Winter Solstice, Twenty Twelve
Winter Solstice, Twenty Twelve.
The hand strikes downwards to dissolve
five thousand years of history
as it loosens the consciousness valve.
As wrinkled Mayans grin
the Fifth World rushes in,
growing from a whisper
to a clattering din.
Edward Snowden is the first to whisper,
with dazzling cheek, with planet-rattling chutzpah,
that Freedom’s lidless eagle eyes are staring
under your sofa and into your vegetable crisper.
Then comes a crackle of confusion:
“Why is, suddenly, the Russian
our enemy? Who’s thrusting east?
Which one of us here is behind an invasion?”
“Why are there suddenly six hundred genders?
Why is it now racist to photograph pandas?
Why now can you marry yourself or a tin
of spaghetti?” the common man wonders.
From Kabul to Aleppo to Beijing they smell the napalm,
the stench of panic fills the streets of Stockholm, oh, but stay calm
and keep consuming while a summit full of lofty oligarchs
feed you lies and lock you in the crosshairs of a firearm.
Here he swoops, George Soros,
to smash your national ethos.
The cry of “why?” intensifies.
Order out of chaos.
is the common man
Van Rensburg warned the Turk would light the third and final haystack
but in Sweden designer-clad Feminists gallop around an imaginary racetrack
after welcoming armies of gang-rapists into their harbours with wide-open legs,
to protest with a fury that can’t be contained, against statues of old men on horseback.
plan was it, to shovel
the world full to the brim
But here sparks up the clamour of revenge,
a crunching jolt as Julian Assange
crowbars open now the seventh vault.
Across the planet, brains begin to change.
As vaults blow open, burning secrets flutter out.
Who are they praying to, the Vatican devout?
Podesta, sturdy staff to the President, stripped to a matchstick
as Edgar Mitchell empties hearts of clinging doubt.
From Rome to Jerusalem,
Roswell to Rendlesham,
fleets of truth have landed.
They say we can’t handle them.
They, the oily oligarchs who own the banks
that own the governments and the shouting ranks
from constable to general, who own you,
who cram their coffers cramming petrol tanks.
But a new age, a new world, a new human race
stampedes down the pipeline with pant-wetting pace.
There’ll be no need to turn to Mecca.
Instead we’ll turn to outer space.
First we need to beckon down those telepathic Annunaki,
so the Second Coming can obliterate the oligarchy.
Steven Greer rounds up the rebel radar-spies and flight commanders,
points the way to heaven, to a future world that’s far less murky.