Panopticon / Lake of Blood

Dancing a ghost dance for the slain Reclaim what was taken The infestation of the pale parasite The foreign footsteps of an evil empire, detrimental Their treachery knows no bounds The consequential decay of the natural world The rape of a proud and righteous nations who lived in harmony With the earth, forests replaced with sky scrapers, lakes replaced with cesspools Parasites infecting the sacrеd wild Bodies left namelеss to rot at wounded knee Dead babies at their mother’s breast: This is your “price of progress” Children stabbed and thrown to the dogs Children burned alive for Christ and the apostles The genocidal hand of the white man’s god Enslavement Indoctrination Bleach the spirit “Kill the indian, save the man” Infanticide Genocide Destroy what you’ll never understand Corpses will never protect their land This land is haunted

Submitted by Finntroll — Feb 13, 2026

[sample of Jello Biafra] The last words of Bartolomeo Vanzetti, before he and Nicola Sacco were executed by the U.S. government in 1927 for a crime they did not commit. The real crime being they were anarchists. They were labor union activists. And if that's not enough, they were immigrants. Non in America, ma sotto l'America. Schiacciati dal peso di un impero furono obbligati a instaurar la condizione degli oppressi, senza natione, stremati. Cercando la libertà in bandiere rossonere, il dolce sapore dell'autonomia. la promessa di libertà nella terra dei miserabili. L'illusione di ricchezze nella terra dei decrepiti. Vivendo non in America ma sotto l'America. Reclusi in frantoi, fabbriche, prigioni e patiboli. Una così infelice fortuna. Diventare un rivoluzionario della disgrazia, definendo la storia attraverso il martirio, vivendo in eterno nei cuori dei ribelli e dei liberi. Sette anni dietro le sbarre, ma nessun carcere puo imprigionare un'idea. Come signori portati al loro destino, umili e forti, il prete rifiutano, periscono non per un loro crimine, ma per l'anarchismo e la libertà. "Le nostre parole, le nostre vite, i nostri dolori... la fine della nostra esistenza... l'ultimo momento ci appartiene. Quest'agonia e il nostro trionfo!" Translation: Not in America but under America, crushed by the weight of an empire they were forced into building: the plight of the oppressed, nationless and weary. Seeking freedom in banners of red and black, the sweet taste of autonomy, the promise of freedom in the land of the wretched, the illusions of wealth in the land of the decrepit. Living not in America but under America, slaving in mills, factories, prisons and gallows. Such unhappy luck, to become a revolutionary of misfortune, shaping history through martyrdom, living forever in the hearts of the rebellious and free. Seven years behind bars, but no jail can imprison ideas. As gentlemen led to their doom, humble and strong, the priest they refuse, they die not for their crime, but for anarchism and liberty. "Our words, our lives, our pains... the taking of our lives... the last moment belongs to us. That agony is our triumph!") [sample of Bartolomeo Vanzetti] If it had not been for this thing, I might have lived out my life talking at street corners to scorning men. I might have died, unmarked, unknown, a failure. Now we are not a failure. This is our career and our triumph. Never in our full life can we hope to do such work for tolerance, justice, for man's understanding of man, as now we do by accident. Our words - our lives - our pains - nothing! The taking of our lives - lives of a good shoemaker and a poor fish peddler - all! That last moment belongs to us - that agony is our triumph

Submitted by BloodShrine — Apr 25, 2025

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