Anti-Totalitarian Poetry
Today, the enemies of free speech, human rights and the end of democratic government have infiltrated almost every facet of Western Society. This anthology of poetry, exposes their treachery, lies, psychopathology and betrayal. Below are a few samples. It will soon be available in ebook format (from this website) and hard copy by emailing me direct at zappyooo@yahoo.com.au
Australia
It's all tokenism, now that the conquerors have
been conquered, democracy has fled and is on
the run. The old Empire dead, the bell-curve cracked.
Only white guilt and resentment are cultivated,
and like rotting corpses, packaged
as exportable commodities to the shrinking
value-markets of the politically correct.
The Indigenous too were hitched, long before
the Empire to pay the rent for this fatal shore,
and Globalism has grown over their racial and
cultural catechisms, like vines grow over a shed.
In the name of diversity, Koori culture is all
but dead, and like the European, has surrendered
its rich mosaic, become cliche, one-dimensional,
a flag, or sold as greeting cards made in the sweat
shops of China, and boomerangs (with no return
trajectory) for sympathy, a few slices of bread,
culture shows and melancholy remonstrances.
Nationalism is a thing the Empire bequeathed,
a minority luxury the elite gnawed to its bone
and buried beneath a bigger picture: a fragmented
tapestry of ghettos, where loyalties are pledged
to yesterday and tomorrow, across leagues of
ocean and history, where ignorance is an institution
and heaping blame on white skin legitimised
as progressive racism, all touchy-feely with
"stop the hate," yet hatefully hostile to science
and reason, bent on conquest, whatever the price,
with an appetite for vengeance and deceit, cunning
as a snake and vicious as a pack of starving dingoes,
divided from truth like the space that divides the stars.
Down-under, the Empire of the credit-card and debt
are the only bridges able to link a common touch,
where the future is hocked for instant gratification
and higher-purchases, that binds the debt of strangers,
in a stranger land, from whose harbours all anchors
have been pulled, and all black-fella country for sale
to the highest bidder. Sanctioned by lefty/lib politicians,
whose consolation plaques litter the landscape with
"We acknowledge the Traditional Owners." This
is the land of virtue signalling hypocrites and cheap
crocodile tears, where the young have not outgrown
the totems of the old, finding no guidance or comfort
in the present, no values that endure. Drugs, alcohol,
and promiscuity, fill the empty spaces but offer no cure.
Australia belongs to no one and welcomes all, asks
no loyalty or sacrifice, has become global real estate,
a target for terrorists, a quarry, a tourist destination,
a refuge, a place for hiding and escape.
The Woke Decoy
The wisdom
and compassion
accrued
from experience
and tradition,
allude her.
She looks for
common threads,
things relatable,
textbook and familiar:
a party cliche,
a crocodile tear.
Spits on the nation
and family,
roots for dykes,
and LGBTQ
clover-gender-ism (1)
Scoffs at the idea
of needing to plant seeds
before a harvest,
becomes a rebel
for oikophobic fashion,
superficial as her tattoos (2)
Her values reside
in numbers,
surface impressions
that validate her need
for approval:
daddy spite,
man hate,
any potent virtue signal
She looks for
a common thread,
something relatable:
a party cliche,
"It's all poetry - anyway!"
She often comments
about an art-form
that reveals her lack
of talent.
Truth and beauty,
like gender, for her,
are validations
of assigned propaganda,
mere social constructs
about which her stacked
audience, "click."
The prosaic is liberated
by her feelings, and doggerel
elevated higher
than Shakespeare:
“that patriarchal power freak!”
Because, as we all know comrades,
the screeds of the Woke
trumpet louder than truth,
its feelings, louder than facts.
She is like a quail
with its eyes plucked out;
her voice, like the cry
of the blind one:
a caged decoy
that calls her sisters home,
winging on numb pinions
into the nets of death.
Childless, barren, alone
and fraught with misery
(how she loves her cats!).
Perched on a soap-box
of books and ideology,
she declares to the spirit
of femininity: “ I'm free!
"Follow me, sisters - follow me!
__________________________
1. Clovergenderism is another type of transgender mythology that legitimises pedophilia. The rationality of which you can see manifest in the way transgender-ism exploits children, confounds their sexuality, and encourages them to dress provocatively and perform strip routines in gay bars for money.
2. From Oikophobia, a word meaning the repudiation of inheritance, home, and nation, coined by the British philosopher Roger Scruton in his 2004 book, England
and the Needs for Nation.
For Love, Not Hate
The signposts have been displayed
by Marx, Trotsky, Pol-Pot and Mao,
and the road to Utopia, paved with
the blood and bone of a hundred
million souls and still counting:
where corporations and politicos
are well paid to display rainbows,
affixing Saul Alinsky masquerades,
close-shaven as Conservatives, Liberals,
Democrats, Republicans and Greens,
and at street level, in Trotskyite
deep state-sanctioned puppet regimes.
"Smash the system!"
is now government approved ,
and everyone not Covid boosted
has their backs against the wall.
Black, Jew, Yellow or White,
who refuses to accommodate the Fall,
are mainstream media construed
as anti vaxers and far-right,
may soon be confined
to gulags, as the diseased advocates
of Freedom and Socratic insight.
From where the torch lady
of La Liberté éclairant
le monde has fled,
where Left and Right
bleed into each other,
red into blue
and blue into red.
The spectrum is magenta,
and on all major issues
at democracy's end,
pretend an illusion of choice,
shackle free speech,
censor alternative views
and speak with one voice.
Diversity institutes its demands,
demands compliance, censorship, equity,
standardisation and hate speech legislation;
has become the oppressor, the inverter;
the Black Block, legacy media:
the corporate state-approved
Antifa bike-lock smashed across
a human face, with malice and mace,
for love we are told, not hate.
Shadows
They followed their ideals like shadows
cast before them: Marx, Lenin, Trotsky,
deified and always idea-wise beyond
the next horizon, and following behind,
the spectre of freedom beat down
like the sun upon their backs,
as apparatchiks goaded with
manacles, manifestos and maps.
Till boredom and hunger gnawed
through the pages of the Party Line,
and each people, in turn, turned
from their shadows to face the sun,
looking West towards the glitter
of these all-consuming places,
where greed and ignorance erode,
and entertainment fills the empty spaces.
