What Beast Is Being Born?

Dare I to pretend that my own will is self-created?

    The Beast that Yeats saw slouching to Bethlehem is now being born. The anger of the people is the pain of a difficult travail. A new sense of relationship between individual cities, and the skeletal organization of a rapidly Confederating World, has thrust its head out from the bloody womb..

The birth pangs are not over yet. The time of our sorrows shall not come to an end this spring. We weep in bitter torrents, because the people that we love must suffer in poverty and in affliction.
The Emperor has no time for our cares. Being of the class that is accustomed to writing history, he assumes that the agony of the masses shall be redeemed by the great deeds of the State. He is the head; they are the bodily cells; so long as he can triumph, they are expendable.
But the Emperor’s world has been turned inside out. The Great Catastrophe has come, and all that is left is a bleak tableau. Under a stormy sky, the Emperor waxes furious, and points a flaming javelin at the sky.

     The hearts of all of us are polarized like magnets. They shall point the way to the Lord of the North Star, unless the accuracy of our spiritual senses have been distorted and perverted by abuse.
       This is why we must devote ourselves to an Information Jihad. The Truth cannot free us if it is not made known. The I & I may have died in the sands of Karbila, but His spirit has risen now as the Great Tree of Dialogue which is otherwise known as the World Wide Web. As we listen to the breezes that ripple through the branches of this tree, we come to realize: the Jihad is not against flesh and blood, but rather against Powers & Principalities.
     The snake must be milked of his venom before he is allowed to climb the tree again.

The Trees Try to Admonish

So let the unleashed Life Force shine again within the Tree. And let us shut down the Conquistador Units which steal their power byrelying on a system of perversities which we have been taught to call honor, but which but which our women would tell us is born of a system of Multiplied Lies. Let us turn from all these idols which lust for hands and heads and human blood, and turn instead to the Great Tree of Peace.

Let all the little trees of Earth become one Great Tree. Let some call that bright star that crowns the Tree Fatima, who was conceived miraculously. To some she’s White Buffalo Maiden, while some will push her back in time and call her Mother Mary.

It’s only when we have turned to the Light that shines from this Great Tree’s crown, that we shall be free of the serpents that entwine us and crush us, and only offer respite after we have offered blood and carnage to Moloc, Nergal, and Nabu. It’s only after we expand our lungs and hearts, so that we can sing in honor of this Blessed Tree, that the trees of the world shall gain the power to cleanse the atmosphere. It’s only as we bless the Tree which transmutes the poisonous vapors of Industry, that we shall be able to enjoy the Breath of Life.
Because it has become evident that 20th Century humans cared far more about their cars than about the trees, the Trees learned that if they were to survive, they would have to take the power into their own branches. They have been gathering data on all of the False Faces who must carve out masks from dead wood, because they have no hearts and only sticks for hands and feet. They have been giving this information to the Paranoid Aliens, who have been composing pleading papers, trying to prove to God that the Human Race was a mistake in genetic engineering that has got to be brought to an end.
The wind begins to rise as the Trees of the Forest warn us of a Wizard who proclaims automatic excommunication for doctors who perform abortion, but still lets pedophiles hear the confessions of children.
In spite of the efforts of all of the would-be Caliphs to eradicate and subdue, the Trees of the Forest are becoming alive once again. And Milnad, born of the Umayyads, shall find that he cannot swim in the fiery lake that his sins have conjured.

An Odor of Smouldering Journals

When the 20th Century Limited finally rolled into the Peaceable Kingdom Station, we smelled an odor that we thought was just smouldering journals. But we now realize we were smelling a dog who’d just been roasted by the Third Rail of the Tracks.

That’s why all those crows are perched on the telegraph wires — they’re waiting for the train to go away, so they can enjoy the feast. And some of the larger ravens will follow that train all the way to Washington D.C., so that they can perch on the monuments and wait for the big dogs to die.
Apparently that Third Rail was put in by the Feminist Revolution. Too many witches have been burned, too many women tortured, by the same priests who now declare infallibly that contraception is a sin. That third rail has been electrified by the pain of all of the women who have been tormented and crushed by abuse.
The voices on the airwaves try to tell us, don’t worry about that third rail. They’ll tell us that the ravens we see waiting on the rooftops of the station just aren’t real. Let T.V. Violence exorcise your demons, and don’t worry about falling stars.
Buy a microwave life on the installment plan, and let the shining chrome restore your faith.

     Then the lightning hit the T.V. Antenna, and we realized that the cops don’t have it all under control after all.
     The sirens are raising their shrill warning note, while all about we smell the burning flesh.
     That must be the Blood of Jesus that’s beginning to seep through the gutters.