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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley ( 1792–1822) • by Alfred Clint
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England in 1819
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An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;
Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,
But leechlike to their fainting country cling
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.
A people starved and stabbed in th' untilled field;
An army, whom liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;
A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.
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The Mask of Anarchy (Verse XC)
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Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number—
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.'
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Percy Bysshe Shelley • 1792–1822
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
doth glance from heaven to earth,
from earth to heaven,
and as imagination bodies forth
the form of things unknown
the poet's pen turns them to shapes,
and gives to airy nothing
a local habitation, and a name.
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William Shakespeare
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~~oo~~OO~~OO~~OO~~oo~~
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Greetings to the fire spirits!
¡Saludos a los espíritus del fuego!
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Welcome to the Kionist Magifesto.
The goal of Brevolution, which will start in Britain, is the world wide removal of the Anglo-American Ruling Classes. For the last two years we have been thinking like a rainforest and meeting various spirit guides from the jungle who inspire Brevolution.
We will continue to think like a rainforest but now we shall begin working with the inspiration of radical poets, artists and musicians, great souls who devoted their lives to the Revolution Muse and her School of Fiery Knowing.
I am also in the middle of writing about Essential Assassinations.
The Anglo-American Ruling Classes have a nasty habit of eliminating poets and artists who are essential to world evolution.
I will expand the theme by segueing essential assassination into the life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, a great Word-Warrior hero whose radical ideas cost him his life. In the next chapter I will pair the death of Percy Bysshe Shelley with that of Kaspar Hauser and by putting the two biographies side by side we shall draw further conclusions about the tragedy of young lives cut short by ruling class thuggery.
The deaths of Percy Bysshe Shelley and Kaspar Hauser were a catastrophe for European Civilisation.
Shelly is famed as a great romantic poet. In his great essay A Defence of Poetry, I believe we can find that Shelly gave both Reason and Imagination equal place in the creation of the Word.
Using broad brushstrokes I shall argue that the death of Shelly, along with that of Kaspar Hauser, prevented the destined alchemy between the European Enlightenment and the Romantic Vision of a Brave New World.
Deprived of the fructifying wedding between Reason and Imagination, the European Enlightenment mutated into the dry and sterile world of Logical Positivism, Postmodernism, Reductionism and from there descended into the ultimate absurdity of Wokeism. Over in Germany, even the genius of Goethe was not enough to prevent this desiccation of human thinking.
Wordsworth was one of the first poets to privilege the common man as worthy subject matter for poetry. One cannot write off the legacy of the great band of early nineteenth century romantic poets. But, deprived of Shelly and Kaspar Hauser, the Romantic movement was unable to fully embrace Reason and apply the resulting intelligence to the realities of poverty, power and politics. Denied the powerful synergy with which would have allowed it to contribute practical and uplifting visions of a better world, the Romantic movement reduced itself to supplying decorative motifs for bourgeois drawing rooms. As a hippy I well know its final peregrination into back-to-nature adventurism, Rainbow Gatherings and idyllic New Age watering holes.
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Sad after sad after sad, till the taste of it makes mad, a hundred words to labour like a lumbering bullock cart to try and describe how bad, how bad, how bad, the theft, the rage of it, the lies, the dirty, viperous, filthy deeds, till you put your head in your hands and weep, then weep again, trembling in disbelief: How can this be? How can they get away with it? I want a plague of locusts; I want big, bad words to fall out of the sky, big, angry clever words, but they come as light as snow, like snowflakes, words and words piling on top of each other, each bigger than the last—describe! describe! describe! go on, describe depravity you bastards! describe my torn-apart feelings! don't betray me! but the sun comes out and melts all my feeble words leaving only a single stone, a small and round and smooth stone lying on the path in front of me. I pick it up and feel it. It's the sad stone. It's all I've got. It's all I can say.
I am sad.
I am sad that with a single bullet—or an ice pick in the case of Kaspar Hauser—MI6 is able to wrench whole centuries off their appointed course and bring world evolution under the control of Satanic Ruling Classes.
As it happens, Shelly drowned in a boating accident.
But there are other bullets we can talk about. Bullets are what they usually use. We already spoke of Jean Jaurès. The story of Rasputin is another one of many sad stories that ends with a pistol shot.
Wild and uncouth he may have been, Rasputin was a mystic who was deeply connected to the Russian Folk Soul. Rasputin foresaw the evils of Communism and knew that a confrontation with Germany would be disastrous for the people of Russia. He tried to warn the Czar and the Romanovs to avoid war. This was not to the liking of the British Ruling Classes. A plot was hatched and Rasputin ate a poison cake given to him by Felix Yusupova, a Russian nobleman. The cake had no effect and Rasputin was given poisoned wine. The spiritual advisor to the Romanovs had an exceptional constitution and survived even the second dose. Faced with operational disaster, an English MI6 agent came out of the wings and shot Rasputin at point blank range.
