In the File Cabinet of Dirty Deeds

The Iranian revolution that never was, slipped out of the window in the dead of night, slithered through the silent streets, moving like a shadow casting itself against indifferent walls and arriving at the British Embassy, crawled through a sewer drain into the office of the ambassador and then curled up to sleep in The File Cabinet of Dirty Deeds.

The pretentious son of Reza ‘Savak’ Palavi lowered his trousers to half mast and mooned the blinded world with the neon-green handprints of Henry Kissinger on his ass.

Across town, two agents provocateur from the SAS, toasted each other for the murder of Neda Soltan. It’s all in a day’s work. It’s all in a day’s work.

Bin Laden is long dead. Mossad and the CIA did 9/11 and the same Israeli security firm was in charge of all 9/11 airports as well as at the London Tube and the Madrid Train Station on the day of the attacks. There were no weapons of mass destruction, Iran is not making a nuclear weapon and five dancing Israelis did a cabaret revue while the towers burned and then fell at the speed of free fall into their own footprints... all three of them. “Pull it!” “Pull it.” Pull my finger so I can tell you what I think and... these dancing Mossad agents were all set up and in place before any plane hit any building; Madame Cleo strikes again.

Les Visible stands acquitted of his claim that Zionist psychopaths were deep into the slave trade.

Obama proves that he can talk out of both sides of his mouth at the same time; talking bout justice and the rule of law and an extended, infinity of detention without charge for people who had nothing to do with anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Obama slicks his cowlick and says, “What me worry?”

Unmanned drones massacre Pakistani civilians... a million dead Iraqis and god knows how many Afghanis, with Iran in the gun sights of the Zio-Nazi, vampire overlords, while the crocodiles in congress weep their feeding time tears about a handful of dead protestors with American money in their pockets and no one says a word about eight Basji militia men killed in the engagements.

Mousavi, the alleged ‘unknown’ who was already prime minister of Iraq and who planned the murder of American Marines is now praised by American Zio-cons and assorted Hellraiser whores for his forward thinking, democratic perspective. Hypocrisy, it’s what’s for dinner.

The Empress Shah, loaded down with jewels, extends her pinky finger out from her cup of tea and talks about her people ...who need her zombie ass returning to the land where her husband brought torture to a level unseen until recently in the U.S.A.

And the daily revelations of sex scandals and congressmen on banking committees dumping and buying stock; Arlen Specter’s millions from the health lobbies, the bailouts that went into the pockets of the people who caused the meltdown, Michael Jackson in the house, moon-walking in celebration of all the ass-backwards operations of lawbreaking lawmakers.

Israel is lining up on the Lebanese border again as the Litani River glistens in the distance of the coveted land. It is anti-Semitism to want to live when Israel wants you dead. It is anti-Semitism to occupy land that Israel wants. It is anti-Semitism for Palestinian children to keep jumping into the gun sights of the IDF. Let’s get that hate crime legislation up on the conveyor belt so that anyone who still insists upon walking on two legs and maintaining an open mind can be tossed into prison for getting in the way of The New World Disorder.

The Bankster Holiday is coming. Blow up those green condoms into festival balloons and lets redux Mr. I knew about Pearl Harbor and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. Let’s party like its 1984.

Speaking for all of the dead and dismembered; the screaming white phosphorus candles dancing the tarantella in Gaza, the tortured and tormented, the butchered and bombed, the disillusioned and despairing, the wracked and ruined and homeless beneath the bridge abutments, let me say... You vile, despicable scum; you Wolfowitzes, Rumsfields’s and Murdoch’s... Rockefellers and Rothschild’s... the bankers, politicians and lawyers, dressed up in their neoprene, Waffen S.S. outfits on their way to that Berlin leather bar in the sky... your day is going to come. Your day is at hand.

One can neither define nor understand you. Poised with your bloody fountain pens, you sign your own death warrants with the blood of your victims. The axis of evil; Israel, the United States and Great Britain, as your population does the horizontal hula with a Brittany Spears blowup doll you turn gold into shit with your reverse alchemy. You are weaving the hangman’s rope with your every word and deed. You are parading yourself before the eyes of the world and you’re proud of it. You are insane and your day is going to come.

There is no hyperbole or superlative that can accurately describe what is occurring now. It would seem that the fabric of reality must surely part in the face of the spectacle of our times. There is no up and down. There is no right and wrong. There are no maps and no instructions. Black is the new white. Death is the new life. Halloween is now a year long event. Out of the sewers and storm drains of Hell, these creatures have emerged and everything they touch turns to shit.

What can they be thinking? What do they tell themselves? Here are the privileged few in their custom suits with their elite educations, chauffeured cars and private planes. Dining with crystal and silver, speaking as if they were human... moving in ordinary ways as if nothing were out of the ordinary; how can they have convinced themselves that they are sane?

They laugh, they wink and nod. Bob’s their uncle. I cannot comprehend it. En masse they engage each other in processes and plans, each one more demented than the last. There are no fences and no boundaries. Stark raving lunacy cheers them from the stands. They cannot be shamed or embarrassed. You who support them, you are guilty too. You who do not speak out, who pursue the course of your own self-interest, who can allow yourself to believe that the blasted bodies of women, children and impoverished farmers are terrorists hostile to the empire... you are guilty of these murders through acquiescence to your brutal denial. J’accuse. J’accuse.

Your green revolution is an ever increasing waterfall of inflated dollars. You’re going to need wheelbarrows in place of wallets. You’re in need of gumboots to traverse the rising river of blood that your indifference and cowardice have permitted to flow. The stones and the grass beneath your feet cry out against you. You are dishonored and damned. The clock hands move, grinding away each and every minute that you ignored what took place in your name. One day those hands will stop and other hands will break up from the Earth to pull you down into your just reward.

Listen to your sneering mind as you read these words. Listen to your hollow laughter as you mock and scorn the voice of your conscience. Stop and listen to the voice in your head as you reflect upon what you have read. Ask yourself whose voice is this. Whose voice has led you to such a pass?

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