💾 Archived View for library.inu.red › file › john-moore-book-of-levelling.gmi captured on 2023-01-29 at 11:25:56. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Title: Book of Levelling
Author: John Moore
Date: 1995
Language: en
Topics: insurrectionist, primitivist
Source: Retrieved on May 24, 2011 from http://radicalarchives.org/2011/01/02/moore-book-of-levelling/

John Moore

Book of Levelling

And the Prime levelling, is laying low the Mountaines, and

levelling the Hills in man. But this is not all.

Abiezer Coppe, A Fiery Flying Roll

Let history be your hymn of penance,

Farm your parents and the races in the ground,

Not for pelf but for remembrance,

And make ready for the festival of ruin.

Edward Dahlberg, Cipango’s Hinder Door

Foreword

It is those who are left behind, not those who go beyond, that are sad.

The shape shifters have their own concerns. But this is a text as much

concerned with life as with death. The metaphors are there for all to

see. In the tradition of the I Ching and Ovid’s Metamorphosis, this is a

book of change, a book of transformation, transmogrification, a book of

insurrection and resurrection... a book of levelling.

St. Ives, Cornwall

1 January 1995

So this is what happened.

I’m going to chop it off, she said.

Why?, I said. What for?

I want to, she said. And anyway you don’t need it anymore.

That’s true, I said. But what will you do with it?

There are all kinds of things I can do with it, she said. You’ll see.

Bring it here.

With this she motioned me toward an old, unvarnished kitchen table. The

surface was grainy. As I was naked already, I placed my cock flat on the

surface, pressing my groin tightly to the edge. It was just the right

height. My cock laid there, flaccid and shrivelled. The tabletop was

cold.

It won’t be much use to you like this, I said. It’s too small. You need

it bigger, at its full size.

You’re right, she said. And immediately began rolling it back and forth

with her hand, as if it were a roll of dough.

The tabletop was rough, grooved and hard. Her hand was soft, dry and

piercingly cold. The contrast between the two was curiously arousing and

soon my prick engorged with blood. Achingly stiff, continually straining

to rise to an acute angle but constantly flattened onto the tabletop by

her insistently rubbing hand, my cock grew to the size she required.

At any moment I expected her to chop it off. She obviously knew that a

cock is hardest and largest just before orgasm. But here her compassion

became evident. Building to a climax, hot gouts of cum spurted

explosively across the tabletop and I let out a yelp of joy. But

instantaneously, from somewhere deep in the shrouds of her jet-black

shift, seemingly from nowhere, she whipped out a cleaver and severed my

dick cleanly at the root.

My immediate response was amazement. Not at the pain. There was none.

Then or later. Ever. But at the severed cock and at the sight of the

white spurts of my cum so swiftly counterpointed with the red splats of

my blood.

She reached forward and grasped my cock. No, not my cock anymore. The

cock. And lifted it high in her outstreched hand, waving it above her

head like a trophy, and let out a whoop.

But seeing me aghast, her mood softened. Now, she said, now you’ll see

what I can do with a cock. Such as, she said, thinking, pausing, such as

... using it to write with.

Wiggling the prick between figures and thumb, she made as if to write

with it on the tabletop. Obligingly, some cum oozed out the tip in

imitation of ink. I laughed.

Or, she said, twisting the cock in her fingers, I can use it as a cigar.

Holding it out between forefinger and thumb she tapped it with her

middle finger as if to knock off excess ash. A drop of spunk dripped on

the floor. Responding to her playful mood, I snorted in amusement.

But of course, she said, a good cigar needs to be smoked. And with this

she inserted the bloody end of the stump between her hemlock lips.

Toking on the cock, a small drop of blood collected at the comer of her

mouth. The effect was striking. Her long straight black hair framed the

palest of pale faces. Her sharp black eyebrows arced over her liquid

black eyes. And the stiff cock, bloody at one end, cum-stained at the

other, oozed crimson on her blood-red lips .

I guffawed loudly. I couldn’t control myself. It was just too, too

funny.

Or then again, she said, I could make myself into a unicorn. Popping the

cock out of her mouth with a sucking sound, she held it to her forehead,

making neighing sounds and pawing the ground with her foot.

By now I was laughing uproariously, her actions were so outrageous. And

her appearance became even more scandalous, even funnier, when she

lowered her horn, leaving a bright red smear in the middle of her brow.

Oh, marvellous third eye!

