I NEED REMINDERS OF THE LOVE I HAVE

Cold, dark, soulless, murky…the room reeks of death, decay, and deviance. Your eyes dart around the room worriedly, crammed into a steel prison, that threatens to squeeze the very life out of you. Choke you. Suffocate you. Every time you move, you’re reminded of the hell you’re stuck in. Day by day, night by night (though you can’t even tell which it is anymore, and it wouldn’t matter), your hope diminishes. And so do the hope of those who are trapped here as well. There’s no escape.

You pray for death, for an end to the horror and agony. But…you’ve seen what death looks like. The screams haunt you to your core. The stench of torched, rotting, maimed flesh. Of spattered blood and harsh, heartless cackles. Seeing corpses of your potential brothers and sisters carted off into dumpster bins. Your skin flayed and beaten upon cold, steel tables, gutted with cold, steel tools. Occasionally you get glimpses of the terrifying malice in the eyes in your captors. How they show you nothing but pure hate. It haunts your dreams. You’re next. Soon.

If there is a God, then surely he cares nothing for you. He wanted you here, and others like you here as well. To suffer needlessly. To be mercilessly slaughtered and viciously cut up.

The entrance to this hall of nightmares begins to give away, after many jingles of the door knob, which is finally smashed open.

Oh no…

Usually close up by now. Have they decided to up the amount of torture to 24 hours? Round the clock? Sleeping in shifts so it can never end? Shall there be no more reprieve?

Everything only becomes more grave when a slew of bipedal scourges come walking in. But…they seem different. Not dressed in lab coats and masks and other such articles of clothing that have now come to signify only death. Instead, they come in wearing all black. Faces obscured. Dressed in outfits that look much less formal, much less menacing. But the most striking thing…is their eyes. Their eyes show no malice or contempt. A desire for your end, for your life to cease, and drag the process out as much as possible, seems to be strangely absent. It’s a different emotion. One of…compassion. Care. Love…

Is there hope after all?

Hurriedly, they break out devices, tools, that are made to sever the locks on the cages that keep you enslaved and always on edge. And with gentle, warm, non-threatening hands…they embrace. Whispering words of words of reassurance. All of your kin, everyone in there, are also freed from this terrible, terrible den of misery and suffering. They, too, receive the same treatment.

All of you are rushed out of the building, carefully yet quickly, with these mysterious strangers whispering to each other about what sounds like further plans. Plans of finding you and everyone else a home. A better home. A good home. One not of pain, but of affection. One where you are all adored, rather than despised. Where cruelty does not exist. It all seems so surreal, like a dream. Is this really happening?

Yes, it really is.

For the first time, you feel something so…unfamiliar. Something you thought yourself never capable of experiencing.

Hope.

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KINGDOM AGAINST KINGDOM

Demons walk among us,
I assure you they’re real.

Flesh they gnaw upon,
By their hands, skin is peeled.

A sadistic gleam takes over their eyes.

Within their presence, all life shall die.

Everyday they remind me how much I can’t
Ever give mankind a second fucking chance.

Stand up, those who would bare
Their teeth in revolt.

Resist those gaping maws
That shovel down
More products from the death cult.

Descartes has driven us
To murder and rape.

Hunt the hunters,
Or there’ll be no escape.

Forever rotten, forever damned,
Walking graves we’ve become,
Us monsters called Man.

TOTAL WAR

Forget the mass of humanity. Forget the concerns for mankind. Forget the pleas and cries of the international and national…thing…that is called “the people” (I reject the notions that it is alive, as some may say, certain deluded individuals), that everyone everywhere claims to speak on behalf of, for no one gets anywhere without their consent (although the consent is usually superficial; the mutuality is a farce, as you might ascertain from opening a history book, for make no mistake, nothing, and I do mean nothing, is done on behalf of “the people”). Forget the appeals to my biological kinship with my fellow persons. Forget the emotional appeals, for I have no particular goodwill towards the lot of man. There’s nothing for me there, and I doubt there ever will be. There are exceptions, and those who are, I cherish you deeply, and greatly. Let it be known that, by me, you are loved. As for the rest? I can’t say I am compelled to sympathize or want the affections of the majority. For I do not identify with them, and I do not ally myself with their causes, their wants, their needs, their desires, their fears, their worries, and their likes and dislikes. Why should I count myself among willing slaves, who so gladly serve selfish masters? Seems like a terrible idea to me.

