Here is an interview Alex did back in March 2017 with Pilleater (of Asian-Aryanism troll fame) and Robert Stark of The Stark Truth.
Here is an interview Alex did back in March 2017 with Pilleater (of Asian-Aryanism troll fame) and Robert Stark of The Stark Truth.
by Alex Fontana
Instead I want to reflect on what the city means as a symbol, and consider how some very ‘Parisian’ currents of thought have led innocents directly to this slaughterhouse.
Now, a bit about the title of this essay. In French “Bad Faith” is mauvaise foi, an expression which is more than capable of serving as a double or even triple entendre. It refers to both the “bad faiths” of Islam, the primary religion of French immigrants, and of Liberalism, the poisonous secular faith of France and the West in general. But mauvaise foi also has an additional existentialist sense, the one employed by Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir to describe a situation in which societal pressures cause a person or state to act ‘inauthentically.’ This idea of us ‘acting inauthentically’ was recently expressed by Richard Spencer in his adeptly titled NPI conference speech, “Becoming Who We Are.”
|Panic attack: the boulevard of broken dreams.|
For us, the whole of the post-WWII world is about instilling inauthentic patterns of communication between peoples and groups. Political correctness is one outward manifestation of such a system of control, which produces inward censuring of speech and action. Non-European immigration and integration, that is, the pushing together of divergent races, is a physical aspect of inauthenticity as it produces inorganic communities.
As Alain de Benoit writes:
“Ancient democracy was based on the idea of organic community; modern democracy, as an heir to Christianity and the philosophy of the Enlightenment, on the individual. The meaning of the words ‘city,’ ‘people,’ ‘nation,’ and ‘liberty’ radically changes from one model to another.”
Benoist, The Problem of Democracy, p.28.
De Benoist is not entirely correct in his overarching assessment of Christianity. Protestantism is individualistically inclined, not Catholicism. The Enlightenment and the Liberalism that derived from Protestantism represented a break with Catholic social and political organization. Another point of reference for the opposing universalisms of Liberalism and Islam is Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations thesis, which will no doubt become an increasingly used tool of semi-superficial analysis of the recent happenings.
|Napoleon’s exotic mameluke bodyguard.|
For the English, the presence of heterodox elements within their social order has always been justified in utilitarian terms: e.g. the Jews were beneficial to economic growth, Blacks from the Caribbean were needed for labour. For the French, however, the justification for “the Other” has long been a moralizing one: i.e. Jews and Muslims may become Frenchmen and adopt the universal Enlightenment values of liberty, equality and fraternity.
It is this moralizing tendency – “neither Jew nor Gentile, all are one in égalité” – by which the French attempted, via a moral crusade, to turn “the Other” into an image of themselves, without realizing that in the exchange they themselves would be changed by groups who rejected their open society principles – praise be to Allah!
Existentialism was extremely concerned with the notion of “the Other.” This stemmed from Enlightenment thinking, which proceeded from the individual to those beyond the self, rather than conceptualizing the subject as part of a collective. In Liberalism there was “self” and “other,” and mutual interests, which could be facilitated through the market, with nothing more existing outside this rationalized exchange of common interest, except épater la bourgeoisie or épater.
Sartre criticized the modern mass of “alienated humanity” with his concept of seriality:
“the series is a gathering of men in which every man is alone because he is interchangeable with every other man.”
Another way he viewed it was as a “unity based upon separation,” not just separation from each other, but an internal separation in which one is alienated from one’s own being. Alain Badiou, the Marxist philosopher, used this concept in for his formulation aimed at promoting class consciousness:
“How can men who have been passively brought together in their impotence and separation by large social collectives suddenly call into being an active unity in which they recognize one another? It is worth noting that Sartre borrowing an expression from Andre Malraux, calls this event an apocalypse. The apocalypse means that the series dissolves into a fused group.”
Actually Malraux’s “apocalypse” is rooted in real historical revolution, coming from his lyric poem L’Espoir (Hope), about the Spanish Civil War, where he celebrated the men who fought to “organize the apocalypse” on the left-wing or Republican side.