And finally, at least for now, she said, there is my pièce, my piece

(she lingered over it) de résistanae. And with that, in a most coarse

and suggestive manner, but with an unmistakable elegance and grace, she

hoisted up her shift and planted a foot right up on the edge of the

tabletop, revealing a shaggy mass of black pubic hair.

Only one thing, I thought, could happen. It did. But it wasn’t the only

thing. Of course she opened her cunt lips and inserted the stump, so

that a cock now nestled inside that dark bush. A drop of blood from the

dick dripped onto her thigh and gave her that menstruating look.

I expected it, but that didn’t lessen the intensity of my response. I

could barely breathe I was laughing so hard. But with a coy smile on her

face she knew that the last laugh would be on me. So, pulling it out,

she quickly reversed the cock and pushed it head first between her cunt

lips. Now watch, she said. And I could do nothing else, for god help me

if that prick didn’t start wriggling from side to side and from end to

end like a little worm until it burrowed itself out of sight, on its way

back to the womb, I suppose. I wanted to laugh, but I found the whole

thing so astonishing and, what’s more, such a turn-on, that by god if

that little remaining stump of mine didn’t start wagging like the docked

tail of a little terrier dog. In sympathy, I guess. Well, they say the

man with the amputated leg still feels that his missing limb is itching

sometimes.

Now it was her tum to laugh. And laugh she did. And why not? My

discomfiture was worth laughing at.

But my attention was now turned to my bloody anatomy. I looked at

myself. Did I think myself lacking, incomplete somehow? No, I felt that

the job wasn’t finished. So I said, Now the balls. They look ridiculous.

She agreed.

I approached the table again and placed my bollocks thereon. She

approached and once again the cleaver flashed from nowhere and they were

gone too.

This time the mood seemed more sombre. Concentrating hard, tip of tongue

emerging briefly between tightly closed lips, she plucked the balls from

the scrotum and threw the empty bag away. Then she became more relaxed,

a smirk lurking in the comer ofher mouth. Holding a ball in each hand,

she reached up and popped one into her mouth and after playing it around

with her tongue, lodged it in her cheek. Then she repeated the action,

lodging the other ball in her other cheek. Now she looked like a gerbil

with nuts stored in its mouth pouches. The thought of that set me

giggling again. It wasn’t to last.

Spitting the balls out into the palm of her hand like pits from

cherries, she smiled and motioned me to lay down on the table. I

complied with her wishes instantly, breathless with excitement in

anticipation of what further wonders would occur.

Supine on the tabletop, I could only watch with awe as she gently opened

my legs and inserted the balls into the gaping wound of my groin. I

grunted involuntarily as she pushed her hand right in up to her knuckles

and adiusted the balls to her satisfaction.

There, she said, pullingher hand out, there you are. All done. From

testicles to ovaries in no time at all. And the rest of the equipment is

forming as we speak. But they’re no good if they don’t work, are they?

You’re kidding!, I said.

Oh, no I’m not, she said, clambering onto the table in the space

between my open legs. Up the shift was pulled again and there was that

cock — my cock, that was — poking its head out of that black forest like

a cat’s penis emerging from its sheath.

And with that s/he fucked me senseless and a very enjoyable experience

it was too.

But afterwards, as we lay tangled in embrace, I had to ask. Now when my

severed cock squirmed up you, did it impregnate you? Are you pregnant

with my child? And when you fucked me, with my, OK your, cock, did you

impregnate me? Did my prick inseminate my balls, I mean ovaries?

That, s/he said, we’ll have to see.

And who’s the male here and who’s the female?, I asked.

Who knows?, s/he said. Who cares?

But surely the difference was supposed to be more than anatomy. Weren’t

people conditioned to have different gender roles?

Well, yes, s/he said, but that was back then. It’s different here.

How’s that?, I asked

Now it doesn’t matter, s/he replied.

Yes, I said, that’s true. In fact I’m not sure who’s who anymore.

You’re catching on.

Which is me and which is you?

Who knows? Is it important?

And all that stuff about the femme fatale, the sexy castrating woman (or

was it goddess?) that wasn’t real, was it?

No. That was just animage, a mirage, a leftover from the bad old days,

something from there that got us here.

And where’s that?

Where we want it to be.

And what we want to be.

For a change.

We’re just people. Now. Let’s leave all that behind.

Time to abandon ship.

The cage door’s opening.

Out there’s the forest.

And the ocean.

We’ll meet the others there.

There aren’t any others. They’re all us and we’re them.

