Brother Dog Lesson: Beef Bone Marrow Satire-Allegory in Literature, Poetry, The Arts

This Brother Dog Showed Me This Morning:  Beef Bone Marrow Satire-Allegory in Literature, Poetry, The Arts

I was watching Brother Dog this morning with his Beef Shin Bone Meat-Bone-Marrow as I was pondering the status of Satire-Allegory in Literature, Poetry, The Arts and The Faceless Masses.

First, as any chef knows, the best beef-stock for soups, stews, etc comes from Bone in Meat, and, Brother Dog and his Cousins The Wolf and Bear know exactly why!  Meat to fill the belly, yes, nutrition too, but the fat is sumptuous-healthier, the marrow the more delectable-healthier yet.

The Faceless Masses have become Vegans in terms of Satire-Allegory in Literature, Poetry, The Arts.  Yes, the fiber fills the belly, with little or no real nutritional value, a program of The Faceless Masses self-emasculation.

The Faceless Masses (and students taught) let others take care of Thought!  Contemporary ‘Satire-Allegory’ if I may even use those terms, in reality is nothing more than crass cultural marxism at best.

Inquire of The Faceless Masses of  Swift’s A Modest Proposal and you will hear it is a tale of starvation and cannibalism.  Dare not ask them of Gulliver’s Travels for you are then guilty of mocking short people, or Tolkien’s Dwarves even worse yet! Save yourself the aneurysm inducing response concerning Carroll’s  Alice in Wonderland as it is a Timothy O’Leary Trip!

So it is, The Faceless Masses go on meatless, without the effort to chew the bone to get to the marrow of Authentic Satire-Allegory in Poetry, Literature, The Arts!

Now ask yourself,  why any system would encourage this and The Faceless Masses more than happy to be Vegan Spoon-Fed ‘Thought’?

Our Moon ’tis Ultimus Sublime!

You tell me your Ponce de León moon over the ocean is divine. I say keep drinking the poisoned wine. The Fountain of Youth did the wanderer ever find?

Our Moon, upon Our Lakes, Rivers, Streams in the company of The Forest -Spirits surround, Oh, yes, Our Moon ’tis Ultimus Sublime!

Aert van der Neer
, Dutch, 1603/1604 – 1677, Moonlit Landscape with Bridge, probably 1648/1650, oil on panel

A Tale of My Encounter with The Ice Giants and The Sacred Lady of The Woods Last Night!

Last night Brother Dog and me went to my rocky perch on the mountain top, above the clouds it always seems, far away from man, this is a certainty.

I wrapped Brother Dog in his canvass and poncho liner the Army provides, as usual for the Leverworsthond, he closed his eyes, to dream and await the morning sky.

I sat on my perch, the sentinel-seeker was I, when, the temperatures plummeted, The Northwinds howled, an ice storm on them, hitched it’s ride. Ice on my brow and lids it sought that I might close my eyes, with each breath I loosed, on my beard the icicles grew, my garments a tomb of ice as the storm raged and grew, I sat there, still, faithful and true.

It must have been around three or four, I looked about on the forest floor. All the trees, in deep sleep for winter, on them the ice grew too, but The One, The One that commanded The Light, radiance so bright when The Moon broke through.

Upon The Sacred White Birch, no ice did reside, just barely a dew. Around her trunk, her roots sunk deep below, an ice free circumference of ten feet, from her roots and radiance, it grew.

I arose, still encased in my garment icy tomb, went over and laid at her trunk, the magical spot where warmth, safety away from The Ice, she gives freely, from her roots so deep, of dreams yet due.

I awoke with first light, prepared an offering for The Spirit of The Sacred White Birch, left it at her trunk as I oft do, I walked over, woke Loyal Brother Dog who protects and guides me, Liverwurst and bacon, he received his thank filled offering too!

Nature, of wonder she holds me, always provides, surprise? Never! That is for those that sit home at night with their televisions and pizza pies!

So it is, time for me to tell of the dream. The Sacred White Birch, while others sleep the winter deep, or, wallow in cries of self pity, lives her life to the fullest, no quarter given, no compromise!

If The One Light Ever Begins to Flicker, Fade

“I OWN MY FUCKING DARKNESS!”    faceless masses, did  you not pay attention when I had this to say?

