Britannia Interiouso

The Eternal Anglo sees only Slavery; everything should be a Slave to Him, for Him.

Even His children are subject to The Anglo Ideology. The child is merely the extension of His economic expansion - his own personal empire - the baptism of the territory as a proxy. The progeny must enslave Himself to this order of Slavery to continue the heritage of slavery against slavery.

But this is no question of resentment of the child, nor of the child to His parents. There is no master for The Eternal Anglo, thus rebellion resides within its impossibility.
The child is forced out of the home as soon as possible because there is no outside. And he must get used to this. The Island is the last place, the only outside. And it must get used to Him. And in this He gives meaning to the french idea of Masters without slaves, or of an Unknown People's nation without a State. Children of The Eternal Anglo are individuals without individuality—for it is their only hope in rising above the World Ocean.
Nor is this a question of dominance and contention with the Gods, it is merely a question of liberalism and the humanist triumph, a deep sympathy for that which we have created. The Anglo Individual is raised by such variegated spirits, and this is the source of His contention with liberalism: it is his only manner of becoming Its tentacled mannerism.
Here the intricacies of the father become the extricate of the son, a genealogy of the individual's Total World Being.

Plagued eternally by the question of his Father, 'How can one have sympathy for that which is undeserving of sympathy?' The Eternal Anglo marches on, recurring without sympathy.

The Eternal Anglo works, yet he is not a worker—just as his industry is industrious without need of production. His enslavement is to something much deeper, hence his impoverishment of bourgeois sentiment into an economically spiritual depression. And hence why he can never perceive his own enslavement. Only within The Anglo Ideology does the bourgeoisie succumb, collectively, to black lung.

The Eternal Anglo sees the world as a moat to his own advancement. As a mobilised island there can be no sacrifice—the castle forever rises into the deepening maelstrom of the ocean. Thus rebellion resides within its possibility.
Here one must reiterate: this is not a question of resentment. Nor is it a question of becoming Gods in our struggle for power. Britannia always represented something more than this. The Eternal Anglo does not resent, just as the Moirai do not resent even in their destruction of Zeus. Britannia always represented something more than this. The worship of Moros represents something more than this.
The Eternal Anglo does not see that His calling this out would be his own form of resentment.

In the empire of The Eternal Anglo Atlantis lives on, but neither as a city-state nor a Utopian memorial. It is nothing more than a citadel of capitulation to capitulation. The Eternal Anglo is forever conquered, and forever uncivilised by His appeasement—He may never reconcile with His defeat. Instead, he is rent to the Romans who are His conquerors, but also conquered by their own inability to civilise Those Island Heathens. Thus The Islander is sacrificed to a dead imperialism: lost to time and his consuming of the world into His space.

War, for The Eternal Anglo, is only ever seen within the light of such time against time, of the empire resigned to always being elsewhere. Eternal resignation to defeat can be seen most prominently in The Island's total surrender to the colonies: a landbridge of form between the ancients and the moderns, but never itself modern. An anachronism enmeshed by his own ephemeral World Ocean.

Lost at sea The Eternal Anglo is a Saxon without resources. Here the wound of the executioner's axe strikes as the broad axe against nature—but hewn as a cult for nature itself. The wilderness lives on as the thanatotheology of poetics, an industrialism without need of a proletariat, a syncretism of the Heathen sacrificed to His Christianity.

The Eternal Anglo has no sense of nation, thus there can be neither nationalism nor anti-Angloism. Here, within, this tide of the German Ideology insulates Him as a moat swirling into a landbridge of the dead. The carrion of foreign forces hold up the broken stride of Pals battalions, but continue to shudder as if their march strode on in time.

As His forces die - off somewhere in European wars - He sees Himself ever more as the Wound Man. He cuts his biology out of himself as the plagued organ of the smaller continent which can never be encircled. Victory comes as the pestilence of His soul is flung over the walls of continents—at once reconciling the paradox of the state of nature and the social contract with its triumph.

Now the Eternal Anglo chucks his own body over the castle walls; but only because he prefers to be on the receiving end of the pestilence of the soul.

Pyrrhic Victory is the imperial cult of The Eternal Anglo. His siege of the soul has sacked biology to the extent that His physiognomy of speech - that strangely anti-biological speech of the Queen living on through the jaundiced breath of the peasantry - arises from outside of the body, from outside life itself even; just as His state had risen outside of itself. He is a spectral soldier, apart from the crumpets and crumple of his teeth.
And here the dead voices of German folk singers are kept alive within the tone-deaf monarchism of The Eternal Anglo. Only death may sing alone.