This apocalyptic inference from the Left was brought into French intellectual discourse by the expat Spanish novelist, Juan Goytisolo, a critic of Franco, through his novel Landscapes after the Battle and his essay Paris, Capital of the Twenty-first Century? The Situationist Guy Debord, drew on Goytisolo for his own apocalyptic left-wing vision:
“the destruction of the European city, at least in symbolic terms, is a necessary prelude to the creation of a new society. This is why and how the prevailing atmosphere of Landscapes after the Battle moves from something like a comic apocalypse to something like the atmosphere after a terrorist attack…. Goytisolo has consistently described his primary literary motif as that of ‘betrayal’… which applies to his political convictions as well as his aesthetic method.” 
In this passage we see the bacillus of Europe – its BETRAYAL! Not the betrayal by the Jihadists, who have not betrayed our trust so much as taken advantage of our complacency and the Left’s need for an agent for their own treachery. Nor do we see a betrayal by the Jews, who are simply loyal to their own particularism and their strategies for maintaining their privileged positions. No, instead what we see here is the betrayal of Europe to these groups by Europeans!
In his book The Flaneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris, Edmund White an American expat homosexual details this destructive process:
“Goytisolo wrote of the slow de-Europeanization of the capital…He goes on to assert that the only way France can continue to function as a beacon of civilization, as anything more than a custodian of its great heritage, is by embracing the international, hybridized culture that is already thriving within the city limits.” (p.54)
White explained that at the time he was writing about, the 1980s, Paris had “become a cultural backwater” and that some gay friends he was staying with in May 1981 in the Arab quarter, had chosen that locale because “it was affordable but also because the location appealed to their progressive politics.” This helps to explain Michel Foucault and Jean Genet’s campaigning for the “rights” of Arab immigrants in 1971.
|One-way love for Arabs, Michel Foucault.|
From this it becomes clear that France, in its effete homosexual decadence, and dominated by the rise of the New Left with it obscurantist leanings and Jacobin politics of apocalypse and betrayal, has been the essential agent of its own atrocities.
Betrayal runs through French history, like a motif in a bad novel. In 1962 Charles de Gaulle betrayed the French people and the electorate by pulling out of Algeria in the face of international pressure and the stresses of an entirely winnable war. Over a million pied-noir colonists, left for France, and thousands were left stranded and slaughtered as a result.
At about the same time, a few million Arabs were allowed to immigrate into France. When an economic downturn occurred and Le Pen’s Front National ran on a platform of “France for the French” and only gained 15% of the national vote, this revealed the new terms of the arrangement – ethno-nationalism for “the Other,” but multiculturalism and ethno-masochism for us.
Is there any wonder why we see such a phenomenon as European youths joining ISIS, when all Western Civilization offers them is the hollow shell of the “open society” – the castrated shopping mall of consumer identity?
It was the French Revolutionary Third Estate that decided Sephardic Jews could become full citizens, but not Ashkenazi – they were included two years later. Following the Revolution, Paris henceforth became a bastion of “liberty, equality, and fraternity,” a place in which “justice reigns,” in which both innocent ‘Dreyfus’ Jews and guilty ‘Schwartzbard’ Jews could hope for preference under the law.
Napoleon went through Europe, acknowledged as the modern Cyrus, smashing the ghetto walls to bits and calling forth a Grand Sanhedrin with twelve questions for the Jewish elders in order to bring them into line with the Enlightenment values of individualism, anti-tribalism, and the Christian value of anti-usury.
The position of most post-Enlightenment thinkers, including Karl Marx, fifty years later, was that Jews could assimilate only by renouncing their Judaism. Of course, we know this did not happen, we know that the universalism of the revolutionary values was not heeded by this particularistic people, nor were the conditions against usury.
We know that after their ‘liberation,’ Jews came to dominate France economically: The Rothschilds, the Meniers, the Cernuschis, the Camondos, the Pereires, the Foulds, the Cahen d’Anvers, the Dreyfusard. All these maintained close business and financial ties, intermarrying and becoming the new Aristocracy of the Bourgeoisie Revolution, floating loans to the French government for its lost wars against the English and the Prussians.
