Free World
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 2
*
Beauty, truth, art and love are the simple demands of the pervasive libertine mantra. Eternally youthful ideals of evolutionary revolution resonate through a new generation who emerge from shadowy subterranean school corridors, blinking in the bright light of a brand new aeon. They coalesce in the open minds of those youngsters who manage to escape the pleasantly appointed toxicity of suburban caves in search of a truer, more satisfying reality.
The blazing guns of warships circling ‘
At the height of a wild goose chase towards frigidly vengeful victory in an old cold war, gabbling lies, improper ganders and deliberated confusion reigns supreme. The mediated media is massaged constantly by invested interests and megalomaniac moguls while truth is confined to middle pages and the accidental coverage of rare live crosses, when it’s allowed to emerge at all.
Whole populations are inculcated with the belief that everything they hold dear can be ripped away in a single unexpected instant of blazing fury. Armageddon has been a noxious dream pursued by aging madmen and fanatics for millennia - one which now appears well within reach, if not grasp. The hidden hands of dispassionate surgeons have successfully lobotomised most of the previously wild and free human species through aeons of feudal obedience training. Down through the ages, inhumane puppeteers have pulled the strings of ruthless primate pack leaders and their brainless bodyguard of so-called ‘alpha males’. They now possess legions of football-playing gorillas dressed up in jerseys sporting totemic heraldries of varicoloured stars, moons and stripy colours, all armed to the canines with lethal weapons of mass indoctrination.
In these heady pre-millennial days, wide-eyed students are taught a load of demi-medieval codswallop and unexamined hearsay masquerading as tried and tested sciences and supposedly universal moralities. Students negotiate insane pits and snares designed to entrap any young person who lets their mind run free, or any soul unreined in liberated self-reign. The domesticated primates walk a mine field of linguistic and social booby traps designed to separate winners from losers and rich from poor, which constrains everyone within the same straightjacket of jingoistic lies and poorly conceived truisms. The young have to continually slough off all kinds of accreted nonsense about superior and inferior races competing on a planet of infinitely renewable resources, given unto the sole dominion of its ‘natural leaders’ - the clotted inbred corporate cream of purblind Humankind.
Children are subtly taught that the colonialist rulers of planet Earth obviously deserve their technologically-derived wealth – and, just as obviously, are the fittest to survive and rule by virtue of their wise technology and immeasurable wealth. They have the right to hold onto their treasures and fight all comers to the death. Politics is the ancient code duello writ large in cultures trained to worship competition and illusory dichotomies. Meet the new boss; same as the old boss.
Even as the new age was dawning people were told that DDT, nuclear power and asbestos were completely safe and that tens of thousands of untested new chemical compounds couldn’t possibly be bad for them. They were thoroughly entrained to trust the pronouncements of any jumped-up authority figure accredited by their local regime. It was a simpler time; paper bags and wooden boxes, glass containers, brick veneer houses, bakelite-clad, valve powered electrical equipment and arcane slide rules were the enduring artefacts of the day. Sticky paper flycatcher strips hung from most every ceiling to trap the ubiquitous flies drawn to the decaying bodies of self-consuming societies.
The smallest computer was beyond the reach of all but the filthy rich and took up half a climate-controlled room. Telephones had dials that took time and patience to turn. Shops used mechanical adding machines and cash registers with complex mechanical innards and tinkling metal bells. People wrote letters with ink-dip nibs, fountain pens, newfangled biros or clunky unpowered typewriters. There was no possibility of anything akin to the internet, photocopiers were in their infancy and the few independent publishers of the day cranked out pamphlets, magazines, newspapers and treatises on hand-wound printing presses that used molten lead for type.
They didn’t have microwave ovens or mobile phones, paramedics or safely working x-ray machines. Horse-drawn carts still delivered bread and milk to many front doors, and credit cards were a rarely seen luxury item that had only recently been invented. All banks and businesses tallied their escalating numbers by mind and hand and most currencies were backed by real metal bullion. Almost everyone smoked cigarettes, cigars or pipes and spittoons still existed in bars and restaurants; large sandbox ashtrays stood in the corners of most public spaces. Contraception was chancy and abortion was illegal.