Like the crumpets and their aristocratic strumpets, His teeth wander the fields of oceans without need. His spectral being is the occlusion of that which may never close in a bite. But beyond all theologies of power he has managed to capture something within the crude asymmetry of His jaw. The hole which does not resent. The hole which does not grow. The hole which lives beyond any spirit of attack. The hole which marches forward with neither heroism nor sacrifice nor the cheers of victory, only the endless passivity of forwardness. Against the Earth-March of the Germans He dry-heaves a quaint little garden into a desert.
Only rubble may grow Victory Gardens.

And only within The Island of The Eternal Anglo does the military represent itself through its defensive pact of bourgeois politics. The soldiers are resigned to living on as farmers cultivating the guns and the wash-basins of their brained fellow Pals. They only ever fight outside of the moat while the real war is fought at home. Thus its naval disposition takes on the weather gage of a maelstrom without a tea kettle.
The Eternal Anglo does not know when to jump into graves weeping, when to collapse the wake into the insolent, when to find sympathy in disabuse. Let the dead bury Their Dead—She is just glad it is over. The assistant funeral director flinches at the sight, unsure if he is glad of its being over; and there stands closer to the grave than anyone. He mourns in Her place, knowing that his transvaluation of the German Idealism is His own. The spectral soul has no death rites, such is the dying wish of the categorical imperative.

Here at the frontier of the expansive moat of death lives the true partisan. But only well after the end of the whirlwind bombings does such an individual realise the creeping barrage of his nature—an aggressive-passivity only to be outdone by the Americans. He desires the total surrender of ruins to His own holding out within them. Where the Germans failed to destroy St. Paul's Cathedral the spectral partisan sets out into the wildfire of His home, determined to bury it beneath the formlessness of an endless blockade of facades built through and piercing further facades. The whole of Britain has Him—and the ruins have nothing on His doom brought to cheer.

Here, millennia too late, The Eternal Anglo discovers that only a Roman may fail to charge the honour of the cavalry through a wall of black curtains. Fate is most cruel as her bald head surfaces from the World Ocean.

But thankfully it is all walled off by another curtain. The Last European has perfected the art of blocking out all light, to the point that even amidst whirlwind bombings - something which the Romans could never have withstood, by the way - a dying man is wounded only by the waving of a curtain. Then enmeshed by a veil of dark wool as His dying light; Fate, that. Such rites have been drilled into the populace by the soft bureaucratic face of the policemen (who are not a police force, let us be clear).

Roman legions could never have anticipated such a defeat; and here, in Britannia, they find their own God's acre.
Only soldiers may die alone. That is the final lesson. The Eternal Anglo is off somewhere, on some other front. It will take some time to learn this.

It is here that we must consider how European triumph can only ever be seen within the succession of such Individual triumph. And, let us be clear, the Last European is written in, He does not write Himself in; planted like a seed in back alleys. No, this was always the essence of liberalism and its formative project—the Peace of Westphalia is not written in the form of slave language and was never below the salt of morality. Morality! Hah!?! That eternal freshwater ocean which threatens whole fleets with the dehydration of resentment?!? No, The Eternal Anglo was always beyond all distillation of such values. The European Peace? It simply is, and it simply forms itself within the line of the greatest Individual: The Island.

Here The Eternal Anglo succumbs to deliberalisation, at that very moment where he turns liberalism into its own reaction. In the return of its defeat He once again exhumes the opportunities of peace, just as the poor's lack of salt becomes His own.
Here a theology of dysentery infects the Wound Man, and he succumbs to a greater resentment: exhumation of himself. This is how The Eternal Anglo ascends to His truly biological character: Himself. There is no need of heroism when life itself is beneath Him.

Thus the shadows of past victories take up their billets at tea-time in row houses. The Eternal Anglo subjects himself to a defeat he could never have imagined, a terraced mobilisation of war from within the cadaver of the Earth-March. Even words of war are incapable of capturing the epic devastation he now faces; hence his aggressive-passivity even at the point of His being enshrined within His own God's acre. With torn nightgown stumbling into some deeper darkness, the desecration of Erebus is swept up with a broom into a dustpan as Aether. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; We're Here because we're here. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; because we're here because We're Here. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; We're Here because we're here because we're here because we're here.

In completion of its fated paradox The Eternal Anglo finds Himself landlocked at the moment of His greatest voyage. Far from home and now dead, the Siren is immortalised within the cove of Her antistrophe: "Estuans interius quando sumus!"

"Oh oh oh, totus floreo!"
And here, in the final Victory Garden, the World Ocean pronounces its triumph over Okeanos.