There is yet but One Light In This World, a light that keeps My Darkness from reaching you be it night or day.  If this One Light ever begins to flicker, turns away to fade, worse comes the day than your books foretold, worse the more your hell on earth; YOU will pay!

To fuck with a nice chianti and fava beans, on that day I will cut your “god’s” heart out, feast on it, a garlic-whiskey-butter-god heart sauté!

No Quarter Given, No Quarter asked!

Kindness and forgiveness are for The Weak, that which your god uses to genocide and enslave.  Everytime My Darkness hears you say “let us pray” or “let us get on our knees and beg forgiveness”  My Darkness alone or with others in tow, sighted our marked foe, our next prey.

Your god, its heart anyway, been feasted upon by My Darkness, as  a garlic-whiskey-butter-god heart sauté, tell me faceless masses, to whom is it you pray?

Best you hope, this One Light ne’er begins to flicker, turns away to fade, unless you are ready for the price My Darkness Commands to be paid!

Blackthorn Has Gone Mad!

I had penned a number of years ago on The Entity and its figureheads, “Stealing Your Dragons” (Imagination-Dreams-Will), you scoffed at me, Blackthorn has gone mad!  I recall was the common cry of the faceless masses however, it is I, those like me,  that are laughing, now!

For, Dear Reader, the very same Entity that stole and suppressed your “Dragons” are the very same that utilize theirs to shape and form your reality, well this particular one that you exist in as you read this, the one they have imprisoned you in.  My lament of the faceless masses is that they cry that The Entity is  rewriting history, a history that is supported on a false dichotomy in any event, the false dichotomy of what was and what was recorded, manipulated still as it plays out over and over in the multiverse.

I am not suggesting one should copy Randolph Carter, I am suggesting one should learn from Randolph Carter, use your imagination-dreams, and yes, will, to influence whatever reality you may find yourself at the present, innate gifts that were given to you freely while you were yet gestating within your mother’s womb.

Write (imagine-dream-will) your own story (reality) within this universe or perhaps a parallel universe, if you have the courage to dare take that measured step!

Just last evening I Cheated The Ferryman as it were, well not actually cheated, that being a common phrase I use here for the ease of understanding by the faceless mass, those absent of their Dragons. I will tell this tale as a means of explanation.

When you meet The Ferryman, he requires his  fee, paid in coppers, upfront. These are usually the coppers placed on your eyes when you are dead, not being dead, I had no coppers nor was I interested in a one-direction ride without the prospect of return.  Copperless and at the risk of offending The Ferryman, I reached in my pack, retrieving two Nording Signature Natural Stacks and my stash of pipe tobacco. I packed one pipe for The Ferryman and likewise the other for me, paid for my ride not by coppers rather by Kelly’s Coin instead.  

There is that bridge, between the living and the dead, a place not to fear nor dread, travel back and forth with your piping friend, The Ferryman instead!

None of this is shocking, frightening or new, for I have had passage on The Black Frigate along with the family Ropp, destination?  The bent volcano of Nording where the incense billows from its top to honour the deity, The Bow-Legged Bear!

I offer only these lite tales, for the others, the faceless masses cannot bear however, know this as true, now is the time, you know what to do; Steal Back Your Dragons, Imagine-Dream-Will, your reality, for you!

Remember this, for if you are not dead, copperless, always make sure to have a supply of Pipe Tobacco and Whiskey by your side, in a pinch with The Ferryman, it will certainly make do!

Punching Tickets – On The Train Without Tracks

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

The Train that runs without tracks;  Safe Shires or Hobbit Homes behind closed doors, these exist no more.

Twas two nights before, I heard its roar across the valley floor, punching tickets of the faceless masses in mangled-bloody gore, those in singularity of unmangled-bloodless gore.

Ol’ Bastards like me, ne’er our tickets punched, for when we hear The Train screaming down its trackless tracks, into the safety of The Trees, we sleep the sleep of sleeps, The Forest Floor our beds.

A Mountainous Landscape with a Waterfall
Artist: Kerstiaen de Keuninck (Flemish, Kortrijk ca. 1560–1632/33 Antwerp)
Date: ca. 1600