Women were still basically chattels of their family’s patriarchal rulers. They weren’t allowed in most ‘public’ bars, had little control over their own bodies or destinies, earned ridiculously smaller amounts than men for the very same work and were restricted to a small handful of glass-ceilinged career paths. Girls were usually pregnant by the age of eighteen and most married soon thereafter; they were expected to hand their jobs over to another Miss or to a male breadwinner when they tied the knot, and become happy homebody housewives subsiding into the near-universal morass of the domestic nuclear mirage.
Modern humans were convinced that the profitable chemical-fuelled Green Revolution would forever end the problem of starvation, and that food shortages and overpopulation would be solved by as yet unseen but inevitable miracles of science. Many saw the hand of god in the works of industrialised civilization, believing that industry would never need to scrub its filthy pollution from the air and waters because Jesus or the Hidden Imam would be coming back one day soon; all corpses would rise reanimated from their coffins and the lucky few would be taken up to heaven to party and wait out the Apocalypse. The age of the world was five thousand years and the planet wouldn’t be needed for much longer anyway – the old odd-god sky fairy would return at last, to give the worthy few a new Heaven and Earth. As far as true believers were concerned the rest could go to hell.
They suffered a plethora of unbelievable delusions foisted on them by co-opted flunkies and inept petit-tyrant teachers. Children were taught that the world was an utterly stable place, bereft of all the decimating cataclysms that had cyclically destroyed all previous human civilizations. They were subtly entrained with racist beliefs, shown concocted interconnections of primate evolution, laden with filigreed doctrines of racist supremacy which traduced Darwinism for malign imperialistic purposes. They were told that the human brain had swelled to its current size in an easily defined upward progression from slobbering apeman through tribal indigene to triumphal Caucasian, ignoring all the abundant evidences to the contrary.
As far as they knew, the planets had rolled along in their unvarying tracks for billions of years in an unbroken system of Newtonian clockwork and no asteroid or comet remained unswept from Earth’s orbit by the massive gas giants that patrol our solar system’s perimeter. The cognoscenti now know that a myriad of rocks and a handful of stellar mountains can strike unexpectedly at any time and that the Sun surfs through a monumental galactic battlefield, but in those days the histories of Wars in Heaven were still cloaked in superstitious mumbo jumbo and religious disinquisition.
Venus was widely viewed as a foetid primeval planet of swamp-dwelling dinosaurs, a place we might like to colonise one day - rather than a brimstone-brewed literal hellball of molten metals, a burning pit of crushing pressurised flame – as the largely forgotten and thoroughly vilified seer Immanuel Velikovsky had predicted decades earlier. Many still talked of the ‘canals’ of Mars, and simultaneously believed in the literal and infallible truth of the Bible or Koran or Torah or Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. Civilized people dreamed in black and white and spent their lives propping up the temporary edifices of divergent hierarchical ideologies, all promising permanent material security, ultimate global triumph or more subtle and insidious forms of self-delusion.
Meanwhile, flying disks, glowing cigars, shining spheres and unidentified aerial objects of all kinds were seen and contacted throughout the world; the most important news of all times was twisted by well-oiled misinformation machines into a laughably implausible joke. The inconvenient fact that feudal, feuding humanity was not alone in the cosmos - or even on planet Earth - was swept from view, so that the peons could continue to avidly consume poisonous meat pies, beer and football. Few suspected that their warlike societies were building a base in a much larger ball game, and those who did were customarily ridiculed, exiled or ignored by the mainstream.
