Post by matthoke on Mar 10, 2011 18:55:02 GMT -6
General Strike Proposed
www.youtube.com/user/UpTakeVideo#p/u/6/i_Z_TVrBUtw
And now, a composure, which I should first clarify borrows from the poem of Carcosa:
They stampede there, converge there,
The nightmare-touched.
Outside agitators! shout the mundanes,
And verily they are aliens anywhere they go.
They stampede there, converge there,
The nightmare-touched.
Drawn as if by lunar emanations,
compelled by emotions stronger than they have ever felt before
compelled by clarity more illumined than they have ever known before.
In the crowd and in the struggle we lose our selves and find our
Selves.
Do I see an impossible fog wifting around the mob?
Do I see damned souls becrying their forbidden creeds of overthrow?
Do I see, between the picket signs, for fleeting moments, a tentacle?
And suddenly, in a dawning, we Remember:
In times past and forgotten, we once coordinated world-spanning collections of nations for total revolution
Our hellish cities of revolt rose and fell
Our hellish cities of revolt have retreated to our hearts where they wait dreaming
For when the stars are right.
Are the stars right again?
Some of the bastard children are particularly marked for antagonism
Wandering drunk in the craven cities, giving birth to an ideal
Weighing heavily on their hearts
Are black cosmic visions of perfection, revolution
Possessed by memories of the cities of revolt
Beneath their plastic winter coats,
Something moist pulsates, throbs, bulges.
Their insides have been ripped open,
but in the hole is a Gateway.
Some of them never sleep because they can’t stop dreaming.
Shambling from their oozing hovels,
Slaves and darklings, torches, shovels
The nightmare-touched converge
In Wisconsin.
Tame restraint no more abodes
Waking smothered hate explodes
Rage is given form in
ailed Wisconsin.
Ululate forth from the throats of the throng
Alien words in their slogan and song
The unfamiliar born in
vexed Wisconsin.
Future-god beckons to those of His kind,
His tentacles threaten the dull daily grind:
He shows us ourselves in
cold Wisconsin.
www.youtube.com/user/UpTakeVideo#p/u/6/i_Z_TVrBUtw
And now, a composure, which I should first clarify borrows from the poem of Carcosa:
They stampede there, converge there,
The nightmare-touched.
Outside agitators! shout the mundanes,
And verily they are aliens anywhere they go.
They stampede there, converge there,
The nightmare-touched.
Drawn as if by lunar emanations,
compelled by emotions stronger than they have ever felt before
compelled by clarity more illumined than they have ever known before.
In the crowd and in the struggle we lose our selves and find our
Selves.
Do I see an impossible fog wifting around the mob?
Do I see damned souls becrying their forbidden creeds of overthrow?
Do I see, between the picket signs, for fleeting moments, a tentacle?
And suddenly, in a dawning, we Remember:
In times past and forgotten, we once coordinated world-spanning collections of nations for total revolution
Our hellish cities of revolt rose and fell
Our hellish cities of revolt have retreated to our hearts where they wait dreaming
For when the stars are right.
Are the stars right again?
Some of the bastard children are particularly marked for antagonism
Wandering drunk in the craven cities, giving birth to an ideal
Weighing heavily on their hearts
Are black cosmic visions of perfection, revolution
Possessed by memories of the cities of revolt
Beneath their plastic winter coats,
Something moist pulsates, throbs, bulges.
Their insides have been ripped open,
but in the hole is a Gateway.
Some of them never sleep because they can’t stop dreaming.
Shambling from their oozing hovels,
Slaves and darklings, torches, shovels
The nightmare-touched converge
In Wisconsin.
Tame restraint no more abodes
Waking smothered hate explodes
Rage is given form in
ailed Wisconsin.
Ululate forth from the throats of the throng
Alien words in their slogan and song
The unfamiliar born in
vexed Wisconsin.
Future-god beckons to those of His kind,
His tentacles threaten the dull daily grind:
He shows us ourselves in
cold Wisconsin.