Yes.

Here we go.

Well, rasped the hooded figure in the darkest recess of the shadowy

room, there’s always a game of chess. It’s customary that people like

you are allowed to challenge me to a game. And it’s true that you have

everything to win and nothing to lose. Whereas I have everything to lose

and only a chance of winning. But because the odds are so uneven I get

to choose the kind of chess pieces we play with.

That sounds fair, I replied. I don’t care about the design of the

pieces.

You might, the figure responded. But you agree to the game, then? You

make your challenge?

I do.

Very well. And I accept. We shall press our lidless eyes and play a game

of chess! Here (sweeping aside an ann of the pitchy robe) is the board.

And now to the pieces. I choose black as my colour, you shall have red.

You must agree this is apt. I am the carrion, you are the corpse. I am

dark deeds and you its bloody victim.

I don’t like the implication of that, I protested. You’re suggesting I’m

fated to lose. That’s not the case. And I don’t care for your high-flown

phrases. But I can’t deny that you’ve selected the right colours for

each of us.

Then to more important matters, the mysterious figure replied. My side

will be male and your side female.

What do you mean?, I asked. That’s ridiculous. Each side has a king and

a queen, as well as sexless pawns.

Ah, yes, murmured the hood, but those are just the names of the pieces.

They merely indicate the parts that each piece plays in the game. I’m

referring to the actual pieces themselves. Mine will be male. Let me

show you what I mean. It’s all to do with body parts. For my rooks, I

choose my ears.

With this the figure lifted sallow hands into the dark hood, tugged two

ears free and placed them on the appropriate squares of the board.

For my knights, I choose my eyes.

My opponent plucked them out from somewhere in the depths of the cowl

and situated them next to the rooks.

The bishops will be my nostrils.

I heard a snap as the nose was broken off and saw those waxen hands

crack the nostrils apart before placing them on the board.

My mouth will act as queen.

The figure’s hands lifted the mouth, including teeth, tongue and palate,

away from the shrouded face and located it in the board. Amazingly, the

mouth continued to talk even though it was severed from its vocal cords.

It said: And to crown it all, my cock will be king!

The hood’s intentions were all too clear to me: this was a strategy of

ravishment at best, of rape at worst. I tried to conceal my

consternation. My response, when it came, would have to be cunning and

effective.

And last but not least, the mouth announced, my pawns will be my

fingers.

At this, the figure’s hands shook over the board, showering loose

fingers like icicles which somehow dropped onto the right squares.

Now your turn.

Alright, I said. First, I’ll choose my braids for pawns.

With some trepidation, I reached up to my head. I had no idea whether I

had braids or if I had ever had them. But I assumed that they’d be there

if I said they were. And I was right. I gently twitched at eight of them

(there only seemed to be eight) and placed them on the correct defile.

They oddly stood on end, a flimsy army but hopefully effective

camouflage.

And for my rooks, I’ll use my legs.

As with my nomination of braids, this choice had the desired effect on

the figure, who made small grunts of approval from the detached mouth.

With even more trepidation I reached down, closing my eyes as I couldn’t

bear to see what was to happen. But my fears were unfounded. With a

sharp crack first one, then the other, of my legs painlessly snapped off

like britde wood. I lifted them onto my comers of the board. There was

no blood and I managed to balance them so that they both stood upright.

They looked colossal, dwarfing the other pieces, and incongruous. But no

doubt sexy enough to my lustful opponent. If there was any question, my

next choice amply removed it.

For my knights I choose my breasts.

Did I have any? Was I a woman? I couldn’t remember. But on the principle

that had worked before, I felt certain they’d be there. They were. Not

exceptional in size, but full enough to whet the appetite of the lecher

opposite. As with everything else, they came free easily and painlessly.

Now I had to take a chance. I had to gamble on desire overcoming reason.

My last choice had done enough to distract attention, I hoped.

And for my bishops, I’ll use my cunt and my arsehole.

I knew these weren’t a proper pair and so might not be allowed. But my

previous selections were meant to suggest that I understood and

consented to the sexual nature of the forthcoming contest. I held my

breath, but I needn’t have bothered. The figure didn’t flinch .

Obviously the anticipation of a spot of buggery as well as some

good-to-god fucking was something my antagonist relished.

Rooting between my legs, I found both cunt and arsehole, and by dint of

poking a finger in one, then the other, I managed to pop them loose.

For my queen, I’ll choose my brain.