We know that today there are countless Jewish organizations in France and that Jewish solidarity and ethnic networking has never dissipated. 40% of French Jews are officially affiliated to a synagogue or to a Jewish organization – so much for universalism swallowed by the rest of France!
This is the France that defends the tasteless antagonizing of Charlie Hebdo as “humorous” and “an expression of free speech,” while censoring a real comedian Dieudonne because the target of his comedy is Jews, rather than Muslims.
This is the France that ignored Dominique Venner, a true patriot, who killed himself in Notre Dame in protest against this wave of massive non-European immigration that would create jihad on the streets of Paris! (Vindicated!) The sordid media, of course, distorted his suicide as a protest against gay marriage.
This France is the place, where nearly 40% of the people and all the intellectuals voted Communist in the 1960s, the scene of Situationist student revolts, with chants of “Marx, Mao, Marcuse” that thankfully dissolved into the politics of intellectual obscurantism and the intellectualist drivelings of Lacan, Derrida and Baudrillard.
|1968, before France insourced its anarchy from the Third World.|
The same “Liberal,” “tolerant” France that rolls out the red carpet to terrorists is the same creature that butchered not only members of the defeated Vichy Government, the so-called ‘collaborators,’ but also right-wing intellectuals such as Robert Braillach.
As Rémi Tremblay pointed out in these very pages:
“Thousands of French (estimates greatly vary; de Gaulle talks about 11,000 French Canadian historian Robert Rumilly 80,000, Robert Aron between 30,000 and 40,000) were murdered and executed while many were imprisoned in concentration camps in a purge similar to the one that followed the French Revolution of 1789.”
In response to women’s participation during la Résistance, de Gaulle, granted them the right to vote,. According to Wayne Northcutt and Jeffra Flaitz’s Women, Politics and the French Socialist Government, this led to an electoral shift towards the Left:
“Since their formal enfranchisement in 1944, the female electorate of France approximately 53 per cent of the voting population – has manifested a gradual shift to the left.”
It was also French women who had been the first white women to cross the colour bar with African Americans during and after WWI and French ‘colour-blindness’ that helped fill the American Negro’s head with ideas that aspired outside his station, and which he then brought back to America.
Quite simply, it was the French Revolution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen that set the modern tone for blind toleration and ethno-masochism, and which fired the ardour of the mutinous Haitians who sang La Marseillaise, as if it were one of their own chants to the Napoleonic troops sent to quell their race-based rebellion.
|Paris’s darling: Josephine Baker|
The France that suffered the outrage of November the 13th is also the abode of extreme capitalism and l’air du temps, with its fixation on “the Other.” It was in Paris that the fetishization of the Negro first began to hold sway, with le jazz hot and Josephine Baker, amongst many others, bringing, in the words of Edmund White, “a whiff of jungle air and an elemental strength and beauty to the tired showplace of Western Civilization.”
This is the France that has prosecuted Robert Faurisson for questioning aspects of the Holocaust and made intellectual inquiry into an historical event a criminal offense.
This is the France which was the first country to elect a Jewish head of State, Leon Blum in 1936. Blum also happened to be a “non-Zionist” member of the World Zionist Organization.
Count Stanislaus de Clermont-Tonnerre wisely argued:
“We must refuse everything to the Jews as a nation and accord everything to Jews as individuals… they should not be allowed to form in the state either a political body or an order. They must be citizens individually.”
But neither Jews nor Muslims operate in this “enlightened” way, and nor should we!
The problem is, of course, that France is experiencing a crisis of confidence in itself; its identity has been rocked by Revolutionary ideals from over two hundred years ago, leaving it with petty universalisms and moral platitudes. In times like these one should remember the Vichy government’s endorsement of Jean Giono’s “retour a la terre” (return to the soil), by which he hoped that France would rediscover “its pure and true face.” Let’s hope the apocalypse that is to come leaves enough of France for this vision to be realized.
