Tag Archives: Maoism

Hey YOU (with the Lenin Tattoo) !

Communist Party!Dedicated to the agitators of Oregon.
We all want you to secede, baby !

Let it BURN while you feel the TRUMP.
(I hope Soros pays you well for your efforts).

Here’s some one-man backlash
to the whacked-out blacklight
of the whitelash blackout.
So don’t try to whitewash the knockout, blockheads.

PS: Good luck smashing capitalism along with other peoples windows and heads.
You have caused me to replay one of my greatest ConnectHook hits.

Militant Marxist Farts

Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be found,
Worked under ground…        (Henry Vaughn)

Hammer and sickle

Angry young militant Marxist Farts
who riot on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead—yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
Patriots need to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game, till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
bloody end to a treacherous story—
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug—lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…The Red Wedge
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring—yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles—
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.

Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes, I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate is their only god,
biding time to shoot their wad.
Nip such notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless dupes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…

keep-calm-and-sendero-luminoso-3

 

Reply to a Bumpersticker

 

Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition;
and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner,
the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful,
obscurations dense,  propensities o too long standing,
the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated.
 The Tibetan Book of the Dead
translation:  Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup

“Free Tibet” your sticker tells me…
Yes, I think, perhaps I should—
and the noble thought compels me,
uninformed, half-understood.

Will their freedom help my Karma?
Upgrade my reincarnation?
(Soul who could not dare to harm a
fly… much less a Buddhist nation.)

Not to justify aggression
by the ever-brutal Commies,
let us grant no glib concession
to the Maoists or their mommies.

Slogans echo in the void,Dakini1
shining in bardos of the dead;
stopped by the light, I am annoyed
impatient for the change from red.

A bumper crop of human woe
beams forth a mandate to my brain
while red Dakinis circle slow
in Buddhist hells of karmic pain.

The eastern concepts here diverge
and bow before brutality.
They make this driver long to merge
with incorporeality.

Then I glimpse a monkish fellow
swathed in saffron, calmly seated.
His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow;
mine the traffic; stalled, defeated.

In his gaze of stern displeasure
I perceive the orient stars
calculating man’s mismeasure
trapped, exhausted, among the cars.

Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire
he extends an accusing hand:
Western slave of base desire:
come and  liberate my land !”

I meditate before the stop light:
am I ready for the task ?
Should I just refuse it outright
Can’t it be someone else ?  I ask…

Must I free this mountain nation
from the Buddha, demons and Reds?
Shall your sticker’s declaration
shatter the yoke and raise their heads ?

Somebody ought to free Tibet,
and heed this Himalayan cry.
Maybe we should get upset…
The red light changes. Cars pass by,

predestined for benign events
and unconcerned for persecution;
oblivious to dissidents
awaiting execution.

 TT in Tibet

napo2015button3
IMAGES: templeilluminatus.com
tintin.wikia.com

Boring Old Militant Marxist Farts

Communist Party!

Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be found,
Worked under ground…        (Henry Vaughn)

Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead—yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game—till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
bloody end to a treacherous story—
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bear-hug: lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors;
dialectic masturbators . . .The Red Wedge
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring—yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles,
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxisHammer and sickle
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes, I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness . . .
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate: their only god,
biding time to shoot their wad.
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history—
comprehend the tragic mystery.

keep-calm-and-sendero-luminoso-3