By now I knew this would flatter. Physical conquest wouldn’t be enough

for this opponent. But it was with a touch of horror that I pushed at my

temples, opened up the lid of my skull, grasped my clammy brain and

wrenched it out. I couldn’t believe I was holding it and so quickly

deposited on the board, trying not to see it out the corner of my eye,

and hastily clicked the lid of my head back in place.

And last of all, my heart will be my king.

To win over the heart of a fair maiden (if that’s what I was), after

ravishing her body and seducing her mind would be seen, I hoped, as the

ultimate triumph. So there was nothing for it but to pull my rib cage

apart until the skin ripped open, reach in and draw out the hot, beating

heart. I quickly placed it on the board and, overcome by the enormity of

what I’d done, cried: Let the game begin!

And so the moves and countermoves, the thrusts and counterthrusts, the

stratagems and counter-stratagems ranged across the board. Various

encounters yielded minorvictories, minor defeats, minor gains, minor

losses. But rapidly the pattern of the game came to centre on my

attempts at defence. My opponent’s pawns constantly tried to finger me,

running through my pawns, trying to pinch my knights and capture my

bishops. The figure’s rooks listened for signs of submission, sighs of

pleasure. The knights greedily ogled each of my pieces. And the bishops

continually sniffed around their clerical counterparts. The queen sought

to gobble up whatever she couldn’t tongue. And the king sought to

capture my bishops, seeing them as a sure way to my queen, whose snatch

would surely convince my king to mate.

But my king and queen worked as one, encouraging the seductive ruses of

the pawns, and marshalling the knights and bishops to entice my opponent

to destruction, The ploy worked. With the enemy king bearing down hard

on my bishops, I unveiled my secret weapon. While the king exulted high

in anticipation of the imminent capture of my bishops, my hooligan rooks

rushed in to plant well-aimed kicks. Immediately the king was toppled. A

surrender! The game was conceded and I had won!

Looking up, I saw the hooded figure in a rage. Flinging back the cowl of

the black robe, a fearfully distorted visage was revealed, whether

death’s head or hockey-mask I couldn’t tell.

You’ve won!, the mouth on the board screamed. You’ve ransomed your life!

The figure lashed an arm across the chess board, scattering the pieces

across the floor.

You’ve beaten death and now none of us are kings or pawns! Now chaos is

let loose! You’re just like all the others. All those masterless

bastards. Filthy rovers. Riotous scum. Drunken roisterers. Do you know

what you’ve done?

Yes!, I cried. Oh, yes!

Then pick up your pieces and let the dance begin!

I tried to retrieve my body parts, but it was dark and the ghastly

figure was urging me to hurry.

But I can’t find all my parts, I complained.

No matter, was the reply. Just take what you can find.

So I grabbed what I could and set them where they’d fit. But I was a

hybrid now, neither man nor woman. My heart, brain and legs I found and

set in place. Other parts were less easy to find or recognize in the

darkness, and in haste I slotted in place whatever would fit, regardless

of what it did or where it came from.

But there was no more time.

Time’s up, my cloaked companion cried. The dance begins!

From all around an endless multitude of people appeared. Rich and poor.

Old and young. Dead and alive. The walls just vanished and an infinity

of space vertiginously unfolded.

Take your partners!

The call resounded everywhere.

The rhythm began. And like everyone else I swayed to it. The figure took

me as partner, feet beating jerkily, while I melded effortlessly with

the insistent pulse.

And I’ve been dancing with death ever since. It’s the only way I know to

take to myself the part of leveller. The great leveller, leveller of the

great. Becoming death for death. Overcoming the living death.

So I’ve danced before massed ranks of riot police and earth-killer

machines and animal murderers. I’ve danced when the cops were defeated,

when the machines were broken, when the animals were freed. I was there

at the Battle of the Beanfield, I was there at Trafalgar Square, I was

there at Twyford Downs. And there you’ll fmd me, wherever power and

dominion might be pulled down. You may not recognize me, for I have a

thousand faces. And one of them may be yours.

Many’s the time when death has clinched me too close and I’ve smelled

the reaper’s foul breath. But many’s the time when I grasped the scythe

from his clutch and harvested liberty for all.

Come dance beneath the harvest moon!

And so, my friends, I could go no further. In that gully I laid down my

weary bones. My tawny skin shaded into the powdery dust.

The contractions began again. Pain pulsed through my body. Whiplashes.

Shrieks, groans, calls.

And then the birth.

