Kings of the Pentagon

Kings of the Pentagon

The Home asylums of Bordeaux, Uniontown and Maricopa understand what Hawthorne meant. Ecclesiastical, governmental leadership filled waste barrels at the gates. Collected by trash giants,  arms raised higher than their heads, would chant, “The donkeys are rich in order to carry the poor.” They thought the missing head could supply the brain epolitics if everyone chanted along. Not all the heads were missing, some were merely unfound, from those experiments injecting Kirk and McCoy. As Kurk Wold said over at renegade science, the program god would do no good: "you have seen many things, but pay no attention; your ears are open, but you hear nothing."  How could they hear? Disturb the populacho? The future Washington raised to Zeus said this:

Viva, father of our hood,

you certainly make a noble god.

Black paintings of flagellants lined the streets of Washington and Rome in 2016 (where Rome used to be anyway) and sank into the walls. Only the width of a small stroke in the left parietal cortex constituted consciousness. Was it a violin or a cello that fell from Van Gogh's head? Hearing they would not, nor seeing see. This violent yoking of dissimiliars made more blood than rain.  The favors of war gave apocalypse to hybrid cannonballs where heads breached the wall, bringing populachos and robots to the fore. The third king of the Pentagon stamped his foot. He sang like an old VCR:

Long live King Pentagon,

Death to Io! No?

The Heads chanted MMO, MMO, MMO (Many Made One). Shaman priests wrung hands. Dr. Franke spoke to the Psychologists at Vacaville of that first encounter with the gods. Neptunes legalized drugs to even the odds even before Anectine Head programmers made two in one.  Don’t think such things go unnoticed, resemblances of the unlike, occult encounters marketed by the Agency in a search for the divine afflatus. Pop presidents and hob celebrities played golf. Macabres swam where no one had before – but all that war is nebulous. You can paint as large a canvas with Napoleon as with Van Gogh. We would not be blamed if only the heads were displayed. He that is washed needs not save to wash his feet.

Kingship epolitics knelt to submit. The guns never fired as long as hands were raised. Robespeare flew out of the Pentagon, black letters written in carbide round his head from  flames in the caves.

Allegra del Fuego! 

Quinta del sordo!

Bodies laid out house to house showed their works done in the flesh. Then they were hung on the walls. Each prisoner martyr was a sambenito, "blessed bag," reverse chasuble painted with  their burning. When the bodies were gone sambenitos hung like multicarbon bats. The great Pentagon himself descended from these conversos. But these ilusas could not medicate the Pentagon's fears. With such chant the state raised a hand, raised the head. Cabezas de paisaje they called. Washington looked all general reaching up to span a  bridge. There were several poses. Another was dancing with a foot raised. Another leaned upon the mantelpiece with a recon cello. Buried in Bordeaux,  reburied in Madrid, recursos rereburied again. Under Santa Maria de la Florida, but missing the skull, sambenitos enshrined Van Gogh's First Head. The second was in the Air Park. Such sites elude geography. Truth is better for torturers than their prey. As for the  dead they were the landscape. To end these tauromachies of Kubler-Ross's five stages they ran down the sides. “Any trauma makes you think of worse: sets the mind worrying and fantasizing about what else might be your lot.” You hear the heart beat purify.

These things the first three kings of Pentagon fought for eighteen years. They produced the Five Disasters called the freedom wars. Clanton, Bushinski and Le Bommb, with still one to come. Popular calamities burned a new Reichstag in the brain. No one Disaster was as detailed as that given Van Gogh's head, reconstituted at gunpoint, brought up to date. His brain's color shift produced the yellow period, haloes around lights.  Xanthopsia propaganda fooled our seizures to create mass mind more beautiful and soft than any moth / With burring furred antennae feeling its huge path." That was in Weimar''s Childhood End.  New gravities from old escaped the master past. Tristes presentimientos. We escaped, took flight.

in Emanations VI , June 2017