Information was tightly controlled and thoroughly massaged. There were no domestic videotape machines and no cable television; people filled their leisure time with a narrow range of opinions, comedies and dreary soaps on flickering low-definition screens. No-one ate sprouts or soy products or rapeseed ‘canola’ oil or drank imported water or beer. The only organic food was accidentally produced or home-grown, vegetarianism was viewed as a very rare disease or a dangerous ideology like Communism, and homosexuality was illegal and punishable by jail sentences and/or regular beatings in public places. But in many ways, little has changed between then and now.
In this jobs-for-the-boys meat market masquerading as an advanced civilization, all police forces are equally corrupt. Politicians are usually worse – they have to choose between the money and the gun offered by unseen overseers. If you don’t know the correct handshake, wink or nod your future is still circumscribed by your allotted stature in the nepotistic Old World Order. Despots and petit tyrants with falsified pedigrees and family trees – purporting to point back toward Jesus or Moses or Mohammed, Charlemagne or the Divine Julius - vie for control of the industrial hives of wage serfs, all indentured to their tawdry homes and disposable lifestyles.
Rabid, flag-waving, jingoistic patriotism is still the norm everywhere. But back in the dawn time of hippies and antiwar demos - in Commonwealth countries like Oz - if you don’t stand up for ‘God Save the Queen’ when the anthem is played in theatres or cinemas, you’re unceremoniously ejected from the venue; spat upon, vilified and manhandled at the very least. Similar and worse fates await those in countries flying other flags and singing different supremacist lyrics; everywhere, people have been entrained for generations to jerk and genuflect before ancient tribal trappings, wrappings, traditions and symbols. Their true meanings have long been forgotten and supplanted in the minds of most, hidden from the uncomprehending laity by tyrants jealously guarding the hoarded troves of stolen wisdom.
The world is still a thinly whitewashed bloodstained arena of feuding fiefdoms, whose various populations delude themselves into believing that their particular idiosyncrasies are superior and fit to be imposed on all others. Protestant and Catholic fight with each other like Sunni and Shiite, Hindu and Moslem and they all share the same handy and long-suffering scapegoat – the Jews. If there are no Jews around, black people or the ‘yellow peril’ will do.
All a country has to do to qualify as a democracy under the United Nations definition is to give the vote to all its adult citizens for a single generation – and even in the latter days of the Cold War only Norway, Sweden and Britain qualify; even the good old USA only ‘gave’ the vote to southern Negroes in the mid-1960s, and fails to measure up to even the slim requirements of a democracy demanded by the U.N. The feuding nations are islands of prejudice, unused to the nascent realpolitik of the post-colonial, post-nuclear future racing to engulf and deconstruct their globalised village.
The domesticated primates of more ‘privileged’ nations pay their taxes, obediently work nine to five or six or seven, and train their children to do the very same thing, time without end. They borrow against a future they suspect – half-hope – will never arrive and see the bounty of the entire world as their personal property, their domain by right of the higher moral (and technological) ground they already possess. They’re all damaged peoples, still bearing the livid scars of the Great Depression and World Wars One and Two. They keep their heads down and their bellies full.
Most of their children inevitably become colonial clonal duplicates of their parents, voting, thinking, talking, acting out and believing the same supposed eternal verities their forebears did. Most people are half-drunk half of the time and live in a dim dream world for much of the remainder, self-hypnotised and easily enthralled by bright lights, loud noises and new transient plastic flavours and colours. American or Russian, Briton or Swede, Australian or Japanese - all over the half-raped ‘developed’ world, paranoid populaces are told to dig holes in their back yards and stock them with guns to shoot their less prepared neighbours – in case a fifty megaton bomb should happen to explode over their heads. Mutually Assured Destruction is widely promoted as a good idea and the constant threat of nuclear hell is excused as a promising route to world peace – by the blood-soaked weapon makers and their political puppets.
The world is inhabited by a species of raving paranoid schizophrenics, slowly waking from an aeon-spanning nightmare of brutality, superstition, sexism, ignorance and anger. Humankind is sleepwalking in amnesia, slowly recovering from repeated and unrecalled blows to its collective braincase. Those too old to free themselves can’t wake from the ongoing nightmare even as their children sense that the tide of immanent destruction is losing momentum and that new possibilities are arising, glowing and beckoning over unknown horizons.