Had I birthed a giant? I felt wrenched open. Raising onto elbows, then

hands, I peered over my swollen belly to see. What? On my thighs, a mess

of slather as if from a big dog’s mouth. And, slipping from the slit and

rolling away, a small, bright, shiny ball like a pearl. Rolling down an

incline into a hole in the ground.

And then the feelings of despair, of anguish. Of: What was it all for?

Why all that pain and effort? For a cake decoration?! A bauble? And one

already lost?

But then the jolt. Like a bolt of electricity, like the puncture of a

hypodermic needle. The afterbirth flooded out. Gushes of blood streamed

the earth, fertilizing the land. My blood was drained and my life-blood

too. All energy gone, I fell back, empty.

Then there was a settling, a relaxation. An ebbing. A sense of distance.

And then nothing. More nothing. Again nothing. And yet again. And yet.

Then a very faint stirring. Far away. Over there. Distant. A twinge.

Stillness. Silence without echo. But then, again. A twitch.

Stirrings. Mute shiftings. Tentative, muffied.

Perhaps a plash.

A flutter, maybe.

And then a distinct sensation. Unfolding. Stretching. Within. A tingling

feeling.

There. Pushing through. At the tips.

Roots sprouting from the finger tips. Feeling down through tunnels and

into crevices. Shooting out feelers, quizzing, probing, curious. Growing

further, exploring, testing. Seeking. Searching round stones and through

cracks. Penetrating further, touching the different strata, drawn nearer

and nearer to the moisture. Sensing the gradations, the various

textures, the minute shifts from powdery dust to rich loam. Absorbing

the energy, tapping into it, growing with it.

And then the pulses of energy flowing back to the surface, revivifying,

revitalizing.

So the fingers grew roots and the renewal began. The toes bleached and

their tips became bulbous. They became mushrooms. The armpits burst and

cauliflowers grew there. The legs were fallen trees. Fungi clustered

from beneath the knee caps. The brain grew a tap root and a copse of

young trees cracked open the skull. Birds sang and squirrels darted

among the branches. Brambles grew from the pubic fibres, sheltering a

dark and dank cave, and sending out plump berries and the precious briar

rose. All over, the down became downs, lush meadowlands. The breasts

became burrows where rabbits lived and moles sometimes surfaced. The

jaw, turned to stone, jutted out of the earth in granite splendour. The

eyes became pools where fish played in the cool depths. The heart

blossomed with flowers beyond number. And on and on.

Integrated diversity. Intricate interweavings. Revitalized, organs,

muscles and bones are transformed and refashioned. New growth. And all

at once. Something words cannot describe. The sense of tumultuous growth

in every way at every moment. And that which was I, just the soughing of

trees in the wind.

But something remained. The pearl, the bauble, the sphere. Fruit of the

womb, fructifying in the luxuriant ecology. Nurtured and sustained in

this oasis, far from the eyes of greedy men, yet just under their noses,

it became a beacon, an incandescence, a luminous presence. Inhabiting

this place, pervading this place, yet emanating from it. Reaching out

and touching, its influence grew. Its influence grows. But only for

those who recognize it. For others, it’s invisible. Intangible. Or

worthless. Yet more and more begin to see it and feel its merit.

To those who will hear, to those caught in the wheels of industry, to

the slaves of the machine, and to those trapped in the megamachine, the

sphere says: Dare to dream! Dare to resist! Things don’t have to be this

way!

And to those who thrill to this message, the sphere says: Pull down your

masters! Dismantle the systems! Do away with institutions! Throw away

your machines and don’t bother to toil. Refuse power, in yourself, for

yourself, and over yourself. Stop harming one another, the animals, the

earth.

And those who hear, say: But how can we do this? And how shall we live?

And the sphere replies: You must gather together and go out into the

world to spread the word. You must create your own ways. Think as you

want to think, feel as you want to feel, behave as you want to behave,

look as you want to look, love as you want to love, be as you want to

be. Some of you will struggle from within the city and some will leave

it to renew the land. But wherever you are, you must take up arms,

whether of the spirit, the mind or the body, and throw yourselves with

all your might against Leviathan, this monster of iniquity.

And there are those who say: How do we know you aren’t just another

false prophet crying in the wilderness? And why should we do what you

say?

And to this the sphere replies: I am not I. I am you. And you. And you.

And all the multitude. You shall find me within. For I am your inner

light which you project out here. Don’t follow me. Follow your inner

light and live by its promptings. Polish the windows of your soul so

that you may see your inner light more clearly. And when you do, you’ll

see that these things I’ve said are true.

