Blood Meridian
No Country for Old Men
The Road
The yearly influx of immigrant-invaders into the US is 76% of the US birth rate and soon will exceed the birth rate as the birth rate is falling and the inflow of immigrant-invaders is rising. Moreover, many of the US births are found among the 30 million immigrant-invaders that already reside in the US. Replacement of the white ethnic population is a fact.
It is an ongoing process encouraged and enabled by the Democrat Party and Rino Republicans and financed by taxing the incomes of white American citizens who are being forced to finance their own replacement. It has already happened in California where white Americans comprise only 35% of the population. South Fulton, Georgia, a part of the Atlanta metropolitan area is 90% black. South Fulton has one of the highest crime rates in the US.
+1!
There seem to be a lot of good writers with “political incorrect views” similar to my own. It’s definitely good that these people write, whether they write something “non-pilled”, “red-pilled” or something else (non-degenerate).
One of many good things about writing is that it’s relative easy to share and even publish, compared to maybe music and definitely movies and tv-shows.
And you can even get two for one, publish a book, earn money, while having more influence.
We need to learn from the anti-Whites and (for example) use “salami tactics“.
Write a succesful book about Danish Vikings and White people will be more proud of their roots. Write a sci-fi book where the aliens are a spitting image of a non-White group/race, Cultural Marxists or anti-Whites in general and people will know (even if you deny it, like They Live).
It doesn’t have to be more than…
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‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ‘er little cap was green,
An’ ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat — jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ‘eathen idol’s foot:
Bloomin’ idol made o’mud —
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd —
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ‘er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow,
She’d git ‘er little banjo an’ she’d sing “~Kulla-lo-lo!~”
With ‘er arm upon my shoulder an’ ‘er cheek agin’ my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the ~hathis~ pilin’ teak.
Elephints a-pilin’ teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence ‘ung that ‘eavy you was ‘arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
But that’s all shove be’ind me — long ago an’ fur away,
An’ there ain’t no ‘busses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ‘ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
“If you’ve ‘eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ‘eed naught else.”
No! you won’t ‘eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay . . .
I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho’ I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an’ grubby ‘and —
Law! wot do they understand?
I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be —
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!
The Tactical Hermit 
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