Disregarding all the misunderstood prophesies and prognostications of doom, a wise young generation can see that the withered old emperors and empresses have no clothes and that the wheel of fortune is still in spin. Optimistic dreams of utopian peace may still win out over the parochial head-butting phantasms of yesteryear. A sanity of slow digressions may yet prevail over the fantasies of eternally growing cancerous economies trapped in limited territorial dominions.
A lucky and curious few always manage to escape the vapid, polluted gene pool of their submissively coopted ancestries. Artful dodgers can always slide through loopholes and rents in the tattered nets of the rapacious fishers of men and women. The alluring calls of beauty, truth, art and love are burning beacons to the few guttersnipe children of the revolution who can’t keep their eyes off the stars. In abandoned warehouses, farms and factories, in post-agricultural ghost towns and empty city blocks awaiting a delayed demolition (as ‘urban renewal developments’ are countermanded in the OPEC-triggered world recession), in remote tribal enclaves and urban concrete jungles, cells of radicals and cohorts of free loving free thinkers sprout, grow and entwine. They form new spectral threads in a mighty unbreakable cable, inexorably woven by eager visionaries into the unprecedented pattern of a genuinely new future tapestry.
In the evolving era of long hair and moustaches, Day-Glo and disco, thick lacquer hairspray, padded body parts, eight cylinder steel behemoths and dune buggies on the Moon, anything at all is entirely probable. The dream-seeds of the mind expanding psychedelic era are nourished and cherished into life by an invisible anarchic army of disconnected change agents, and within a generation most of their beliefs, nostrums, certainties and lifestyles have entered the mainstream houses of screen-watching domesticated hominids.
Turning back the rising tide of free love, open relationships, sexual experimentation and evolutionary Tantra is a priority for the counter-revolutionary forces of conservatism, privilege and uniform conformity. The tender art of making love is seen as an unmentionable necessity and a necessary evil in the uptight post-Victorian worldview. Sudden epidemics of war-borne clap and herpes appear and disappear and a toxic, carcinogenic tarnish rapidly forms on the bright early promise of the contraceptive pill, causing many to question the innocent wisdom of keeping hearts and thighs freely open.
If the wage serfs can’t be induced to form couples, reproduce and work endlessly to feed and house their families while filling up all their precious time with meaningless crap, the lopsided economy will surely collapse; the eternal battle to confine and control them in conveniently isolated and fenced-off little boxes - which they religiously and fearfully lock themselves inside every single night - will likely be lost.
A final solution has to be found to all the wanton experimentation and dangerous freedom spreading through the carefully concealed underbelly of society. A very different form of foreign aid is just coming off the retroviral drawing board and about to be inculcated in the bloodstreams of destitute nations, spread by philanthropic benefactors who hope to protect the world from diseases like smallpox; they succeed in spreading new lab-bred horrors with their inadequately supplies of filthy shared needles and contaminated vaccines instead. AIDS doesn’t spread vaginally and is no real threat to the blossoming flower of the sexual revolution, but people will fall for the Big Lie if they’re told it does – and billions will easily be frightened into monogamous submission with enough ruthlessly skilful manipulation.
In the first few years after the global youth revolution has been subsumed in a contrived tide of disillusioned consumerism, many of the original psychedelic pioneers have been imprisoned, killed or coopted. Their mind-expanding Philosopher’s Stones are being supplanted by deadly pharmaceutical speed, smack and barbs as contraband supplies of consciousness opening substances begins to dry up. The criminalisation of acid and the lethal explosion of heroin addiction (powdery crystalline karmic fallout from the war in distant
Most people have tried marijuana and many smoke it regularly; most believe that the insane prohibition of a fantastically useful and harmless substance must end and that pot will be legalised next year, or maybe the year after. They don’t realise that the sources of alcohol and pharmaceutical chemicals are far easier to control and own by those who already believe they own all of Humanity. Besides, cannabis helps people think beyond the box, makes them dream and understand that their world is controlled by obsessive-compulsive neurotic nutters - and that anything is possible to an open mind. The herb superb remains crazily illegal while brain-numbing poisons are sanctioned and taxed by The Man.