And those who have ears to hear ponder on these words. And they clean

their windows. And they gather together in the marketplace (for the

whole world has become like unto a marketplace and now there is no

other) and they say unto one another: This sphere is a great sign and

wonder and brings us good news.

And they see that it is good. And they see that it is true. And the word

spreads and more gird their loins and grind their loins and grind their

teeth in readiness for the battles to come.

But there are those who say: This sphere is our saviour. This sphere is

our Lord. We must worshiphim and praise him eternally.

And fall down on their knees.

And to these, the sphere in all wrath says: Fools! You know not what you

say or what you do! Only you people, by joining unto one another, can

save yourselves and save the world. You make me unto a graven idol, when

I tell you to pull down all idols. You set me up as master, when I tell

you to do away with all lords. Grovel no more. Take up your bed and

walk. And cease trying to make me into a man, into a god, or into a

human being!

And the scales fall from their eyes, and they exclaim: Truly, this

sphere is not the son of god. We’re fucked if we think so. We must think

on. We mustn’t make a cult of the sphere. Let’s not take its word as

scripture. Let’s have a love feast and then spin and weave and multiply

the word.

And the sphere is well pleased with such works.

And so, my friends, the long journey, the hot pursuit through scalding

deserts, the vales of tears and the wells of sorrows, begins to bear

fruit. Come, rest awhile in this oasis. For I have many tales to tell

and you have news of the struggles. I carried the sphere through the

howling wastes made by the lords of hell and planted it here in the dust

of my body. The seedtime is over and now strange blossoms are blooming

all over the world. I gave birth to the sphere and I am the sphere and

you are the sphere and you birth the sphere over and over each day. The

circle that was broken is now being mended. Stay here awhile and let us

share the plenty. Let us rest and give pleasure before we return to the

fray.

There’s that theory about the faery folk. Do you know that one? Well,

when the magic went out of Old England, when the Roman rulers and the

Christian rulers and all those other bastard rulers had stamped it out,

the faery folk are said to have gone to live ‘under the hill’. Not any

particular hill, you understand, and not in a valley. No, actually under

the hill.

Now, you can take that in all kinds of ways. And they don’t really

contradict one another. So there may not be just one meaning to it.

Anyway, you could say that the faery folk just withdrew from the dull,

mundane world of daily life in civilization. The world of toil and

boredom. They just abandoned it and all those who slaved in it and went

off into the wilderness. Disappeared into it and so couldn’t be seen

anymore. They went under the hill.

Or you could say that they went underground. Under the hill. They didn’t

go away; they just dropped out of sight, out of sight of those in power.

Those who wanted to jail them, enslave them, kill them. So they might

still be around, secretly active, resisting but hidden. Outta sight, as

the hippies used to say. But not out of mind. Maybe. Out of their minds

according to some people. But not by people I want to mow. If that’s out

of your mind, that’s how I want to be.

Then again ‘the hill’ might mean the faery hills. You know, all those

burial mounds and barrow graves that you see dotted around in Ireland

and Cornwall and places like that. Where the tourists haven’t trampled

all over them or the builders haven’t run a motorway through them.

‘Cause the old ones, they saw faery mounds as entrances to some kind of

pagan paradise. The entrances were always at places where you might meet

death. Underground, underwater or where the sun sets. Places where you

might end up dying or end up when you’re dead. But pagan paradise wasn’t

thought of like the Christian heaven. Death wasn’t the end. Faery mounds

were wombs as much as tombs. They were places of rebirth, not just

death. And some people talk of the faeries’ revenge. Ofthe faeries

regrouping, waiting for the right moment, and then returning from the

hills to wreak revenge on all the bastards who chased them away and

stoned them and burned them.

Anyway, the point is that we’re like the faery folk. I say like. ‘Cause

we’re not faeries. But perhaps they’ll come to our aid and get their

revenge when the time comes.

But we’re like the faeries because we too are under the hill. Some of us

have tried to withdraw, as much as we can, from all the shit that’s

called civilization. Andhave tried to bugger off into the wilderness. Or

what passes for it these days. And some of us have been pushed from

pillar to post and set on by angry locals and stupid farmers. Or moved

on by cops. Or beaten by cops. Or shat on by politicians.