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An agent.
A bullet.
How cheap is a century of despair.
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The above two poems which begin the stack should leave you in no doubt that Percy Bysshe Shelley was a committed Revolutionary. During his younger days in England, Shelly was frequently under Government surveillance. The fact he was an avowed pacifist did not enter into consideration. Then as now, peace and love were not on the menu. On the contrary, the English Ruling Classes were terrified of giving franchise to the working classes of England.
Using the life and times of Shelly and Kaspar Hauser as a leitmotiv, we will see how little things have changed since the Peterloo Massacre, the subject of the two poems quoted above. The second stanza is the last verse of a longer poem called The Mask of Anarchy.
Both poems were written in September 1819, shortly after Shelly received the news of a cavalry charge into a crowd of peaceful protesters on 16 August at St. Peter's Field in Manchester, England leaving seventeen dead and hundreds wounded.
In July 1822, three years after the Peterloo Massacre and the creation of his fiery poems of tribute, Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned while sailing his schooner Don Juan from Livorno to Lerici off the western coast of Italy.
Percy Bysshe Shelley is a kindred soul of Jimi Hendrix. I feel their loss to the Word as keenly as if it were yesterday.
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Eleven years later Kaspar Hauser was assassinated. The Child of Europe was walking through the streets of Nuremberg when an assailant plunged an ice pick into his stomach.
The facts of his demise are certain. Kaspar Hauser was assassinated by Lord Stanhope, an agent of Proto-MI6.
(MI6 has existed since 1580. It was formally named and reorganised in 1909 to prepare for the coming war with Germany. Prior to this date I call it Proto-MI6.)
It is a given that in human affairs nothing is 'certain'. This is why I use the word Tristory. When it comes to power—and their account of if, aka history—the ruling classes are adept at covering their tracks and so when considering Proto-MI6 black ops I use certain when I believe the balance in favour of assassination to be around ninety percent.
In addition I use Epistemological Resonance Theory to put events together and, when sympathetic vibration occurs, adduce certainty to the one event which, taken on its own, has less circumstantial definition in its favour than the other.
This is why I am pairing the assassination of Kaspar Hauser with Percy Bysshe Shelley. With the former being certain, we can look for sympathetic incidence to deduce the same for Shelly.
If Shelly's drowning was indeed an unfortunate boating accident (which do occur) I contend that we have the same situation as Robert Fico.
It was bad enough that Shelly was himself the son of an aristocrat. His radical lifestyle was a betrayal of class interests—which always permitted bad behaviour so long as it took place behind closed doors.
Far worse were the consequences of his fiery ideas, a powerhouse of Fiery Knowing and Sturm und Drang romanticism—great and inspiring ideas which I celebrate as the foundation of Brevolution. As a powerful poet championing the cause of the working classes, Shelly was an anathema to the ruling classes. If the waves off Pisa didn't get him, then, fee, fie, foe, fum, by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Look what happened to Jimi, John Lennon and Brian Jones, all heroes of mine about whom we spoke in a previous stack. Not to mention dozens of other poets, artists and musicians who all paid the price for loving, singing and writing about Truth, Goodness and Beauty.
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In March 1821 Shelly wrote A Defence of Poetry.
The tract was initially written to counter Four Ages of Poetry, an essay that had recently appeared in Literary Miscellany. Thomas Love Peacock's humorous satire argued that Poetry was out of date. Even though Shelly understood the joke, the mere suggestion that poetry was less than exalted brought on one of his moods of 'divine rage'. A few days later he began his great masterpiece in which he proposed that poetry is the supreme art whose pure and sublime nature puts it closest to God.
I would argue that the spiritual origins of A Defence of Poetry lie in Shakespeare's Poet's Eye verse quoted above. For reference, here Duke Theseus' full rendition of the Compact of Imagination.
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The lover, the lunatic, and the poet are of imagination all compact.
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One sees more devil's than vast hell can hold – that is the madman.
The lover sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt.
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
doth glance from heaven to earth,
from earth to heaven,
and as imagination bodies forth
the form of things unknown
the poet's pen turns them to shapes,
and gives to airy nothing
a local habitation, and a name.
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Duke Theseus
A Midsummer Night's Dream
William Shakespeare
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In his A Defence of Poetry Shelly says:
None merits the name of creator but God and the poet.
Airy Nothing! God and the poet! I get goosebumps when I hear this. What power it confers on the poet! What a task we poets have!
Duke Theseus is being circumspect when he says the lover, the lunatic and the poet are of imagination all compact.
The poet has to be a lover. Even as it burrows into the filthy sewers of Western Civilisation—as often it must—the essence of poetry is always a hymn to Love and the beauty of Divine Creation.