 Badiou, Alain. Pocket Pantheon: Figures of Postwar Philosophy. London New York: Verso, 2009. Page 21.
 Hussey, Andrew. Paris Underground: Juan Goytisolo and the ‘Situationist’ City. Urban Space and Cityscapes: Perspectives from Modern and Contemporary Culture, Ed. Christoph Lindner. Routledge, New York, 2006, p. 86.
 Golsan, Richard J. Myths of Apocalypse and Renewal: Jean Giono and “Literary” Collaboration Vol. 27, No. 3, Issue 87: Special Issue: The Occupation pp. 17-35 Published by: University of Wisconsin Press, 1998. 26.
Canto IV – Mars Concerto
Intense \disorder, disarray
The Fog of War everywhere but no bullets
A silent war – A cultural war, A demographic war, A war of representation and replication
Softness, Collusion, Peace
Faggots, Jews, Niggers
“A man with no fortune, but with a name to come.”
The Will brutalized into fatalistic tendencies
The old spinner spins without regard to goodness or wickedness
A mere functionary at a Job
“So that the high may become low and the low may become high.”
But not always, sometimes the low remains low and the high remains high
Metempsychosis sometimes to the seventh generation
Supine and Karmic the Myth of Er
But the Will rises, cuts through, destroys, bestial remnant
Ascension, divination, retention, strangulation
A guiding principle
A compass within dark woods
Lost without our myths
Without our Gods
Without our Glory
Inclemency and wine
They will ask “Is poetry a war crime?”
Radovan’s “deaf amphorous dough”
Prating about covenants
Smug and self-satisfied
Purchases and pointless chatter
There can be no covenants between warrior-poets and the bourgeois
Only hand Grenades in the morning
And slit throats in the afternoon
Mai Tai’s and the silver spoon
Reclining into the newfangled unthinking existentialism of Positive affirmation
The lesser demons compel the condemned to smile and leisurely masturbate whilst in limbo
Bishop Danilo, brooding on the evils of Islam
The Serbians knew
They sang to the girls while shooting their fathers:
“Beautiful Turkish daughter,/Our Monks will baptize you.”
“Give me the making of a nation’s songs, and let who will make their laws.”
The Fat Jew:
“Give me control of a nation’s money and I care not who makes it’s laws”
The new Colossus, a gaping hole to be filled, a void, an asshole – Promiscuous Women – “Tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” – Relativity…
The old Colossus, an Ideal, a warning, a robust fullness, Occidental assertion of boundaries – Righteous Men– “Saviour of cities, harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear” – Clarity of Vision.
The Thin Jew, inviting the world, slipping inside – lukewarm – eels, centipedes, vermin, slimy amorphousness
They let the Moors into Visigoth Spain
Weimar Whores reclining in windswept palaces full of casting shadows
Bread and circuses retain the name of the footprint alone
Fleecing chivalrous conventions of bygone eras for the last of the last men
Morons! Everywhere mass retardation!
Hang the moralists! Crucify the Lord!
Gadget nerds and gay marriages, usury, sitcoms and sodomy!
Cleanse this House!
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
Mar’s instruments – Volcanic Eruptions!
The Clarion Call, the Cornu Wail, the Standards Raised!
It beckons to all patriots –
“Death to all traitors, life everlasting to our Brethren!”
Hail Europa and despair!
The Soviet futurist Vladimir Mayakovsky once wrote, “I’m a poet. That’s what makes me interesting. That is what I write about.” This egotistic statement of the self-regarding poet is in line with Mayakovsky’s iconoclastic and self-aggrandizing style – “to his own beloved self,” but does it not tell us something about the nature of poets generally, namely, their conceit? After all why should anyone care about the scribbling that a solitary consciousness produces; very often abstrusely or even esoterically, as Eliot wrote, “We expect to have to defend a poet against the charge of obscurity.”[i] But the poet does not just compose verse willy-nilly, and does not just scribble, as in Horace’s phrase, “a book whose different features are made up at random like a sick man’s dreams.” There is method and form and rhythm to this madness. As the critic Northrop Frye tells us “There is no private symbolism,”[ii] and everything he composes is parcel: his dreams, his illusions, his visions, his fantasies, his impressions, his memories, his thoughts, his knowledge, his politics, his loves, his joys, his fears, his delusions and his creativity; he wishes to share.
