Dog Poet Transmitting…….
I can just see the boys in the back, sitting around a circular, green baize table. Some of them are dressed in American, British and Israeli military wear. Most are dressed in suits, with a scattering of police uniforms and some religious and occult costumes. Given the news of late, I suspect a few of them are dressed in green hospital scrubs with sanitary masks and their remorseless eyes stare out like some parody of a woman in a burka. There are women there who are waiting on the men and they are dressed like the ones who hold up the signs with the number of the next round at the boxing matches.
There’s a long table set back against the length of each of the four walls. There’s just enough room to go behind these tables and sit in a chair that faces out on ‘the boys’ sitting at the main, central table. One table is stocked with various military attaches and representatives of munitions firms. Another table hosts members of the corporate world. The last two tables seat delegations from academia, religion and the media. They’ve got ear pieces that transfer everything being said into their waiting ears and they make notes about actions to be taken in respect of what they hear.
There’s a larger room next door and it looks like a lecture hall or the space for a press briefing. There are rows and rows of chairs all facing a large television screen. There’s a Don Pardo clone on the screen and he’s giving a synopsis of what the boys in the back are talking about and how it affects the wider communities of the world. The people in the audience are the people who write policy at educational institutions and anywhere rules and regulations are formed that affect the lives of the people. These are the ones who are responsible for the lines at the government institutions and they are the authors of all the official documents that are signed by the boys in the back and have to do with who gets hired and fired; who goes to jail and stays out, who gets heard and who gets silenced, who goes to which schools and gets what jobs, who succeeds and who fails and who lives and who dies.
The term you hear most often is, “the internet”. The internet seems to be their biggest concern. Some of them want to eliminate it. Others see it as a sacred, cash cow that just needs to be strictly monitored and controlled. Someone mentions that porn is the single largest money maker and a number of people from a certain nation make it understood that their people need to protect their investment. One of them says that, “It’s no different than the opium except for the medium of delivery.” Someone from Australia wants surfers to get licenses to access the internet. Someone from England wants alarm centers that identify who’s reading and listening to what. An illuminati hack from West Virginia says that it’s the worst thing that ever happened and he can’t imagine anyone wanting to take credit for it now. They all admit it’s dangerous because it is waking people up; something that no amount of wars, privation and calamity has ever achieved before.
An Israeli dressed in green scrubs at the main table is going ballistic about some Swedish newspaper writer who has exposed their organ racketeering. Someone from France says that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to specifically target victims for harvesting from a country they were performing genocide on already. “Why not just do a deal with Burma or Western Papua?” he asks. “Because we can!” the doctor screams.
It’s getting very tense. Faces and whole heads are morphing into various creatures from the dark side of the human imagination. There are vampires, werewolves and Komodo dragon heads. Hot, toxic saliva is hitting the felt on the table and burning through it to the wood below. The Israeli doctor says how his people control the money flow in the western economies and all they have to do is pull in the purse strings. His mouth is like the very purse he’s talking about; looking like he sucked a blood lemon. Then he mentions the small nuclear devices in many western cities and talks some more about a ‘little quid pro quo’.
Hundreds of hands in the larger room are busy writing down what the Don Pardo guys is saying. Around the walls of the ‘special’ room, some of the occupants are becoming incontinent because they know they’re first in line if things get any worse. The smell wasn’t very nice to begin with. Now it’s starting to smell like the insides of the heads of the boys at the main table.
They’re pretty much coming to agreement that Iran should be the recipient of a ‘fused glass policy’. They haven’t sorted out what to do about the Straits of Hormuz thing but, worst case scenario; they’ve all got their own supplies of oil for the moment. There’s some talk about what happens if the public begins to turn on them. It’s at this point that a representative from the Rockefeller Eugenics Institute starts to talk about meaningful numbers.
A break is announced and the boys at the main table head for the refreshment room. Waiters dressed in nothing but chains and various leather fetishes herd a group of young boys and girls over to the buffet table where they cut their throats and the blood gushes into silver goblets that are wiped down and handed around to the distinguished guests. There’s a lot of drinking and back slapping and cries of “Hail Satan” as various toasts are performed and evil men do what evil men do. There’s a certain amount of violent, casual sex performed on the empty drink containers as the frenzy of bonhomie reaches a high level of riotous catharsis. Apparently it’s good to be alive, depending on who you are.
In the other, less privileged rooms, the occupants are also taking a breather and enjoying themselves by discussing death warrants and tales of personal body counts. It’s the usual fish story thing about the ones who got away. There’s a lot of bravado and bombast, counter-pointed by the sour smells of ancient fear as they cast furtive glances at the empty green table or stare at the momentarily blank video screen.
In the VIP party room, anonymous hospital workers are dragging off the bodies of the butchered and violated bodies of children who are packed in boxes of ice and then loaded into Israeli ambulances bound for the parts recycling plants.
American and English powerbrokers are all keeping a stiff upper lip that trembles on the verge of mad, psychopathic laughter at the spectacle before them. There are a few wry comments about the bodies being still warm and how they might just jump start one or two of them with electrical cables. Rumsfield and Cheney are there in a group with Blair and Mandelson. Cheney says, “It doesn’t get any better than this.” They all titter appreciatively. The room seems to be getting hotter and hotter and now I can see wisps of smoke escaping from the curling wallpaper. No one else seems to notice though so maybe I’m imagining that.
All of a sudden there is the sound of massive gears grinding, accompanied by powerful blasts of thunder, very much like explosions. I hear a horn blow and then a frenzy of impossibly loud instruments. Whatever it is, it isn’t Enya. The faces in the room go pale. This must not have been on the programs that were handed out at the beginning of the conference. Walls blow away and the various rooms all become one. There are fierce, human-like creatures that have appeared on the scene. Their eyes are flashing with rage and their wing beats are sending people, paper and tables tumbling in the air.
I hear one powerful voice overcoming all of the other noises and it’s speaking in a language I cannot understand but apparently everyone else does. The look of complete terror and panic on the faces of the boys in the back and their attendants is something to see. I’m filled with the most wonderful feeling that seems to be surfacing out of distant memory. It’s at this point that I wake up and realize that it wasn’t a dream but something that happens in the space between waking and dreaming. It’s something that’s always been there but, like a blob of mercury on a piece of glass, it is very hard to stabilize long enough to experience it. Someone else is obviously holding the glass in this moment because it isn’t me.
Maybe it was that Chinese stir fry that I cooked up and ate at 2:00 in the morning last night and maybe it’s the result of not sleeping very well for a very long time. Whatever it is, I’m laying here in the early morning light and thinking about the dead zones coming to life and the fabric of manufactured reality being torn asunder. I’m thinking about a burning, cleansing fire and I’m thinking whatever it was or is… it can’t come too soon. It can’t come too soon for me.
Original source: http://smokingmirrors.blogspot.com/2009/08/fly-on-wall-of-cosmic-nightmares-end.html