the anticulturalist: war

war is the inevitable consequence of unfettered breeding and an idle population

it is borne on anger at being intellectually malnourished to the point of not having means to express the frustration

in this case nebulous concepts called national pride, honour, virility and other useless lies become methods of self-identification

the rulers, being educated and wily, prey on this as a distraction to stop the population becoming equally educated and therefore a threat

it is also employed in order to keep the flow of money to their own circle and the circles of their friends and their enemies alike through lethal technology transportation weapons uniforms and all the accroutements necessary for a brilliant war to tick all the boxes

it is also employed as entertainment for a population being educated in their own downfall

war is therefore implemented by rulers as an anticulturalist device for their own self-interest and perpetuation of their own bloodline with no need for further explanation or justification other than those the rulers choose to give for their own ends

on the death of a poet

It is brave to dance

Maybe there will always be poets

And we were fortunate

To have them render unto us

At first hand

The moment of creation

A created moment

We breathed the same air

And that is nearly a miracle

A modern one

Transcendent, or mirroring, critiquing, embracing,

Revealing, loving, hating

The world we can see

And the world we would like to

But cannot

Yes, it is the brave

And the beautiful and the crumbled

Who grapple with the word

Who grapple with themselves

And demon gods

Of the millions of people

That have ever lived

Across all the debris and detritus

Of this doomed human rampage

Together we danced.

the anticulturalist: economics

the recent history of western economics has been a harangue centred around either bullshit-down steal-o-nomics or a pie-in-the-sky equal distribution of wealth

either and both are inherently anticulturalist as it is the anticulturalist in charge of measurement that is responsible and that measurement can be of any metrics that suit the anticulturalist for his own needs and bias at that time for his own purpose

the media is complicit in its own version of analysis which can never be anything other than skewed by its own inherent bias by the 'facts' it presents based on figures selected specifically for the narrative angle of the piece, the paper, the journalist, the editor for its/his/her/their own purpose

therefore the media is acting in an anticulturalist manner because objectivity is impossible in this system

31-10-16

There was a Spiderman, a Batman, Darth Maul, two or three pirates, a princess, several witches, a Harry Potter, a pretty scary zombie and some pretty cute zombies. There were tiny ones who couldn’t really walk yet and older ones bending down, too young to give up the fun but old enough to be a bit embarrassed because they are wanting to be grown up most of the time unless it’s fun and there’s chocolate and sweets and siblings to look after.

And they all, to a monster, liked our pumpkin. I did too. Suzy did a top job. It looked splendid and scary and had scars and the candle flickered menacingly inside. And they all, to a monster, smiled and said thank you and were excited and playing together. And I heard loads of different accents and thought, well, ya know, monsters don’t really have national boundaries it seems, and witches can play with zombies and the Flash can do a swap with Supergirl - a lollipop for a blag Aldi Milky Way bar – and their folks can watch from the gate and smile.

I brought the pumpkin in at a suitable they’ve-all-gone-home-to-bed style time, and I thought of all the English and Bulgarian and Welsh and Polish and Syrian and Golgafrinchan parents that would be kept awake for hours by sugar-demented kids bouncing off the walls and puking up insane neon colours from the more Halloweeny type soft sweets, and I wondered exactly when it would be that kids like these turned into people who decided that instead of sharing fun and being undead or wielding plastic broomsticks and carving pumpkins, that instead of all this they’d blame each other for all the bad things in the world because they’d been taught to hate instead.

The Tale of Robert Stanley Raney

Lonely Robbie Raney

Had a photo of his daddy

With his mummy, looking happy

Before his daddy went away,

Before she’d died when he was tiny

Baby Robbie Raney.

Orphan Robbie Raney

Went to school and studied daily,

Wasn’t dumb and wasn’t brainy.

Made no friends and sat alone,

Ate his sandwich, and went home.

Little Robbie Raney.

Robert Stanley Raney

Went to work at various jobs;

Bits and bits, odds and sods.

Kept his counsel, worked alone,

Made no money, spoke to no-one.

Strange Mr. Raney.

Robert Stanley Raney

Was in love with a fine lady

From afar. She was so pretty.

But he said nothing; such a shame,

He was too shy to ask her name

Timid Robert Raney.

Lonely Old Robbie

Had a pension, not that great -

Either had heat or he ate.

Wore three thick socks on his feet,

Shivered underneath his sheets.

Cold Retired Robbie.

Sad Old Robbie

Woke one day and started crying.

He had dreamed that he was dying,

Cursed the brand new waiting morning,

Couldn’t see the use in trying

Always to be happy.

Poor Old Robbie Raney

Hobbled down toward the park

To sit and sit til it was dark.

His coat had holes, his shoes had more,

He left his room and shut the door.

Tired Robbie Raney

Stooped and wizened Robbie

Looked down and spotted something shiny

On the street! A pound coin? Surely

Someone would be back to get it?

But if not, he could accept it

And be rich man Robbie!

Happy rich Robbie

Strained his poor old back again

Bending down to get the coin.

But he couldn’t pick it up:

It was glued down. It had been stuck

There by local kiddies.

Back-pained Old man Robert

Heard the children’s mocking laughter.

He was lonelier than ever.

His whole soul dived; he was bereft.

He reached the park, sat down and wept,

Teary Old Robert.

Sad, cold, lonely Robbie

Sat and wept, bereft, forlorn,

Wondering why he had been born.

A life near done: what was it for?

And why continue any more?

Tired, old, battered Robbie.

Lonely Old Robbie

Felt a tugging at his coat.

Heard a barking, pleading note.

It was a mangy little cur

With patches missing from its fur.

A limping, crooked doggie.

Robert Stanley Raney

Said: “I have nothing for you.

I have no money, got no food.

Go and pester someone else.

I’m not long for this world myself.”

But doggie stayed.

Old man Robbie

Took his stick and started home,

But this time he was not alone.

In his footsteps, following softly,

Stumbled a twisty-legged doggie.

Walking with his daddy.

Robbie and the doggie

Wandered. Robbie shooed the hound

But the dog, well he just stood his ground,

Looked up at him with deep brown eyes

Full of loving hope and pride:

Robbie Raney’s doggie.

Then they met a lady

Who kneeled down and stroked the doggie.

“Oh you poor thing, you’re so lovely,

But you’ve got a broken leg.

Did you know that I’m a vet?

Can I help you baby?”

Robbie, his dog and the lady

Walked together to the surgery.

Robbie realised that she

Had been the girl he’d loved before,

The woman he had once adored.

Their eyes met briefly as she

Bandaged up the doggie.

She made a perfect cup of tea

And said, “I will fix him for free.

I have seen this dog from time to time.

He was a stray; and now he has a very fine

And handsome daddy.”

So Robert Stanley Raney

Took the deepest of deep breaths,

His heart was pounding out his chest,

He plucked up courage, felt ashamed,

But asked the lady, “What’s your name?”

And she said: "Betty Bailey."

__

Some years later

A house was rented to another.

Underneath the floorboards fluttered

An ancient, yellow, faded picture

On which the smiles seemed even bigger

Of mummy and of daddy.

And if you looked ever so closely

In the background you might just see

Partly hidden by a tree

An old man and a bandaged doggie

Smiling with a pretty lady:

Robert, Coal and Betty.

Manifesto

* Be nice to each other
* Share things out so everyone has enough
* Be nice to animals
* Try not to kill anything



HOW DIFFICULT IS THAT EH

jesus fucking shingles