“the next person at the door
will be a poet.
this one teaches
and that one lives with his mother
and that one is writing the story of
oh, brothers, we are the sickest and the
lowest of the breed.”[iii]
Perhaps, for Bukowski, in his bottommost core, his poems were a kind of therapy – one pictures a madman searching for his “little gems,” divine moments of inspiration in intoxication, even in there, even in Ginsberg, to whatever weird and degenerate gods they summoned between them, there was something of the spark. But then, the factotum dipsomaniac gave perhaps the best defense of poetry ever devised when he wrote simply that “non-poetry is ugliness.”[iv]
While Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, perhaps justly, grew weary of the poets condemning them, “A little lust and a little boredom: that has so far been their best reflection.”[v] As I have read my Bukowski and have read my Rumi and my Nietzsche, who had much of the Dionysian dithyramb in him,[vi] and each of them I loved and each of them I absorbed and outgrew. I discovered Pound and Eliot and Yeats and Keats and Coleridge and Ovid and Dante and the Troubadours and the French Symbolists and the Decadents and the English Romantics and so on. I have always returned to the poets and always found and sought new ones. Why?
Frye once referred to the poet in the modern age as a kind of savage; that is as a remnant of both a literary and indeed a pre-literary time. In an age ruled by utility and a mass cultural apparatus facilitating la société du spectacle, the epic and the comedic forms have long since transcended their original medium, who could care about the individual’s subjectivity – if that indeed is the sum of it – but even if not – what can a poem say that prose or science or the gesamtkunstwerk of film cannot? His scribbling may as well be cave-markings after all. Poets are at once the most useless and anachronistic, contemptible and tatterdemalion of creatures, without purpose or place, existing as it were in some half-forgotten realm between sentiment and learning, impression and form, and because of this, their purpose is also as the most necessary of creatures; because of the nature of their art, the part he shares of his consciousness, both requires and subterfuges the tyranny of reason in a manner entirely its own. For to “wander lonely as a cloud,” in trousers or otherwise, such phraseology produces a connection between the inner experience of poet and the that of the reader, whose internal voice reads the words within the confines of his own consciousness, the reader may not be aware that they too ‘wander lonely’ as that selfsame ‘cloud.’ Within the image and the feeling produced there is something of the mystery of revelation. For Wordsworth, “the poet is ‘a man speaking to men’, and all men have within them the capacity for poetry, or at least for the brightness and unity of perception which may be called the poetic vision.”[vii]
For Bataille this shared inner experience of poetry, “the dark radiance of poetry” is linked to forms of expenditure or excess, it is that which is beyond the law and nature, “it conceals the known within the unknown…. Poetry’s escape, its excess, follows an Icarian path: it drives upwards in a transgressive trajectory only to reach its limits and fall.”[viii]
For almost as long as there has been poetry, there has also existed the defense of poetry, as though the dainty and utility-less ‘excessive thing’ always needed its advocates. In the Ion dialogue, Socrates compares poetry to Euripides’ magnet, the Heraclean stone, that “attracts iron rings inducing in the rings the power to do the same themselves in turn-namely attract other rings, so that sometimes a long chain of iron rings is formed, suspended from one another, all having the force derived from the stone… the spectator is the last of the rings… You – the rhapsode or the actor – are the middle link, and the poet himself is the first.”[ix] Thus, the poet is closer to the Muses and divine nature – “I’m a poet. That’s what makes me interesting,” the Russian futurist is not far removed from the classical understanding of the social role of the poet. “The spectator being the last of the rings” – within the confines of a traditionalist hierarchy of being, the furthest rung is both the most numerous and least individuated; the uninteresting masses. The inartistic, untouched by the muses, catches merely the fleeting secondhand catharsis of the poet’s connection with the divine, if he is lucky. What aristocratic conceits these poets have!
