art, Democracy, extremism, history, Liberty, poetry

21 January, 1793 (A Poem)

                Oh! Oh it is a beautiful thing to be made an orphan by your own hand

To take your father and take his head away and use his silly little crown as a carnival coronet

For the little boys who toss rings on bottlenecks

Oh terror! It is a beautiful thing to be alone in a crowd

Screaming at the top of your lungs for the blood that was once the rarest vintage but now

Runs into the gutter like so much piss-poor swill from the bowels of a liquid loving solipsist

Quick! Let his buggy eyes see the crowd before they go forever black

Let him see his children dancing and spitting and fucking and shitting

And singing and whispering and plotting and whisking away

The last spare adornments of a delicate antebellum age of purity and fresh milk

It is a wonderful thing to be a Jacobin this winter!

So many rheumatic blowhards and potentates and officials finally finding

The nimbleness necessary to bend in penance before

The people they outraged and abused for so long

Nothing is as sweet as seeing a powder wigged head face down bowed in supplication in the pavement at my feet

No honey, no sugar treat has ever been as delicious to me as this is right now

Look at all the gendarmes in their pretty new regime approved coats

Blue as the royal sea, or at least royal as it used to be, but now it is the people’s you see?

Smiling faces courtesy of tummies full of bread fresh from the revolutionary ovens

Made from the germ wrought from free fields filled with liberated earth

Even the worms eat the dead with a greater sense of egalitarian purpose these days


                Oh he had been fattened, this sacrificial calf

On our blood and our terminal efforts and strivings and the extractions from everything and everywhere

We gave him much to grow rotund on

Our little piggy royal had a good go at the trough and we are now merely collecting his ripe head cheese

For the people’s supper table! And Oh, Oh, if we are not ready to feast and feast again

To our delight the time has finally come for the mob to have its day on the throne

Though ‘tis a bit snug for a million bottoms to fit in at once

So we will decide to remake it in our ever growing and shifting image

A throne betrothed to insurrection and instability

Made permanent as much as can be

By the times that try our souls…

Or else the times that try your glutinous physiques and gelatinous constitutions

High and mighty, the divine right here and now

Muskets leveled at the heart of decency

We do not eat liberty like we do bread, we do no drink democracy like we do water

We consume the breath of urgency and that simple ambrosia called dignity

We slavish children of the thousand kings we lost our minds for a moment

But we gained certainty, purpose and joy

Our bent backs are reinforced now by the steel of the instrument of ultimate democracy

Swift is justice when taken into the hands of the unjustly trampled upon

As swift as the wedge of equilibrium and fate

When ‘tis loosed upon the fragile necks of the craven addicts of lubricity


                Coming to the crux of the totem, the emblem our newfound faith in reason

We celebrate the sanguine tide of discontent

The advent of the goddesses of the seasons

Those vital maidens who hail the reaping of the age

For in centuries past the fate of nations was sowed

With the germ of discontent and misrule

No King bargained for a fatal harvest, no King ever foresaw a reckoning with the peasants who he

Used like so much livestock

No King ever deigned to think that he was, peradventure, perched upon a stolen throne

What is taken shall inevitably be retrieved

When it is temperance shall be forgotten

And vengeance will be a soothing balm

on a millennium‘s worth of tempered, tortured flesh

So we children of a fallen epoch,

We orphans of a decaying royal carcass

We pioneers of enlightened terror,

We salute the purloined head of our sunset King

And dance in celebration of our own coronation

The worm has turned, and he has found a royal feast awaiting him

The gendarmes gather up the royal remains

And the executioner takes his due from the pockets of pure headless Louis

The crowd swells with rapturous pride and cathartic exaltation

The slaves, freed from their chains, take leave of their senses and their inhibitions, dance like fools


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