~poem ~Come fiddle with the Devil and ~Dance Till Dawn. ~Kiss the Horned Serpent and ~Skate on the Pond.
A Timeless ‘Ween War Poem
Allegory of the Politics of War and Self in Spiritual Downfall.
From folk inter-cultures of Great Lakes Tribes and Caucasians USA /Canada
By Mr. Kissy Face
saveurass@pondpoem.com
October 6, 2002 land of 15,000 lakes and 10,000 lakes.
Come fiddle with the Devil
and Dance Till Dawn.
Kiss the Horned Serpent
and Skate on the Pond.
Allegory of merry-making, association, and inebriations in conflict with ethics and identity leading to lost friends, family, life, health, belongings, and happiness from acculturation and forced inethics stress. By analogy applied to… and transformed… into a turntable allegory of leadership and war as good as such as when these events supposedly happened from the late eighteenth century to the early twentieth century.
Useful in gauging pre-war with a very sober Iraq drunk on the fundamentalist face of the horned serpent, a malevolent water spirit symbolizing mammon of the cycle of life and death used to by healers to cheat goodness out of evil and heal by proxy, but begging the question of whether either is ethically sound. Caught between cultural oppressive systems of origin and acculturative systems equally or more oppressive, living between both or living with either while bearding the lion (kissing the serpent/skating on the pond) is not always best. A striking out for group individualism ethics of humanitarianism and human rights is better, while a better solution escapes us.
‘Fiddling with the devil’ refers to all night fiddle (folk violin) parties thrown where group hallucinations occurred of the Devil himself showing–up or transfiguring from a striking stranger usually arriving with or grabbing a fiddle and dancing himself. Oral tradition reports that the enchanted and entranced party-goers could not stop dancing like someone was dancing and thinking for them; symbolizing possession take-over from bad association, attachment, or intention somewhere in accumulative supposed sin-debit among party-goers prior to the dance. Fiddle is hallow, a church if it were an instrument, wooden, recalling cathedral forests, instrument of strung ties (self, family, tribe, humanity, ect.) sweet and mournful at an inflection of the bow, the bow being the control by whim of elites. The player is of course the devil himself, ole scratch, para-noir, baba satan; the reflection of our collective evil in concentrate. The fiddle represents what the dance-goers are doing in the ecology of irresponsibility to self, family, tribe, humanity. The dance possession represents not being able to stop by forces that take-over and move and think for us while we panic at knowing it is not us in control. War is such a dance. The devil is a reflection of the party-goers or some association of theirs in concentrate, but more likely the one whom spiked the grog and his associations. Shaming, of course, isn’t always truthful.
‘Dancing till dawn’ is throwing caution to the wind. Kissing the horned serpent is at once accepting the evil and good of nature and all of our demise because both are stronger by human aid. Everybody hates when evil screws up a good time. Its ‘clockwork grog’ instead of ‘clockwork orange’! When did the devil show-up at an all night pow wow instead (that ones for the elders)?
At the foolishness of the irresponsibility of humans, the evil of the other-side spirit world comes thru to join-in for sake of fear-making, warning of ill soul-making in progress, warning of impending indenture with evil aura’ed beings like himself. Or it could have been a drug in the alcoholic beverage for purposes of fear-mongering and social control by the druggers toward the drugees. Marxist theory and traditional culture in the perspective of liberation theory might be a good inoculation against bathwater of two cultures.
Skating on the Pond refers to cosmology of the underworld separated by ice and only for one season per year may we skate upon it. Limnology is a science of inland and usually freshwater ecology of usually closed systems the are born, age, and die; that are pure or polluted; that are productive or sterile; that turn-over bottom strata (for nutrient mixing) to the top near equinoxes in great fecundal/fundal (great productivity) turbidity (murky water of suspended solid particles) usually and stay stratified near solstices; that describes dynamics of thermoclines (strata of heat), pictnoclines (strata of density), haloclines (strata of salt concentrations). For a time, a place where we can be king and queen of the soup inverted mountain of flux, and soup-free skate upon the soup on a frozen protective buffer. Inherent in metaphor, you can only beat the devil and home of the horned serpent for a time, at all other times you must engage him or stay away.
Should we shun war or kiss war, skate upon war or engage war,…… fiddle with war or dance with war. All paths do not lead to the great horned serpent, the pond of political unrest, reflected narcissisms, nor manipulative runaway wars. Also skating on the pond makes skaters too brave, sanguine-shared advice from experienced skaters.
But then I’m not offering you or humanity an alternative, just like the devil and the horned serpent. Maybe you can.
Happy Ween War! Trick or Retreat.
for your analogy:
i could be stinking
or i could be free
what al gore doesn’t know
is in W’s tea
W’s tea is full of rank
from dino arabeecia
to Columbian crank
so pull up your skirt
and kiss your fatigues
desert de’sert
trick or re-league.
trick or retreat
retreat or re-league
our moneys on you
for oil and meges.
savurass at tilde pond poem
tiny is muse at finale blow-upem
suicide bombers
humpty craft
the witch is loose
and up your ….
if mary popins could lead a barricade
we still have war but at a nicer ‘cade.
humpty bumpty to the pond we go
a ‘Ween War for you
from sombody’s snow.
a ‘Ween war for you
a ‘Ween war for them
all the dictator’s scare’abs
all the W’s free terr’abs.
whether jihad or bezhoo (secretive spying lynx)
water or land
a monsters a’loose
and it’s on more than sand.
stick to the taiga
run with the shoot
grab ur canoe
at da bottom of da moot.
don’t go enlist
don’t go fuel the war
learned bald men
need fodder and song.
fodder and song
make blood and tac’q
the windigos a’howling
for incredulous amounts of young sack.
(that’s multi-racial part)
if you’re a nob
if you’re a’kota
bed-arabs and oil sticks
has an endless quota (death count)
1 percent is encouraged to apply
to vacuum the dead and honor the fly
honor the fly that ate ur date
honor the fly to your disproportionate slate.
live long and prosper
pre-cambrian vulcans we’ll stay
the shield is a skull
with moss to no poe pot’s name
haunted a ween war
haunted you’ll stay
forever a limb
forever a day
when the fly sends children
instead of much older me
they’re sick little goslings
that nobody needs.
Original: Ween War Poems