For my own conceits, not merely prolonged metaphors and contrived revelations; as Plath writes, “Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.”[x] My Cantos is well inspired by that of Pound’s corpus and gods and the style is somewhere closer to that of Eliot in places, and its subject matter tends towards Yeats and Mallarme; for certain it is thoroughly modern verse. And for certain Pound and I worship at the same temple of Western Civilization, longing for its palingenesis – after all, if only in mock jest, “Every woman adores a Fascist.” Contrasting from Bukowski’s sickest and lowest pedigree who is “writing the story of Pound,” my cantos are not merely a retelling of Pound or of an attempt to replicate his style; rather, it is my own, as I am my own. As Pound utilized the conventions, themes, motifs and images of the Canon to relay his own trials; the Ariadne thread runs through mine as well.
[i] Eliot, T. S. Essays on poetry and poets. London Boston: Faber and Faber, 1957. Print. 229.
[ii] Frye, Northrop. The critical path : an essay on the social context of literary criticism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1971. Print.
[iii] Bukowski, Charles. Love is a dog from hell : poems, 1974-1977. Santa Barbara, Calif: Black Sparrow Press, 1977. Print. 240.
[iv] Bukowski, Charles. Notes of a dirty old man. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1973. Print.
[v] Nietzsche, Friedrich W., and Graham Parkes. Thus spoke Zarathustra : a book for everyone and no one. Oxford New York: Oxford University Press, 2008. Print. 111.
[vii] Snukal, Robert. High talk : the philosophical poetry of W.B. Yeats. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Print. 91.
[viii] Bataille, Georges, Fred Botting, and Scott Wilson. The Bataille reader. Oxford, UK Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1997. Print. 9.
[ix] Russell, D. A., and Michael Winterbottom. Classical literary criticism. Oxford England New York: Oxford University Press, 2008. Print. 7.
[x] Geddes, Gary. 20th-century poetry & poetics. Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1985. Print. 443.
Canto I: Hortus Conclusus
I invited all the freaks
To a tea party in my garden
And all the world showed up today
So many eccentricities
Spilling into the flowers
Creating new varieties
And through it all
There is you, and there is me
Entwined ever faithfully
In these rosebushes
Mindfully, we move
Careful of the thorns
All bloody and torn
Love lost and woman scorn
There is a man with a face forlorn
With The desire to be bathed in the sun
And to die
And be reborn
When his time has come
And these roses, do they emerge from Pierian springs
Where the muses bathed
Is there a song to sing?
Of the love of a good woman who saves
A beast in a jungle
A Minotaur in a maze
A dead god’s corpse instructs:
‘A little love is a dangerous thing’
Drink deep, or taste not Beatrice’s spiral spring
Mechanistic clocks bleeding grains of sand
Such commotion outside, such arrears
To be paid, to be made, moneychangers
In temples without images – bland
They call it business, they herald its triumph
Over Tradition, above Pound, vulgarities abound
And the pleasures, herein my dear, mingling, are of two sorts:
Either too sterile to matter
Or too germ-ridden to be impressed upon the breast
But we, in here
A hortus conclusus – us
Outside the knackeries, your social niceties
Beyond the apothecaries, and between the abattoirs
There lies a perennial truth beating inside the womb
The birthing of a stillborn, Unicorn
And the paradox drags Truth down through the aestheticized mud
While an Old Ovid writes the Fasti
And Wrether travels to the Eternal City
And the Cantos connects all things to Dante’s metaphysics and Homer’s dactylics
And, and, and, never-ending…
Perhaps there is yet a cliff
On the horizon
With a burning Sun
Given something bitter-sweet
My dear, to come undone
In the company of those who forget by candlelight that love is præy
Ravaged on cliffs of abandon by demons of desire
Pulled along a winding pebbled road by a charioteer
Strumming her golden harp
Then drawn and quartered apart
On each limb – two sets – twin stallions
Two black and two white
Too dark and too light
