Saturday, July 19, 2008

Ramses the Great

Now that jackson has given us permission to use nigger freely, I feel there can be nothing denied to me. It's not a bad thing. It signifies a new age of freedom, understanding and good will. The race problem is over! It's our word, a gift to all humanity -- the secret name of names. All divisions have been unified! Along with the healing of the seas and other such wonders that Obama's anticipated presidency or Millennium or whatever it is will herald -- the Kingdom is nigh! -- jackson, His Prophet, has proclaimed the day of peace, the yearning of our hearts' desires.


Charles Krauthammer, heretic, peeps his insipid jeremiad, and we laugh him to derision. For She Who Must Be Obeyed, Michelle, the Pythoness of this New Age apotheosic black Apollo, has made her true and faithful utterance, and no need of priestly clarification. "Barack Obama will require you to work. He is going to demand that you shed your cynicism ... that you come out of your isolation. ... Barack will never allow you to go back to your lives as usual, uninvolved, uninformed."


And, how interesting. A slave driver of willing slaves -- we will take up our bondage from love, before such a wonder: Obama as both Moses and Pharaoh. He is messianic liberator, creator of hope, worker of change, who stills the rising waters and brings peace with his merest word; he is also taskmaster of an Ethiopian dynasty who will cause us to build his obelisks and sphinxes and colossi, his storehouse cities of the future, a New Jerusalem no doubt, or at least a Shining Babylon of sorts. No blood shall be spilled in his reign. It will be stored, each droplet, in chalices of silver, in golden bowls, and sealed and unsealed at his bidding to quench the thirst of the Ages! And the lamb shall lie down with the lion, Israel with Elam, and there shall be wonders in the heavens! -- blossoms of light and waves of radiance that will cleanse us to our very core.



I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


...The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


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