And some of us have gone underground. Not literally, of course. But have

tried to drop out of sight or (as they say) assumed protective

colouration. Worn masks, in more ways than one. Worn them while putting

our bodies on the line. Or worn them while trying to blend in so that we

can get inside and fuck the bastards over that way. Or just to avoid

being watched so that we can do some things we’d like to do. So we can

work out how to fight back. Without being caught and banged up. Rendered

inoperative is the term.

And then some of us have tried to link-up with the land and its lore.

Just so’s we know where we’re really coming from. Who we really are. Not

just a bunch of fucking kings and queens. Not land of no hope andfucking

glory . Not those bloody Romans and their stupid roads. Not any of that

shit. Our real ancestors. Those who lived free and those who fought

every frigging empire that ever came along. Roman. British. American.

Those who really never never never shall be slaves. Those who wanted to

live in community with nature and people. Who wanted a life without

lords, without labour, without law.

So in that way we’re like the faeries too. We’ve found an entrance to

the other world, to an earthly paradise. We find ourselves in places

where we might meet our death. We’re going through a rebirth. We’re

regrouping and we want to get revenge as well. We want to open the

floodgates and let paradise back in. As it was. And will be again. Only

better. Bring the magic back to life. Re-enchant the world. Level the

land.

In the deep midwinter, rapt in contemplation of these mysteries, gazing

into the dazzle of the dark sun, I heard a chorus of voices speak these

words. Whether they came from within or from others holding debate in

the shadows of the long-house or from long lost souls pausing to

converse outside the walls of our communal lodge, I know not. The voices

said:

Hell isn’t the underworld, Hell is here. And the lords of hell

constantly torment our minds, our bodies and our souls. For all

eternity. Or at least all our lives. Unless we rise up and make a heaven

of this hell.

Now is the seed-time. New growth is stirring around us and within us.

Even as the land is covered with blow upon blow. As the roar of the

drills and the growl of the diggers fill the air and the infernal

machines take over the land, as the land shudders under the weight of

the horrors daily inflicted upon it. Even thus the buds are awakening

within us.

We grow in understanding, we grow in sympathy, we grow slowly in numbers

and we grow gradually in influence. They poison us and they mow us down.

But we continue to unfold in the margins, in the cracks between the

pavements. Soon, oh soon, perhaps we shall crack the pavements. For

underground we grow, reaching out hands like tendrils to touch, to take

hold, to hold communion. Let’s stretch, let’s flex our muscles and see

what we can do. Maybe we can find the fault line and crack open this

concrete prison.

We are the root, the cell, the radicle. A spark has been planted in us.

And we must plant it in others. We must plant the seed communities. So

that the new, which is also the very, very old, can grow. It cannot be

forced, but still the seed-time cannot be long. For the day of reckoning

cannot be far off. Oh, earth! thou art sick! Thy teeming fliers and

walkers and swimmers are stymied and dying. The invisible hand is at thy

throat. The blight is spreading across the land. Soon all will be

concrete and steel.

And the worst concrete and steel will be in the minds and hearts of men

and in the hearts and minds of women. Fearful rigidity! where nothing

flows, where the cycles cease, and where balance is lost. The only sound

is the shifting sand of the arid desert until the terror machine

sickeningly heaves into sight. The straight and narrow, the straight and

narrow. The path to hell is paved with concrete and steel.

And the lords of hell with their terrible whips lash us on to the brink.

Tear them down! Tear them down!

And the worm will turn, And the serpent will sting.

And the graves will ope. And the dead will up.

And the jaws of hell will gape and spew us out.

And all souls will don their masks and grimly march on the final empire.

And gambol and cavort.

And at this vision my heart did leap with joy. On my feet at once, I

danced and jigged and ran out into the street proclaiming the news. And

found a ready audience who thought my words prophetic.

Halloween marks Samhain, the celtic feast of the dead, named after

Samana, ‘the Leveller’. The Celts believed that the joints between the

seasons opened cracks in the fabric of space-time, allowing passage

between this world and the other world. On Samhain, the Great Leveller

received offerings on behalf of all the dead. These offerings were

designed to effect a general levelling of distinction, influence and

wealth. Like the potlatch, the ritual acted as a way of dissipating

incipient accretions of power and goods. If the spirits were satisfied

that the levelling was effective, they would refrain from intervening.

But if they felt that inequalities remained, they would pass through the

passage between the worlds, summoned by shamans (witches and demons,

according to Christians), appearing as vengeful ghosts bent on

personally securing a thorough social levelling.

My friends, the witching hour is nigh!