This is what I want.

I want unbridled, unrestricted freedom. And I shall decide what that means, for me. Where those limits lie, if I acknowledge any. What I fight for, and what I fight against. I only stop where I may decide to stop, and I shall go only where I wish to. I will use whatever spirits, geists, that I find pleasing to me, if I shall utilize any at my disposal. And I shall determine, for myself, what form it takes (and the material means used to establish it), what it happens to manifest as, for the world is a canvas, the pages for a novel, and my life shall be poetry, it shall be art. The pools of inspiration it draws from. The various sources of inspiration I look to, as I realize my will, in its fullest potential, for that is all any of us can do, and that is all we may be said to have the “right” to do. If it is not the same tomorrow, as it is today, or yesterday, then be not surprised, for stagnancy and consistency are old and for old men, while youth and renewal and contradiction, that is the way of things, the true way of things. With whoever I want, those fellow vagabonds, if I can somehow manage to seek them out, if their vision, whilst not the same physically, is similar in spirit, and I repeat, with whoever I want, I shall associate with. If anyone shall decide to join me, so be it. If they refuse to, or even oppose, then I cannot blame or stop them, though I shall try to make it happen nonetheless. They can come and go as they please. Do as thou wilt, my friends. Do as thou wilt.

It shall be in a most beautiful, natural setting. Overgrown grass and healthy flowers instead of filthy sidewalks and streets. Tall, muscular, vibrant, imposing trees in place of concrete squares and drab, wooden structures. Soil for my bed. Lakes and ponds as my bathtubs. The breeze as my air conditioning. Wild fauna living their lives to the fullest, rather than drab, human clones, pompously strutting about. The sun and the moon taking the place of putrid streetlamps and streetlights. Money and moneyed interests will be gone, evaporated like mildew in the morning sun. No more will the economy be a deciding factor in anything. It’ll be back-to-the-land. However, the land, and its inhabitants, shall not be dominated. Harmony shall be achieved, where everything has its place. Nature is not our bitch. We are Nature’s bitch. We’d do well to remember that eternal fact.

This is not for anyone’s sake, outside of those whom I am emotionally attached to, and appreciative of, and love dearly. That is the answer to those critics who may be suggesting I am trying to be some sort of savior, some sort of messiah, striving for a kind of “greater good”, where all is restricted out of necessity. This should shut the conservative cowards and idiotic reactionaries up. Might I suggest you go back to the office and the church, and keep your noses out of what you couldn’t possibly understand. And if they cry the leftist-sounding cries of “egoism” and “selfishness”, then I shall throw their hypocrisy back in their faces, eviscerating their weak, pitiful arguments. I am what they practice, without all of the empty justifications they use to synthesize their contradictions, rendering them schizo . Nor shall I deny that I balk at tradition, for their “traditions” are false, and not perennial in the slightest, not worthy of the allegedly “primordial” importance they give to them. To put tradition, real tradition, and the ways of the Cross, Crescent Moon, or Star of David in the same sentence…would be the most absurd of errors. They are flimsy, just like their followers. Born of an age and period most foul, most absurd, and most deadly. And if economic concerns are raised towards me even once, I shall burn the nearest bank to the ground. Fuck your dismal science. I wipe my ass with your dollar bills. I might set your house on fire next.