The debilitating competitive entertainments of the uber-rich - ongoing imperialist or capitalist or communist invasions of poor little nations, nuclear tests and arms races, Old World Order belligerence and New World Order domination, the pardoning of demon-worshipping presidential potentates and the silencing of their assassins, weapons in space, poisonous water and glow-in-the-dark irradiated breast milk - are all slowly undermined by the shining spectral gloss of a new idea, a swelling notion that sweeps through the shell-shocked nations of the world;
We’re young and free and we don’t have to do this any more! We can create whatever world or lives we like! The future is in our hands and time is on our side… and a new millennium is almost at hand!
“Centraxis is a tribe,” Fifi L’Amoure the Lady Ringell is saying as Lip Po returns to the hall with his twelve-string guitar. “Oh yes, please!” she entreats him. “Some harp-like music from our elfin minstrel!” The long-haired Asian youth settles onto a large pile of cushions and begins to tune the tightly strung twists of steel wire.
“You were saying?” Charmayne asks, pulling long strands of brown hair behind narrow lobeless ears. “A tribe?” The Cold Wanderer passes the peace pipe toward her and she shakes her head while a truck rumbles past the terraced squats.
“Thanks, Wanderer.” Fifi intercepts the Afghani hashish and takes the box of matches from the Canadian’s hand. “Indeed,” she continues, “We’re a modern pre-twenty-first century medieval nation, with vast tracts of land and many bases and dwellings in our charge. This,” she gestures around the party-tousled, graffiti-blasted longhall, “is merely one of our far-flung holdings; it should suffice for another year or three.” The kettle boils, steaming and screaming in the kitchen. “Get that, would you dear?” She hands her empty cup to an immobile Wanderer. “Mine’s golden seal – it’s on the bench. What are you having, Char?”
“Mint would be nice.” Wanderer stands to take their cups. “Honey?” he asks. “Thanks, sweet buns,” the Lady Ringell replies with a dimpled smile and a snide aside to Charmayne; “He’s a pussycat, really – a classic Leo.” She lights the hash, holding the match to the small lumpy brown granules until they’re smouldering with ruddy heat; she inhales slowly and deeply.
“None for me,” says Char. Wanderer affects one of his trademark clench-toothed leers and stalks off toward the shrieking kettle. “And you all share everything together? Everything?” Fifi nods through the smoke. “How daring,” the young woman sighs. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” She crosses her lanky blue-jeaned legs on the floor. Li Po strums a chord to test the tuning and begins playing the first ringing notes of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run’.
Fifi places a hand on Charmayne’s knee. “You don’t have to be initiated into the tribe to live here, you know. We have a vacant room right now, if you’re interested. We need more women here, to keep the numbers balanced.”
“I don’t know if I can afford to move…”
Lady Fifi laughs. “We don’t charge rent, sister – we just share the power and gas bills.”
“You mean you all live here for free?” Before the Centraxian noblewoman can reply another tribesman enters the hall and Lip Po’s introductory chords clang to a sudden halt. “Ah!” The newcomer beams winningly, a sensuous smile beaming ’neath tanned cheeks and framed by a gloss of long hair. “Just who I was looking for.” His voice trills in a musical Welsh accent, a becoming and beguiling tone that wins most people over when they first hearken to its charming lilt. “Here,” he says, leaning down to deposit something in the sparsely filled enamelled bowl waiting on the bare boards of the floor. “Put that in yer pipe and smoke it!” He guffaws at his little jape and strolls around the room, reading the most recent signs and sigils inscribed on the graffito-smothered walls.