The bell has tolled. It is time for the dead and the living dead to

rise. Rise! Rise up and claim your birthright! Rise up in an uprising

almighty! Roll away the stone and let the graves gape wide. Rise up from

your deathbeds. From your graves and your garrets. From your factories

and your firesides. For now is the festival of ruin.

The mighty shall be pulled down into the dust and the poor and oppressed

exalted. The living and dead shall walk side by side, marching marching

marching through the streets of pain toward the citadel of power.

Breaking burning tearing, for yes the urge to destroy is also a creative

urge. And the storehouses shall be broke ope and their goods scattered

to the wind. And the machines will be broken beyond repair. And the

houses of the money-changers will be tom down. And the factories will be

gutted. And the roads will be ripped up. And the jails will be stormed,

And the cages will be ripped open. And the laboratories will be trashed.

And the office blocks and the tower blocks will shudder and fall. And

the seats of power will be overturned. And the cities will burn and burn

and burn.

So come out, come out, wherever you are. Rise up from your stupor and

rise up from your torpor. Come level with me!

From out your scattered graves come out all ye resisters of all ages in

this land. Come! Boudicca and Caractacus. And all your merry bands. Who

rose against imperial Roman dominion. Come! Robin Hood, Robin Goodfellow

of the Greenwood! Never has the forest needed you more. Great leveller

who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. Come! Wat Tyler and the

jovial bands of the Peasants’ Revolt. Rise again ‘gainst those masters

so haughty and proud. Come! John Ball. When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman? Come! All ye radicals of the civil

rebellion. All ye ranters, diggers, levellers and fifth monarchist men.

Come! divine Abiezer. You have killed Levellers (so called) you also

(with wicked hands) have slain me the Lord of life, who am now risen,

and risen indeed, (and you shall know, and feele it with a witnesse) to

Levell you in good earnest. Rave on, rave on! Come! Laurence Clarkson,

we all agree to be part of my one flesh. Come! Jacob Bauthumley. They

bored your tongue and burned your book. Now tear them down. Come! All ye

mad crew! And Come! King Ludd and Captain Swing and all ye Luddites

bold! Time to break the machines once and for all. Come! all ye anarchs

exiled on these shores. Romantic Bakunin and sweet prince Kropotkin. And

Come! all ye nameless rebels, roisterers, resisters, rioters, renegades

and radicals. Witches burned at the stake. The martyrs of Peterloo.

Brave battlers at Trafalgar Square, at Trafalgar Square and Trafalgar

Square again. Mutineers andmad women. Angry mobs and angry brigades.

Incendiaries and insurrectionaries. Come! Rise! Rise! Rise!

And Come! All ye visionaries of these isles! Come! Shelley and Godwin.

Ye who sometimes saw so plain. We’ll stage the masque of anarchy. Come!

William Blake. Rekindle the flames of holy fire, the rebel’s

imagination. Lost is the green and pleasant land. And Jerusalem is

wanted no more. But your vision is needed again. Rise, bright angel.

Come! Richard Dadd. They locked you up for killing dad. Now big dad

needs to die. You prophesied the fairy feller’s master-stroke. So strike

and strike again at the master, my fiery faery fellow. Come! Anthony

Roberts. Geomancer! Ecolorist! Did you find the grail as your body

faltered on Glastonbury Tor? You envisioned the fairies revenge. Now

rage with the furies across this land.

Come! Lorenzo. On this savage pilgrimage for earthly delight. Come!

George Orwell. You paid homage to Catalonia in the homeland of

catatonia. Come up for air once again.

And Come! all ye among the living. Come! all ye of the gathering

disarray. Come! Richard Alexander. Unplug yourself and come run with the

beasts. Come! Mazy Matthew and John the Sab. Open your eyes! Time to

wake up! Enough is enough is enough is enough! Come! John Nicholson,

archivist of uprising, and Celia, faithful labourer in the vineyards.

Come! Tom Cahill. Head in the clouds but balanced in the tao. Come!

Green anarchs of Oxford, neither town nor gown. Come! All ye Earth

Firstlers and fighters in defence of the earth. Come! All ye travellers

and gatherers. Come! All ye anarchs who’ll tear power down. Come! Andy

Hopton, discoverer of tyranipocrit and its enemies. Come! Ed Baxter.

Without whom none of this would be possible. Come! Bright nova Leigh, my

starcross lover. And Come! John Moore, seeker after anarchy and ecstasy.

Come one and come all! Come level the land!