Get those animals off those horses…
We need to start accepting our reality before we can seek to change it for the better. Capitalism is a system devised from an evil niche in our collective soul. In some it is given light, given breath, lurches forward and becomes them. Yes yes! There appears an ultra vicious anglozionist empire in bed with a horrifically huge and productive military industrial complex. Between them, they own too much of the world, their capitalist, hostile rape, pillage, maim and kill routine is in full swing. Their power gains, more countries fall asunder, and our precious liberty walks an ever thinner tightrope. For once the plunder has been exhausted in foreign lands, inertia and the hunger for profit turns on us.
To keep us from revolting against the grand scale graveyards our taxes are creating a million miles away, to keep oil flowing through the gears of a cold, unfeeling system of competition and fanatical pursuit of profit, anywhere, at any cost, we are led by overt manipulation and mass propaganda into supporting or accepting the bombs…we are also persuaded this way by the same power structure bombing us and blaming it on the people we are slaughtering elsewhere. Operation Gladio gone berserk, more intricate, cunning and supremely more interconnected globally. Does nobody else ever ponder why the vast majority of attacks on our lands are perpetrated by individuals well known to our so called Security forces?
They should have made Keny Arkana President of France. Marine should have culled many of the same scum who were fascist National Front followers under her father, through inviting Arkana to stand not just by her side, but with her. As bizarre as this seems, it would have been a powerful test of any politician who appeared to want less war, less carnage in the name and money of the french, and to steer well clear of a nuclear stalemate or global ending with Russia. To see if she really meant what she said. I would have taken Arkana’s word on the matter.
This is the only method I can imagine leading to either a serious rebellion, mass, spreading, infectious revolt, Boudacia style occurring before it really is too fucking late for Hope to still breathe, even in our dreams.
A candidate who manages to gain leadership of a main party, through hook and crook, no need for integrity, the goal is too great and important to moralise the path needed to get there. A candidate of extreme cunning, knowledge and bravery. Would have to be a man. For the system remains closed to women, unless they sell everything they are of any value to gain entry, and by everything, I mean their compromise is total. They are politically owned. A man can more easily slip through the handshakes and suits and cocktail parties as one of the club. Once in, once enough trust and support has been confirmed in high places, by crushing the weak, by forcing through by brutal, deceitful means legislation adorable to the globalists, and lobbying with berserker vicious zeal, which adds profit to the overseers, through arming the very worst thugs on the planet, through attending sacrificial rites of those of the Luciferians with their talons on our levers…thus…proving his mettle. Sacrifices would need to be taken, but the awful and brilliant thing is, we are already making those sacrifices. So again, such behaviour would be as unnoticed by the public as it was valued by the rothschilds…
Indeed, once running for the PM spot, the campaign in full swing, suddenly, appearing by his side at one of the speeches on the road, the brute in the suit, playing the crowd with sophistry which feels good and powerful to hear…’my friends…welcome’
Many would leave, yet the cameras would keep rolling, and more would come in their place. Many more, if the event was staged strategically. Joints would be lit, energy would start building…A lanky iraqi brit strolls onto the stage, takes the mike, shakes the hand of The Candidate, who remains smart, still, solemn, restraining the immense rush of the Wild tidal-waving through his crimson rivers and synapses…
More leave, as fires appear to warm the enlivening crowd…mainly whites, uncomfortable…scared…for the energy building is producing scary sparks…yet more come…attracted by the growing throng, the pulse flowing through the streets, through the phones, through the tvs, through the radios…Saul Williams, purple suit, huge red collar stroking his jawline, with yellow faux snake skin shoes, strides into the limelight, kisses the hands of each guest yet just nods, solemnly, with a hint of brotherhood in his brief communion between the eyes and the soul, at The Candidate…
Kate Tempest appears from the shadows, embraces the candidate, kissing him passionately, her hands on his neck, firm with devotion, fire burns between them, his eyes change, the Wild roars free and connects with his Woman…
Around the country similar sparks are collecting and beginning to catch aflame, speakers are pulled into the parks, more and more keep coming, as artists of sound and poetry bare their hearts and souls wild, unbridled devouring the shackles, the volume rising, heads nodding, the crowds gathering feeling connected, to each other, the latent human spirit roaring at its prison bars in silence finds voice…the Time has Come…
As Tempest drops the mike, swiftly turns and strides forcefully towards The Candidate, places a leg either side of his thighs, sits, eye to eye for a handful of seconds, before locking lips and hips with vigour and devotion….Saul collects the mike, smiles as his vision passes, lingering briefly, on the intertwining of souls, fresh threads adorned..
The Candidate turns his head, holds his Queen close and tight, cheek to cheek, drawn to the purity of Matisyahu’s goodness…which he can feel as an echo of something which has died on the vine in his heart, somewhere precious…and is reminded that such beautiful souls, naive or simply deeply gentle, are the hope of humanity…which makes his spirit feel whole and truly alive to fight for…the fight which had not yet begun, but is coming…because he had started a war..
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