“Charmayne,” Fifi chants, “this is Nathan the Marcon. Nathan, meet Charmayne.” Nathan cocks his head and smiles. “Pleased to meet you. How do you do?” He speaks a little too loudly, clicking the heels of his sandshoes together with an incongruously Prussian precision. “I do very well, thanks,” Charmayne replies. “Char will do, if you prefer.”
“If I prefer? If it’s up to me, I think I’ll call you Chaz. Has a nice ring to it. Chaz.” He rolls the word around in his mouth as Li Po resumes tentatively strumming the guitar. Nathan smiles as he watches Charmayne squirm slightly between the bulging arms of her overstuffed lounge chair. “Are you a Centraxian, too?” she asks.
“Me? A Centraxian?” He sits on a couch to strike the classic Thinker pose and pretends to consider the matter deeply. “Not yet,” Fifi answers in his stead, her hand still perched upon Charmayne’s knee. “But you were talking about your initiation last night, at the party.”
“Maybe so and maybe not,” the Welshman sings, “but that’s not what I’m here to talk to yer about. Is Ram here, by the way?” Fifi’s eyes wander skyward as he pronounces the name ‘ram’, as in a male sheep or goat, and pointedly stares at the ovine skull with huge twisting horns ensconced above the fireplace’s mantle. “Oh, there he is. At least his room isn’t all painted black any more.”
“I think he’s upstairs,” Lip Po cuts in without pausing in his fingerwork, dreamy brown eyes darting to the older hippy. Nathan shakes his head with a disapproving pout. “Still in bed, eh? And it’s a beautiful day outside. His legs’ll atrophy an’ he’ll waste away, that’s what I keep telling ’im.” Fifi grins and barely suppresses a giggle as she watches the athletic Welshman work his captive audience. He brushes blonde wavy wisps from a handsomely scarred face; his rugged features barely betray the fact that the resilient hippy had come off second best in a near-fatal encounter with a speeding locomotive.
A shrieking yell bursts into the room - a deafeningly audible female voice screaming out, somewhere nearby in the convoluted conjoined houses of the squat; “Fuck me!” Li Po abruptly stops playing and all eyes in the room roll toward the ceiling. Silence fills the longhall and Charmayne shifts her position on the floor while the Lady Ringell refills the wooden pipe.
“Why don’t yer play something upbeat,” Nathan demands of the immobilised musician. “D’yer know any Moody Blues, like In Search of a Lost Chord? Or Donovan? Season of the Witch?” Li Po knows the unassuming Welsh wizard well enough to understand that he’s merely playing a harmless mind game; that this foolish blustering banter is a sham designed to put them all off guard and probe past their defences. The graceful young man flicks glossy black hair from his eyes and begins strumming the chords to Donovan’s ‘Universal Soldier’.
“Ah,” Nathan sighs, “That’s more like it. Well, Madame Fifi, what’s this I hear about Centraxis takin’ in people when they’re still under the age of eighteen?” He waves an imaginary baton as Li Po picks out the melody and prepares to sing the first verse.
“Lady Fifi, if thee please – or better still, the Lady Ringell! And not that I’m aware of,” she replies with sudden and momentary seriousness. “But if so,” she says through a barely suppressed gaggle of returning giggles, “what of it?” She opens the brown paper tube Nathan has thrown in the bowl and pours out a peck of dried green flower heads. “I notice you hang out with lots of people under eighteen…”
“I’d be careful of that if I was ye,” Nathan says. “That’s tripping grass, that is.” Charmayne leans forward to inspect his offering more closely. “No seeds,” she muses dubiously.
“That doesn’t mean anything, Chaza!” He rounds on Fifi. “What of it? What of it? I’ll tell yer what.” He puffs up his chest and bristles at the witchy Centraxian magician. “But first, tell me this – does the Dawn of Ra take kids under eighteen, too?”
