Rishi Sunak Covid WhatsApp Cover Up is Designed to Protect His Own Government Rather than Former Prime Minister Boris Johnson
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Rishi Sunak Covid WhatsApp Cover Up is Designed to Protect His Own Government Rather than Former Prime Minister Boris Johnson

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A visual poster feast in Shoreditch obscuring building front
Hanging on. A tree barely attached to the ground
Ibrahim Mahama ‘Out of Bounds,’ 2015.
D'' leteren: Gearing, Opacity And Reported Earnings Decrease Obscuring Worth Of Belron
D'' leteren: Gearing, Opacity And Reported Earnings Decrease Obscuring Worth Of Belron.

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Obscuring The Martyrs
The fruits of Aion's-old ritual slaughter,
Sacrificial massacres begin
To bud yawning awake in
So early an hour- The flesh
Throbs with the constellations
Made of every hand and ear
Tongue and nerves and brain;
Spinning orbits of flickering bodies,
Coded in it's magnetic attraction grabbing
Those marked-or branded,
Behavioral rhythms as the well of gravity
Inverse, constraining the animated spark,
The confounding of entanglement
In the screaming tapestry- Feverish
Beast-Slaves shuffling, tracing phantom
Foot-paths to the future.
In the Ram's eyes gleaming,
The mirror of the Black Star
Of Anti-patterned Chaos
With it's near-irrisistable seductiveness,
Stains of gore, of battle
Unfocused and territorial to the Ram's face.
The ancient violence of the fox-minded
Cannibals will wrought itself upon the bleating
Hearts of the Earth. Always there is
The cloud of sickness and poison rotting
Out through the Common-Crawlers
Displaying their pervasive saturation,
Deficiencies and maladaptions
Running their circuits in the
Majority of living bodies, becoming
Inflamed in their vicious disintegration,
Pecking at the liver of the confused forgetful
Tribes war-brained from constant strifes
Of interaction, of mingling. The body
Is an instrument, and should be tuned
As such, played as such.
You will know this when you
See through your eyes, and not
Simply with them. To hear through
Your ears, and not simply with them.
To feel the Unnameable,
And not simply numbness.
Obscuring the martyrs-
Their dharmic deeds suppressed,
Censured from the fury of the frenzy;
Seemingly burnt out, leaving only
Phantom cries of an abandoned camp
Held perched within cloud and blue clutches.
But golden with The Mana,
Pierce they, this fragile world
Like a shaft of sun into a murky puddle.
These are the martyrs who still sing silently
Yet deed is known without a voice.
The data is sown of necessity not choice.
Martyrs whose tapestry is the gleaming
Mediums federated and webbed
In the Jaws of Night,
The maw of Untropaeus, un-logic.
The limited space between all things,
Their refuge. Where no sheathed coil
May come to fully baptize themselves
In Incarnation. In those regions of The Dead,
The labyrinth's stringless path is known
By it's heart-beats- And it is these martyrs
Who acquaintance with that world
Is articulated in the intimate interplay
Of sweat and soil, flaming pupils and
Ghostly tread like the Preserver's
3-fated waltz: Empty demarcations
Of the Sole waiting like hungry womb
To be re-trod by worthy limbs.
(3/29/2024)
04/13/24-
Of those obscured Martyrs you may never hear about, or from, just as you may never see them, in person. You may come across their writing, or old symbols they used to advance their brothers and sisters. But their deeds enliven each moment of time as a solitary fact, and as a dynamical influence which shapes your life. Their quiet revolutions actually sing their manifest data each beaded second of your beating heart- their rosarys of inspiration hung like garlands upon your neck, wreath each thought and action in their spirit. You may never know fully of their presence until, one day, whether dimly or more resolutely, you might begin to compute their unionized augmentation of the world around you- and realize they had won the game from the beginning. Just as you have. That there seemed to be a game at all is only a peculiarity of the human mind. That no game, in truth, exists. Yet we make it so. And so the stag-hunt commences all the same: the game-hounds yelping through the trees, mist-clad underbrush anticipating their foot-treads, and the wild and silent king and retinue fly past, horses aflame, while in the distance geese take flight and trumpet the approach of the party.
The smoke belching truck blinds us following behind. The alarm wakes me.