The Minions of Fascism

So the minions of fascism gather at the gates with torches erupting like solar flares. And the gentle woodland folk watch as the brutishness takes on the characteristics of human dung; dark and clingy, with a dizzying stench, that permeates any hope any faith in a sunrise.

the good fairies and gentle wizards and all the earthen spirits scream of the other way, the other realm... but these are muted against the thick, bony, skull of the intruder, as he tears away at the fabric of the magick of the forest. Killing what he can never know, just to see it die; embracing death and sucking simplicty from the marrow of the elementals that bring the butterflies and dragon flies.

The crows are shot through the heart with the rage of the intruder and they scurry off to keep the truth; but it is no use. Like Saturn, he has devoured his own, and now seeks yours...

we will fight. we will close our eyes and remember the beauty of today's first snow of the winter; we will burn his rancid touch in our madness and we will make the madness be the force that turns the whole planet on its axis.

It will crush his thick skull and hasten the blood in his veins to thicken to paste; the madness will save us. We must always believe in the madness.

MB 2003