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Belaboured Day

Anytime is apocalypse time.

A day of action, extreme prejudice, unapologetic malice, and sombre procession.

Labor Day is the antithesis of every day at the factory spent stressing and cramping while performing repetitive motions ad nauseum.

Every day spent plotting and coniving against one's perceived immediate obstacles in the day-to-day operation of one's job.

All the days lost labouring for the benefice of others, paid a pittance in order to return the next day in a piece.

Hereby granting continuity to an age old discrimination perpetuated daily in order to maintain dependency of the labourers upon the discrimination of the markets.

And the unseen authortity of the custodial gods disguised as foreign investors and executive shareholders.

The blood of the workingman is left unseen, drowned in more time sensitive matters paraded on the tele screen.

The blood of all labourers, everywhere is the impetus for our actions of aggression and hatred towards all the classist mutha fuckin' petite bourgeoisie.

Those creepy middlemen whom no one can trust, not their perceived colleagues nor their managerial superiors.

Those blood-sucking wraiths who routinely burn every bridge they cross with the expectation that there will always be another.

The product of a capitailist economic system: the perfect worker drone who, quite literally, has been bred and raised as such.

By the lumpenproletariat.

Anytime is class war time, particularly labour day.

Meant to raise class consciousness to the palpable attention to the lumpenproletarier on this day of action, this day of awareness.

About how much life had to be sacrificed in the pusuit of a stratified class system based and entirely dependent upon capital.

God forgive us, for we have sinned.

We have unknowingly nourished the beast which holds us captive on this plane and serves solely to incapacitate and obsfucate the truth and the light of knowledge.

We have supported the very demon which belabours to destroy us at every opportunity in the pursuit of tradable commodities.

Stockpile the shit, stop at nothing to maintain the superfluous sanctity of excess and wastefulness promoting commodification of the worker(s).

Have a go at yer employer fer all those before us who cannat.

Fuck 'im or 'er or it. Ta 'ell.

The motto of labor unions everywhere: Give what you get -- which is generally, a kick in th'ass. Let's burn some time off the line for our colleagues, who couldnot be here with us today to protest the shitty, murderous, catastrophic conditions they had been physically working under in order to eke out a none but meager existence, at that.

Attack the idea of labour, property, land owners, class, and capital.

Vilify those who would perpetuate a system of operation in which those who are not willing to sacrafice morality for capital are punished.

And those who are willing to burn every bridge imaginable in order to, with any luck, segregate themselves on an island composed of corporate structure are rewarded in some strange way with discrete packages of energy.

Destroy some money, burn a bill, rend a coin.

We cannot destroy the very means on which we subsist, but we may destroy some of the symbols of tranferrable capital at our disposal.

Go ahead an' burn a greenback.

In protest of an ever diminishing green back ground and an awkwardly infantile class consciouness, that appears to sustain itself on self proscribed ignorance.

Hell, burn two.




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This page contains a single entry from the blog posted on September 2, 2013 1:23 PM.

The previous post in this blog was Apocalypse Time.

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