Their infernal machine lops and trims the green upstarts, the single emerald sprouts, the high stalk topped with the blue cornflower down to the level of their dull brown mass. Down there in the dull, down among the dead men, the mass molders and they love to inhale the musk of decay.
Their minds are the godless grave of words muttered by Mao, garbled by Goebbels, and limned by Lenin from which no life or liberty can ever hope for escape and resurrection.
Their secular “green” religion has its bad rap but no hymns. Their “progressive” policies eviscerate all prayers.
Their fantasy of a “fairer world” will become their grandchildren’s small and shrunken lives on a nightmare planet where all men, finally equalized, will live like dung beetles on the desolate wastes of what once was.
And yet, like zombies lashed to a dying animal, they persist in their death-in-life existence, seeking only the freedom of an approved and “assisted” suicide as their reward.
They call themselves “progressives” and flatter themselves that their thoughts and actions are “revolutionary” when they are as reactionary as any mob that can be remembered from history.
What happened to all those who, in my youth, marched and sang for “freedom?” How did they become so old, so hidebound, so stuck in the past? When did they become so mired in “Imagine?” How, from once striving so hard against colonialism in all its guises, did they allow their minds to become so utterly colonized by a matted mass of dim and discredited notions?
They chain themselves deep in the pit of pretend, and celebrate their servitude by bending heaven and earth to get you down in the hole that they’re in.
They believe that the individual should become the mass, and that the mass should worship its apotheosis; that single one who best reflects their ossified visions on which the anointing oil has long since dried to a brown crust of thought.
They are the monarchists of the masses. They seek a state in which the head that wears the crown may change but where the crown itself grows forever larger.
They no longer “rage against the machine.” They are the machine.
“Drive them fast to their tomb.”
(HT: American Digest)
