”
Her word, Her little soldier child of a spell. That enflames our souls with the terror of Liberty. Rebel peasants , deprived of the vigor of the beasts of their forest, the richness of their lands, the dignity of their bodies, said No. The weapon they took up was Saturns weapon. The scythe. This is no coincidence, history speaks a subtle language, there is a message underneath the slaughter, spelt and psyche-felt in split entrails.
justice. Death.
Death. death death
Merciful, beautiful, leering, spinning, laughing, destroying Death. Come .
Come for the richies, the piggies, the idiot geniuses in valleys of silicon grasping after an immortality our broken world cannot sustain, a gift not Gods to grant nor mankinds to recieve…one last treasure squeezed from the Watchers, now geriatric with dusty pigeon wings…muttering into decreptitude, with no more songs to sing.
Swing your scythe, rebel serf. Swing it at knights, riot cops, at nazis, fascists, and richies. Swing your scythe, Black Goddesses, equatorial seers, Valkyries of Nuclear Winter .
Slay
slay slay
Say the Word that is the holy
of
holies
that
begins
the world
NO.
Fuck their undertow ,their fools gold glow, their pervert murdershow. Blood blood blood for the Goddess who shivers and starves in darkness. Blood blood blood rain down from the highest scrapers of sky, from the fattest veins of the richest wall street clowns. Destroy. A nihil make of their endless idiot-fapping dolla dolla cake. Awake. Swing, sickle, fall hammer, stab switchblade, blacken curse, penetrate Verse, Bring upon the Monsters of False Light all that is the Worst.
Saturn , Who Is Time, Who is Death, is with thee.
Chronos, the key, patricidal poetry, rapist-killing warrior he castrates kings and clips wings of dead eyed cnn angels who cling like flies to the remnants of a 4th of july sky.
Die, Monarchs, Die.

Comments

Commenting is closed for this article.


"It won't be the witches that are burning this time."
--Blackbird Raum

© Up the Witchpunx  tiny fox   horse9@riseup.net