revolt in the kasbah
(from: three studies for a crucifixion) the empire of the great moguls were stronger then ever: immoral power had been transformed into morality, ethic replaced by rhetoric. the freedom being degraded into the right of being supervised and the society was ruled by two classes, the ruling class and the classless ones that didn’t even have any mutual belonging.
only true moral can replace the morality and join the classless ones in the struggle against the immorality which the great moguls proclaim as morality, where the unwillingness towards humanity was clouded by a shameless exposing of pitiless humanism. In a situation like this the kasbah has to be liberated and the beige clad people delivered to be united with the classless ones, the outcasts, so that love becomes love, my brother my brother, my sister my sister.
the banners of the revolution are fluttering and the charismatic, flexible, young tiger leads the army of the infected and unwanted towards victory. when the sun rises in the east, when a new day dawns after the night has been endured, he brings together aids victims, blackheads, skinheads, disabled and cripples, jews and arabs, excluded bureaucrats, starving seniors, fools and terrorists, unemployed tiger cubs and all those that’s have been hidden behind the training suits body armour. there he stands; legs wide apart, jeans unzipped; pulled down, caressing his yellow brown thighs, stretching his beautiful cock, exposing the solid ribcage, giving the word for departure.
with twigs thrashing their backs, the leather straps flogging their naked buttocks, following the intense bellow of trumpets the crowd of flagellants march through the kasbah gates. wearing fool’s motleys, with nails and lips tarnished in black, with green eyelids, with rings in their ears and around their ankles, with hair flaming in all the colours of the rainbow, with moist wide open vulvas filled to the brim with lingonberry sprigs and blossoming heather, with beauteous cocks which heads are swollen as mellow blue plums, tempting every famished bird to pick its beak bloody. the army of the tiger marches out of the city, over the meadows, through the forests, away from society’s tentacles, escaping the politicians purging bath of rosary water and she-ass milk. they leave the society that denounce them, that reject them, and through organised debauchery experience a new night’s ecstasy, where sublimation is replaced by orgasms as mighty as the cock in the same moment the juice gushes out to flood swollen lips.
what can police and security companies, great moguls, rubber batons, teargas and water canons do against an army of sufferers, where every new affliction increases the ecstasy, makes the pain more sweeter, when death delivers and collective dying reconciles.
the marquise de sade speaks about a must which shock civil masochists, but is it not these tears of passion that make extremely good excesses grow.
|collage : bo i. cavefors|
translation: martin bladh