But I would also argue that Poetry also has to be lunatic. Duke Theseus felt the need to tone down his soaring praise of poetry by noting that poets are 'frenzied'.
In his Republic, Plato declares:
Beware the Poets!
If the Father of western philosophy spoke out against Poetry, succeeding generations of the educated elite took great care to heed to his warning. And for good reason. Imagination is the enemy of the state. Poetry lives and breathes freedom. Subjects of the King (as well as the Priest) are no longer subjects when they fly on the wings of poesy. They have become inspired; tongues of fire have licked round the vitals of their inner longing and they roar like lions, throw off their chains and become masters of their own destiny.
Fear the poets.
Activists well know the cost of bringing common decency and justice for all. To promote these noble aims is to invite the wrath of the higher orders, or if you are well known, the bullet.
In the quest to find his father's assassin, Hamlet was well aware of the dangers he faced, so he disguised his motives in lunacy and poetic performance.
In the palace of Machiavelli, it is the fool who lives longest:
The play's the thing.
Shelly had an intimate understanding of the connection between power and poetry. Well versed in Shakespeare's tragedies, he took the three short verses of the Compact and regrew them in the fine frenzy of his own imagination. As from the chrysalis to the butterfly, the metamorphosis from Compact into A Defence of Poetry is is gorgeous to behold.
Great art lives.
Over the course of the Kionist Magicfesto I'm going to evolve A Defence of Poetry into creating Grenaissance or European Cultural Rebirth and I will honour Shelly's tract as the chrysalistic seed from which La Bella Futura is able to blossom. Every time I mention Brevolution, remember that it always includes the idea of Grenaissance and La Bella Futura.
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Politics will never deliver us from the current world crisis. Even Truth Movement politics will not help, or at least not in any way that will lead to Grenaissance. Everything in the Truth and Health Movement is focused on describing what is. Which is as it should be: we need great research warriors to cut through the thousand lies of Empire.
But we also need to pay attention to one of Goethe's wonderful little gems:
Don't praise a man for what he is; praise him for what he could be.
Only poetry can soar into the Empyrean.
Politics, Academe, Ideology, Logical Positivism, Sub-Modernism, Post Bloviationalism, Subpenile Protogenderism, Ubergreenoid Tantrabubbleism and Blah-blah-blahcode Eddiebernaysianism are symptoms of a world gone batshit crazy.
We have arrived at evolutionary endgame. No new ideas will come from the overeducated and spiritually bankrupt western middle classes.
Only poetry will lead us to what can be.
However awful it may be, a world composed of only what is, stays there.
On the other hand, a world composed of New Age delusionals stays in the clouds. Despising life, suburbs and politics as maya, the Bali La-La's live in a paradise of dreamwaft and Nag Champa incense sticks. However lovely it may be, a world of Eat, Pray and Bali-La-La is clueless about Gladio, BIS and the Wuhan Lab Leak—until one day a squad of low-frequency uniform types with big syringes knock on the door and take them off to Fema camp.
If you read The Masque of Anarchy in full you will see that Shelly has a clear idea of both what is and what could be.
Current reality in England is described as being “Clothed in arms like blood and flame, the hired murderers...”
At the same time he is certain of what could be: “A rushing light of clouds and splendour...”
Shelly is the beating heart of Brevolution.
The Great Romantic paved the way and showed me persistence, conviction and the courage to write fearlessly. Exalting the power of poesy, he leapt at Vision like a dog howling at the moon. Oh, that I could leap as high!
And then for the Roaring Lion to say that only God and Poets are True Creators is a stunning act of cosmic defiance. It is to steal Promethean Fire. No doubt the bane of the English Ruling Classes can be accused of Olympian hubris. If that's the case, I'm down with Shelly. Only Great Spirit can call out the filthy beast of Empire.
There's more. Let me breathe the airs of Shelly's True Creation and declare: no more Defence of Poetry! Poetry has no need for that. Let Poetry loose on the world. With rivers of Fiery Knowing burning in our veins, it is time to declare the The Offence of Poetry and let a thousand troubadours cry out:
Poetry declares Roar!
And poetry will roar and poetry will apply its sublime and lyrical wisdom to countering the fast approaching horror of abyss, annihilation and descent into the Eighth Sphere. With Great Bards to guide us, Poetry will lead the way to the bowers of the Goddess and her Great Spirit.
Poetry will roar against the death forces of Empire, Mammon, Geheimerstaatsréal, Garcs, Anglo-American Ruling Classes, Money Powers, the Deep State or just State.
Poetry will roar because Poetry is life. Poetry is a living being. Poetry grows, spreads out and wraps its knowing, its names and its juicy vines of green and airy nothing round the Thousand Towers of Mammon.
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Even in its death throes, Empire is living entity. How can death live? Empire lives in the charnel house of history, the rotting carcass of time, burro sin cojones, the bull of Wall Street who who cannot love, cannot sire and cannot fuck the future, beast without present, burro sin tiempo. Living in the stopped-clock stock-exchange endless now of lust, purchase and credit, the bull does not abide. Mad bull raging at its withered groins, lusting after the erection it can never have, more dangerous than death, more desperate than fire, the beast of Mammon lunging at love, desperate to regain the affections of its lost lover, Chronyssia, the gorgeous Dessa of Time, real Time, Chronyssia who kept the beat, Chronyssia who slipped out of reach and slithered through the veils, bane of Troy, bane of Mammon, siren song of the unfuckable old men who gather at Davos, Chronyssia the sultry desert wind who moved on, the shock-hot fatale of the future-beautiful, who knows she can have it all because she is the belly of movement, she is sinuous, she is the writhe of time on time on the vine, the new writhe of life because old man Chronos lagged, lost the beat and Empire became the beast and ate its own, without life, without love, the massive groins of Mammon wither on the vine, destroy the vine even as it begs for Time to come back and partake of its fruit, but seven veils shimmy and the desert wind moves on, Fatale moves on, like desire, like curling flames, like a women, La Bella Futura moves on and leaves the straining monster gorging itself on memories, charging at Ozymandias, grinding its withered penis into the sand and taking from Moloch the only art it knows: destroy, destroy and destroy again: mad Empire, mad for life, mad for power, mad beyond power, because power is never going to bring it consolation, or joy, or love; Empire lives and feeds off death, no water, no breast, no lips, no other cheek, mad, foaming Empire is condemned to live in the Charnel House of Old Chronos, hating, self-harming and forever goaded by the unbearable scent of the Love it never can possess.
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Meanwhile Poetry is thinking like a rainforest.
And across the ocean, Great Spirit hears the call of poetry.
Our Great Goddess knows urgency. From trembling leaves to the whispers of a thousand ocean winds, Gaia hears hope, courage and the call for Fiery Knowing on the tongues of they who speak the Truth.
But there's more: Love is in the air! And the gorgeous Dessa who knows every blade of grass as her own cries out:
Let there be union!
Wasting no time, the gorgeous vines of the Great Amazon Rainforest unfurl their rainbow boughs, rise up and stretch across the Empyrean where they push their delirious tentacles into Percy Bysshe Shelley and his newly minted Offence of Poetry.
Airy Nothing towers up and grows as wild and untrammelled as the Amazon Rainforest. Holy Spirit bursts out of thin air and thrusts itself into the dirty cinders of the human heart. Poetry roars and becomes a fiery flowing emerald, a river of life and Great Spirit whose rainforest vines expand, spread out and wrap their tendrils round the imposing structure of the great succubus we call the Modern State.
The Great Vine Spirit has green and vital power. He laughs, rages, spits venom and with every tentacle of it glorious life force pushes into the decaying monster of Empire.
But now the bards must be summoned, for they have the roar and they have the vision.
The great Spirit of the Amazon rises. Wounded though he is, he is still the Living King of Nature. Naiads arrive, dance to his pleasure then wreathe into the forest. At the Loom of Persephone the Naiads gather the dawn-dew blossoms of creation. With the living jewels of sunrise by his side, the great Spirit of the Amazon flys across the Ocean. Arriving at the Isle of Bards, he hands Poesy a garland of Ylang-ylang. Swooning at the scent of beauty beyond, Poesy blushes, trembles and allows Great Amazon to lay his garlands round her shoulders. Regaining her composure, she smiles. After a few minutes of playful banter, Poesy takes the hand of the gorgeous bestower of life and air and emerald green and leads him to her bower.
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The result of their union is Magical Realism.
With the help of his muse, Shelly is now busy building La Casa Adobe de Nada Aireado in the village of Macondo, Colombia. It's hot and steamy and the Howler Monkeys howl in the night. When our poet has prepared the rooms, he will call on Hamlet, Jimi, Frida, Che and a dozen other great poets to join the circle of inspiration. The troubadours will feast, make merry and send down Fiery Swords of Defiance so that the warriors on earth can roar like lions and thrust the blazing brands down the gullet of the Beast.
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Gabriel García Márquez once said:
It always amuses me that the biggest praise for my work comes for the imagination, while the truth is that there's not a single line in all my work that isn't based on reality.
Exactly.
Brevolution is the triumph of poetry.
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Arise! Let Brevolution be
for the fearless and the free
on some hallowed English ground
where the brightest bells of victory sound.
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The Funeral of Shelley by Louis Édouard Fournier (1889)
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‘Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world'—Last Word from dear, sweet Shelly.
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Sad after sad after sad…. Your words resound over the deepest aches…..
Would love to hear more about Kasper Hauser if that fits in again somewhere along the line….. Peace dear Steve