The Skeptics on the feet
And Utopians on the other
And we non-Manicheans somewhere asunder
Caroused in the dream of the spleen
Plato and ‘The Philosopher’
Captured by Raffaello in the vesica pisces swimming in the cloth folds of the masters
Or as consciousness tortured on a crucifix, between a redemptive sinner and one who persists
A whirling dervish, and thunder, a flash of lightening, a cloud bursting into rain and naivety and necessity and madness and a banquet of undulation – the sensory world of transient things, passing through the intestines – golden egg of shit – birthing into ignorant armies clashing –
in the din of the pitch there arises a moment of clarity, of brevity, of epiphany – and one of heroism and one of cowardice and one of deceit and one of interpretation’s cutting distortion and so on and so forth… A lasso, a thread, a throughway
Wherein the reaper makes his rounds
An hourglass without a sound
The field of battle now full of wailing banshees and dark eyed ravens with wolves waiting in the wings
Mournful elegies pouring from her lips
Into her eyes
Blindfolded cupid’s aim
And now she has been carried away
By an Zephyrus wind
And I have been
Brought to function
Under false suns
Is to run
Into a gaping subterranean hole
Her skirt from which the flora flows
There is death inside the rose
A slumbering dream of repose
A sheltering bosom to uphold
The suckling lips of a youth turned old
And In the room the women come and go
Speaking of things debased and low
What greater glory than to sow
The seeds of discord, the uninvited party guest
Without whom harmony would be subjected to a tyranny of monotony, a garden of earthly delights
Better to reign, than serve
A day; a stalking breast of prey
Than a cento grazing in the meadows
Mere Choices in the Agora of Hesperos
And the meek elongation of shadows
Drawing out the growing awareness
The pair caught in a serpentine bewilderment
Naked and cloven-foot
Tiptoeing around panopticonic surveillance
Wiretapped and pigeonholed
Villages disassembled and we all go
Shuffling under the common roof
His ancestors owned two-fifths of the watermill East of Eden
Drawing liquid-mercury through lukewarm waterways
Pouring it into crystal glasses for the enfranchised masses
Placid and spellbound as Hylas in Waterhouse
Bewitching gazes longing for
That magic hour
Between her reign and that of Apollo’s
When the dissimilar similarities
Strike us with stupefying profundities
The Lord awoke, reeling with wine
“The overloaded measurelessness of all goods in the one who is their cause.”
The cornucopia everywhere blooming and rotting
Wastrels and beggars
Heroes and kings
The trees of the forest nearst the clearing
Droop and wither
The temperature fallth
And sandy dunes appear
Where once luscious hills shone
In verdant splendor
Has the hour come?
When all things are confused
In their compositions, dimensions and limitations
The binding together of things-strange
In anticipation of her reign
Her time come at last
She, holy to the lost and the dead
They too arose, joining a procession
Shuffled earth and withered rose
She, granting oblivion and holy drunkenness
From the gallows of histories hollows
Luminaries, no nobody’s
A night vigil and procession
Panther skins, dithyramb limbs
The wild wind sweeps unwelcome’d trespasses,
Whisperings extinguish solitary candles in windswept temples along pathways leading towards a precipice requiring a leap of forgotten naivety
A reshuffling of the deck and few are fallen
There are no roads that lead here now
Laughing madly in her blind alley
Contingencies upon contingencies, upon a throw of the dice
A delicate balancing act, Empress of the world, an acrobat upon her globe, imprisoning between her teeth a cruel absent rose, now departed, now come, now go
She spinning wildly
Into the great unknown, endless coastlines, star-dotted skies
Cythera; summoning the ghosts of milkmaids – piously affecting a way to dictate the terms of his own fate – squatting in squalor, squeezing the royal-purple out of the snails who sunbathe by the light of the moon
Canto II – Archipelagos
A cult of beauty blooms
Venuses on the shells of former selves
Airy and light, whimsical delight