“Take them? What do…” Fifi’s reply is interrupted by the Cold Wanderer, returning with a tray of cups and jugs geometrically arranged around a ceramic Chinese teapot. “Serve yerselves. Honey’s in the bowl,” he mutters gruffly. “I gotta take a leak.” He turns on his heel and strides to the foot of the stairwell, pausing for a few moments while he looks upstairs with his head tilted to one side, as if listening for something. Lip
“Do one fer me while yer there,” Nathan laughs. The Cold Wanderer dispenses a sour grimace and disappears up the stairs. “Well?” the Marcon asks. “Do they? Do ye?”
“Do we what?” The Lady Ringell hands him the pipe and prepares to light a match. “Do ye initiate kids into yer magic school or not?”
“Well,” Fifi says as she depresses a dimpling crescent with a scarlet fingernail, “we haven’t so far, but there’s no prohibition on it in the Magic Group – or in Centraxis, for that matter. It just hasn’t happened yet.” Nathan lights up the thimbleful of heads. “So ye would?” He draws deeply on the hand carved implement, sucking the smoke all the way into his lungs. A plug of embers shoots through the pipe stem and into his mouth, making him gag and spit.
“Well,” Fifi ruminates, “there are a couple of kids doing some of the work – but they’re the children of Initiates and Adepts, and what people teach their children in the privacy of…” As if striking a gavel, Nathan bangs the pipe down loudly on a brass ashtray to empty it - and to regain the initiative. “That’s not good enough,” he announces. “It’s against the lore.”
“I don’t believe it’s illegal to…” she begins to protest while Charmayne pours a round of tea, whose fragrance and colour indicate Wanderer has ignored their requests and provided a pot of chamomile.
“Not the law, the lore… L – O – R – E, lore.”
“Whose lore, then? Yours?”
Nathan glares at the Lady Ringell. “The ancient lore! No coven or magical order is allowed to initiate kids – and in this day and age, that means inducting them before the age of eighteen. Do ye really mean to say ye don’t know?”
“The Group is hardly a coven. Perhaps,” Fifi diplomatically suggests, “it depends on what you mean by initiation…”
“You’re all a bunch of witches, whether you admit it or not,” Nathan assures her. Li Po chooses that moment to begin singing the first verse and his clear strong voice carries away the fractious conversation on vibe-lifting wings.
‘He’s five foot two and he’s six foot four, he fights with missiles and with spears
He’s only thirty-one and he’s all of seventeen, been a soldier for a thousand years
He’s a Catholic, a Hindu, an Atheist, a Jain, a Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew
And he knows he shouldn’t kill and he knows he always will, killing for me my friend and me for you.
And he’s fighting for Canada, he’s fighting for France, he’s fighting for the U.S.A.
And he’s fighting for the Russians and he’s fighting for
And he’s fighting for Democracy, he’s fighting for the Reds, he says it’s for the peace of all,
He’s the one that must decide who’s to live and who’s to die and he never sees the writing on the wall.
But without him how would Hitler have condemned them at Le Baal, without him Caesar would have stood alone,
He’s the one who gives his body as a weapon of the war and without him all this killing can’t go on.
He’s the universal soldier and he really is to blame, his orders come from far away no more
They come from here and there and you and me and brothers, can’t you see
This is not the way we put an end to war?’
A True Story
- R.A.
*
Lyrics to Universal Soldier by Buffy Saint-Marie
Images – author’s
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
See Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 2 -Free World
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 3 -Stretching the Envelope
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 4 - Home to Roost
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 5 - Could It Be Any Body?
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 6 - Free Lovers
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 7 - Wild Widow's Son
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 8 - Womanimals
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 9 - Incautious Wishes
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 10 - Freedom of Choice
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 11 – Smuggled Desires
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 12 – Love the One
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 13 - Open Secrets
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 14 – Between Initiations
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 15 – Promethean Preparations
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 16 – Through the Looking Glass
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 17 – Second Arcanum
Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
Psychedelic Water Part 1 – Fractal Rainbow
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
The author’s images and art - Imagine Nation
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
Save the World from RamPage - http://www.geocities.com/r_ayana
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a small donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana