The Killing Jar

The Killing Jar.

















In the kingdom of the Killing Jar,
The only crimes that remain to be broken,
Are Beauty and her precious sister Joy,
The fragile butterfly’s of fleeting seconds,
Living life to the fullest, from moment to moment,
Without fear of any self betrayal,
Or obedience to falsities and illusions,
When the moment seeks its surrender,
For those precious sisters must be plucked from the air,
Whilst their bejewelled wings are in tender flight,
And stolen away from the adoring sun,
And the eyes of simple men,
To be locked away in laws and verses,
That flutter and flatter only the vanities,
And the lies and desires of fools,
Who like their prey are pinned dead upon a page,
Their wings impaled with silver pins,
Instead of glimmering awing upon the wind.



In the kingdom of the Killing Jar,
Slow the wing flaps when trapped,
Within its clear glass tomb,
Where the executions are not with firing squads,
In town squares packed with cheering crowds
Where fat pigeons flap from the gunshots,
And church bells chime on a Sunday,
Nor in the sinister shadows of silent forests,
Where only wolves and outlaws roam,
Nor in the huts of gulags and laogai,
Where revolver and the rifle are replaced,
With the shovel and spade,
Here they are the cotton wool killings,
The passive soul extinctions,
Of countless millions,
An atrocity unfolding,
Every day that falls without freedom,
Slow the wings flap, as those tiny lungs,
Inhale the deadly fumes,
Fading fast,
The light begins to dim,
Flap,
Flap,
The wings continue to twitch,
Even after death.



In the kingdom of the Killing Jar,
The kings have turned freedom into a cage,
Seeking to enslave all men with lies,
Which they wrap in flags and propaganda,
Peddled from presses and service providers,
In order to deceive and delude,
The free man now made a slave,
Integrating technology as an unseen chain,
Each link on every street, a CCTV cell,
To strip away his rights and leave him naked,
In the long winter of reason,
Taken to its logical conclusion,
As a train must follow the tracks to a station,
Where only death and darkness await,
The passengers left stranded upon the platform.
Abandoned in the wastelands of Albion,
At the mercy of frost and wolves,
And prison guards in black uniforms,
Who smile is as the dark winter sun itself.


In the kingdom of the Killing Jar,
The Imagination is a blind horse,
That wanders lost in an eternal night,
Of false needs and desires,
The wheels of its chariot are mired,
In the muck of matter and denial,
Whilst the will dies as a wilted flower,
In the black waters of its well,
Poisoned by lies and the corpse of rancid reason,
That rots upon a cross of lead,
The heart is dead, a frozen cell of ice,
Whose rusted pipes no longer pump,
Life to the body and hope to the soul,
For man is just a broken machine,
A thing of meat and defects stumbling in the dark,
Reflections of eternity, imperfect creatures,
Where passion sits as an acorn asleep in its shell,
Amidst a snarl of blackthorn briars,
No green shoot arises, gushing forth,
Weeds choke the roots and steal the sun,
The sacred vine of the spine cannot blush,
With the running gold of summer wine,
Nor can the spirit seek its eternity,
Amidst the sacred landscape of the self,
And find the sanctuary of the Gods,
As a chakra upon the shining brow.


In the kingdom of the Killing Jar,
Dreams are buried before they are born,
In simple wooden boxes called ‘Conformity’,
The chloroform upon the cotton wool,
That unceasing drips from the poison bottle,
As drops of liquid, beetle black,
Is poured out of a myriad sewers,
Straight onto the page of newspapers
History books and primary school textbooks,
Venomous lines of black ink lies,
Hissing serpents of delusion,
That poison, tranquilise and kill,
Any fragile hopes of freedom,
From the confines of the Killing Jar itself.
For this is the curse of the liberal consensus,
That ravening wolf in a lambs fleece,
Nailed upon a plastic cross of compassion,
The greatest of lies in regal robes,
Crowned with thorns of gold and silver,
The king of slaves, the ruler of the damned,
The Dark Messiah of the Maggots,
We call him Parliament, the Joker in the pack,
The realm of treason and tyranny,
The last king of the kingdom of the Killing Jar,
Raised high upon his throne of lies,
Built with bricks of banks and churches.