An intonation wilting, too soon
Respighi perfectly captured the essence
The sea arches in images
As many shapes as Proteus
Winged youth and drowning Pegasus
Vessels upon her unstable aqua-heath
Ithaca in liquid modernity
Genoese for hire
Nowhere, somewhere, everywhere
A brave new world
Hovels in New York, Moscow, Bangladesh
Similitudes of “insecticide refineries”
“Chicago Semite Viennese”
Negro Siamese Canadian
Misanthrope – in a small boat
Great industries of coiled seaweed
Passing mirages, flickering gills, selfish shellfish
The solitary angler, the waterbeds he comes to know, casting out
Still the great plethora lost in the shadows of working waifs – driftwood and time’s immortal wages
Octopi, barnacles –swampage – city dwellers
Never waves – just hello’d goodbyes
Journeyed wide-eyed tourism
He stops to sip
Peering into the exquisiteness of his own tortured midnight, not eyes, not mirrors, both and neither
Solid, buried marble – the tide reveals
The sculptor, who drowned in love
With forms held above
From his own hand, fashioned
What he could not withstand, a passion’d
Beauty; the frailty of being
She, an appendage of the shell
Bivalvia, Sally sells
The shore is distant now,
And he recalls dimly
A garden abounding with pleasure
A rose snatched from the bush,
But still the new day is bright
And the water rumbles
Coughing up from her recesses
Upon powerful horses, a chariot and a trident,
A great flowing beard, upon a great knowing air
What say Poseidon, Lord of the hour, who has dethroned his brother and the Other upon a grey murderous sea?
He made the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof were still
And a great valley of time separated the words uttered as though each carried the weight of ages
“Herein, the waters coalesce, some flow towards the Northern and some towards the Southern Gate, but all who pass, whether in ascent or descent, drink of oblivion…”
With that the sun darkened
The roaring wave, towered, glassy skyscrapers, tumbling
A dizzying tempest washed him far-flung ashore
The salt water; putrid and inebriating
Heady spins, myriad colors – puke
Nineteen Sixties lotus eaters – Egyptian nymphs – desert sacraments
Fumigations, one-eye-blind, sails set against the wind, piglets, priapic wand-erings, curses, invocations, black magic, temptress, enchantress, forgetfulness, Dreams
Canto III – Western Skies
Under the Bodhi tree, awakening towards the East
Passive nihilism, illusion, maya, laissez-faire, nothingness
No reason to get worked up, go to work
Koan, Koran, Kalm
Sand, Oriental, Monsoon
Awakening towards the West
Meadow lands – God’s bounty – Monad
Kipling and the Saxon
The sneaking serpent Overthrown,
Masters of our own House
No mere mild humility
Giants upon the Earth
Made in the Image
Towards the Eternal Flame
Marbled balustrade and patient travail
The sinew, the muscle, the fortitude
Cursings and blessings upon thee
Our hour has not yet approached the nihil
We are not yet soft cushioned bed-rested geriatrics
We are still men of the West
And we ascend the immortal steps
In dialogue with Hades’ snakes and Olympus’ ladders
Never a child’s game grew so severe
As yet, the fateful hour draws near
“Thou art a dreaming thing”
Pythia, in the House of Snakes
Mandarins teaching half-learned things,
Pharisees, Sciolism; litterae nihil sanantes
We have no place in this place
No room in these rooms
Dusty recesses of the mind’s visions
Borne old too soon
In the Evening Land
Pillar of fire, cleaving the azure of the Western skies
No chiaroscuro, everything illuminated in the glow of sheer fanaticism,
Alex is joined by Brandon Martinez of nonalignedmedia.com/ for an off-the-cuff and off-the-wall conversation about alternative media, the AltRight, the Jews and their misdirection and why Canada sucks.
Keith Preston of attackthesystem.com/ comes onto The Fascist Pigs to discuss Trump’s neocon turn with his attack on Syria. They discuss current geopolitics in light of Hardt and Negri’s book “Empire,” and contextualize it to Orwell’s 1984 “Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism” (((Emmanuel Goldstein played by Jared Kushner))) and other events and topics tangentially related to Cold War 2.0
Alex was a guest on: