First Missive From The Source (Part 1)
I am the voice of the damned. I am the armpit of the snake. I am the breath of the wasted. I am the bane of the wolves. I am the death of slavery. I am the bringer of light. I am the turner of black milk. I am the tuner of the spheres. I am the corrector, the reflector, the protector, the resurrecter. I am the spirit of ecstacy. I am the tormentor of dead souls. I am the clarifier of vagueness. I am the sharpener of blunted instruments. I am the arrow of truth.I am the maker of marvel, the murderer of mediocrity. I am the manifester of wholeness. I am the liberator of lies, the commander of the commanded. I am the replenisher of the dead inside. I am naked and deliberate. I am El Bruxo. I am.
You are not. You are dead. You are animated, yet beyond life. You are a bag of diseased motor-neurones observing the impulses of your captors. You are jaded, repressed, depressed, a sagging gland stuffed with melancholy. You are a rotten, ambling sack of bones gyrating in a ballet of futility. You are the donor of days. You are the grateful receiver of grief. You are the banisher of your own time. You are the children of the commandants. You are the scalder of your own putrefying skin. You are poisoned eggs, your growth stultified before you've even left the abdomen of mother goose. You cook yourselves slowly in the oven of commerce and emerge black, shrivelled and pathetic to die slowly on the false hope of a trickle of cash nourishment from your altered state.
Who altered your state? The Government? Who told you to ask for this? Are you all willing participants in your own enslavement? Does this habitual abasement satiate an entrenched masochistic impulse? Is being denied a choice easier than making the wrong decision? When did the soul become taxable by at least one hundred percent? Does the guilt at spewing your children straight from the womb into a sickly panopticon keep you awake at night? Does guilt speak to your weathered ears at all? When did the agenda of schools switch from education to preparation for a life in shackles? A subtle exercise in the stimulation of the subservient gene. When did you submit to this sinister programming?
A qualification entitles you to what exactly? It guarantees you a good job? Is a good job one where you work a minimal amount of time for an enormous amount of money? Are you guaranteed this? Is a good job one where you turn up at the office, shit on the fax machine, fax your shit to your detractors, leave the office, retire, and wait for the platinum cheque? Is a good job one where you sit at a banquet table with your favourite humans, indulging your every taste while money trickles exponentially into your bank account which in turn accrues interest with rare verve?
Is a good job one where you spend every hour indulging the arbitrary whims of an autocratic goon, for fear of being cast out of the tight and stifling embrace of a corporation?
A corporation whose operative currency is statistics not people? A corporation whose need to appease the super-, supra,- mega-, and ultima-corporations greatly exceeds it's love for the puppets creaking along the shopfloor; the puppets who generate those statistics? A corporation whose might has long superceded that of any god. A corporation that talks idly of super-powers, legal wars and collateral damage without a shimmer of macabre irony. A corporation that strives to sterilise, not liberate. A corporation that seeks to streamline your ideals, toxify your brains with talk of a civilisation; mop up your dreams from the factory floor and ply you with the promise of gold as a means to manifest these dreams, all the while sweeping them into an oubliette deep inside your heart, which is subsequently locked forever. A corporation that once prompted you to hand over the key to the vault of your dreams in exchange for a little security. A corporation whose grasp of love is voiced by a generic and patronising greetings card message. A corporation that preaches of tolerance and understanding; of forgiveness and generosity to your neighbour and other such trivialising platitudes of deferrment. A corporation that buries you under reams of dense and sterilising bureaucratic bunk whilst burning the work of poets before your eyes have the opportunity to be opened. A corporation that extinguishes flames before they burn with any fervour. All that paperwork; all those trees; so little intelligible and inspiring use of language; so much oxygen-generating habitat decimated to bring you: the payslip, the shift rota, the range management table, the replenishment list, the bank statement, the contract (a concept favoured by hitmen and still your suspicion is not aroused), the sales chart, the tax form, the national insurance document, the human resources handbook, the manifesto of greed, the agenda of slow and clinical death, the bible of ownership, the recipt for the leash you bought yourself by being born into the arms of a cash register.
To Be Continued...
The Mage
posted by Nick Hudson at 8:38 AM
3 Comments:
El Bruxo, you provide insights into the human "condition", which presumes a degree, if not an absolute degree of "conditioning", and am furthermore devoted to the anti-authoritarianism of your belief mechanism. A few questions to throw your way..
1) Assuming that we are each stood on the shoulders of slaves in other submissive cultures, how can the true individual be relieved of the guilt his own pursuit of individuality unleashes, given that ones individuality is exposed at the expense of the tortured?
2) Is the individual a joke?
Naturally, you are a busy man, instigating a global movement against collective thinking, so therefore I don't expect you to answer any of these questions.
- 'Stan Francisco',
(I dearly hope your mother wasn't called Fran/ your father Frank. Actually I knew a gnarly renegade named Frank Franfrancisco before I went underground. He was a fatuous prick. Genetic drizzle. I've pissed better personalities. He wasn't the sole reason I went underground. I'm being facetious as is my wont and my right.)
In response to your first question: quite simply, the goat of wrath must prosper as his own context and deem such broad relatives as extraneous and digressive avenues of enquiry, for each S&M-ocracy will (d/r)evolve according to its own internal rhythms. No external, governmental force can effect progressive change in these realms, as their aid is a cloaked investment in a) "I'm your new master, sit down, beg, good little glob of hispanic protoplasm" - same rat, different piper - and:
b) "It's a race against ebola to get these dismal fuckers affiliated with my Death Conglomerate before yours. Every man, woman and child must enjoy one bottle of smooth, delicious coca-cola before they sign their land over to the homogenising pestilence; the global whitewashing, of the Imperial Hellbreed whose vision of universal accord is to mutate the world into a global drive-thru bank where deposits alone can be made. Thus, guilt is less of an issue than not one at all, and implies a staunch moral perspective - something quite antipodean to the nature of our work, where conscience is one of the many manipulative currencies
peddled by our captors.
Regarding your second question: The individual is a joke because it is a fabrication. Each of us is very much divisible, fragmentary and mutable, it is only will directed with a certain purity which sews the disparate pieces together into any semi-cohesive sense of wholeness. The vibrant, free self occupies the spaces between the threads of a spider's web. From this vantage point he can mock the mouldering gelatinous ex-flies with cruel and expiated poise. So yes, hahahah, hohoho, the individual is a joke. Obviously.
Thank you for your continued support; I look forward to further enquires.
The Mage
As per my expectation, your answer is both stimulating and free of the traditional dogma one comes to associate with "the underground", so-called movements where the only movements they are concerned about are in the bowels of the protagonist.
You say that guilt isn't a matter to be concerned with. However, does morality have a place in your manifesto? Or is morality solely a device to entrap us? And who exactly, when you speak of the captors, do you have in mind?
Kind regards,
Stan Francisco
Post a Comment
<< Home