Cannonfodder, alas, young men… punditfodder.
Fodder (horse food of the coarse variety) various leaves and stems some grains and grasses, digested. It’s the fuel to propel a horse ( and presumably an anarchistic unicorn). Its’ the sole ingredient of horse-puky, depositing nutrients back in the soil, and, an attractive home for flies and the attention of dung beetles.
Pundits, emotional fodder feeders, have been giddy servers of hysteria. The vulgar and the purists here at the tent have gobbled it up: diatribes to return the anarchistic emotives a greatness here at the reunion of enfant terribles. We thought that the anarchical enfant terribles would remain expressive individuals, unaffected by, and even resisting, nativists groupings. But deposits of the pundit’s fodder provide nutrients for young men and giddiness for old-school women, toady breeders for the bullys, remnants of the golden-age of clans, mother trolls of the shadow-world.
Once again the punditic heralds bluster calls for others to risk their valiantry (and lives and money) on the fields honor is unified by an incessant “drumming”. Rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot—those driving snaps on the edge! There, wap! wap! wap! the pundits coarse syntax obliterates personal melody and destroys by distraction any moving harmony. The reunion of anarchists promises individual artistics doing their own thinking, but alas, the narrow clan is more tempting in its’ call to belligerence and irresponsibility, and slow-moving coup d’tat.
If today we view military as missiles, microbes, drones, and hackers we still need the pundit’s fuel to commend our valiantry to actions (with costs no higher than a violent video game?).
Since art lost its’ nativity emotion (when artists freed artists), that nativist-will seems to return when the driving-drumming-staccato blares ever louder; obliterating artists in favor of emotives and dull forces, and pundits.
Yorick mocks the pundits speaking for the dead. Nonetheless marching re-commences among pundit-fodder, awaiting a bit of fame or infamy.
Up to the vultures, then gravity arcs spent shadows,
…with lots and lots and lots of blood on their boots.
Join us next Saturday…for a big rock rising.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 