Speaking of the left, they will no doubt decry me as some kind of decrepit miscreant. Unconcerned with the working class (I do not deny this, for to have something in common with someone based on our similar wages, is as hollow as having something in common with someone based on race, or gender, or geographical location), who are stuck in a slumber, lulled to sleep day in and day out, no sign of awakening in them to be found, and who reject whatever does not fit their mold, for they are ignorant and just as bourgeois as the bourgeois themselves, having adopted their standards. Yes, the rampant oppression and enslavement is disconcerting and hard to watch, but when they let it happen to them, and make no attempt, none at all, to alleviate themselves of it, can you really feel so sorry for them? They’d rather wallow in their sorry state, in their victim status, than assert their will, take that power, and light everything on fire, like they should. To answer the inevitable question, no, I shall not sit around idly, waiting for a revolt to magically happen, and then strive for my liberation then. It’ll never come, and if it does, as history has shown, it will not come via your side. They wouldn’t risk being ostracized and becoming an outcast for the mere sake of principles, in the meantime. Their liberty, whenever that comes, is not my liberty. As I’m sure they’ll also find out, I do not wish to make work more enjoyable or bearable, either. Those are two concepts that cannot be reconciled. I do not want to have a stake in the factory I work in. I want the factory razed to the ground. Forget about equality, too, while you’re at it, dear reds. I will gladly resist any attempts to level, to make me one with the herd. It won’t happen. I’d sooner fight you the way commie scum are supposed to be fought (I’d gladly make Joseph McCarthy look like a goddamn socialist, if need be), than let you pull a fast one on me.

Some may deem me a madman. But this is a mad world we live in. Everything is topsy-turvy. A crooked, messy hodgepodge we live in. All that we want to save or resurrect is dead and gone. We’re living in the shadow of a dead god, and the new ones give us nothing at all but misery and strife. Therefore, why not embrace the chaos and madness? After all, chaos is the natural state of life. Life is not orderly and pretty. If it is, it is not in any way the human mind would be able to grasp it. It is gruesome, violent, and uncertain, yet this is also what makes it beautiful, joyous, and exciting.

I want that thrill to come back, while the powers that be want to choke the life out of life itself, until everything is as drab and dull as everything else.

I’d go as far as to say that I, and others like myself, are the only “sane” ones left (forget sanity, however, for it was invented to keep the nonconformist from being a threat to the easily frightened mob, by quietly tucking them away in a dark corner), and everyone else is crazy.

WE’LL SEE (WE’LL SEE)

Trampled underfoot, I grow weary each day,
Unable to breathe; got nothing to say.

Creaking and groaning, my skin gets caught in their gears,
Roots disrupting their movements; they shed their crocodile tears.

And the children, they do what they can,
Standing strong against the legions of man.

In flames it goes, crumbling to the ground,
Populations reduced to woe; crackling of flames is the loudest sound.

Growing up through the slabs, bursting right on up,
Running, running, they go along,
Not so tough, not so strong,
I’ve just plain had enough.

Plenty of dirt, for the bodies that will fall.

An abundance of food for the children that walk and crawl.

Them vines and branches and dirt mounds will tear them apart,
But that’s ok; they ain’t got anything resembling a heart.

LUTHER’S ARMY

And so, he comes back home.

Or, well, what’s left of it.

On the map, it says it’s home. By all accounts, the unease stirring in his gullet shouldn’t make sense. Signs point in various direction, all saying they lead here. A most sacred patch, near and dear to his heart. This is where he belongs, his sanctuary. This is his, wholly his. Isn’t it?

But…it’s changed. A lot. Too much. Much too much. Not by its own volition, in the ways it is prone to; through artificial means. The kind that “doomsayers”, as the ignorant deem them, liked to warn about. Vicious, cruel, savage things he’d been cautioned to keep at bay, even dismantle, in various enlightening texts he’s absorbed.

Eyes peeled wide open, face steeped deep in concentration, searching, gazing, for something, arms folded, he peers, straining himself to find…something.

What was he looking for?

Something…recognizable.

That’s it.

Recognizable.

But, hmm, where was it?

He…he could’ve sworn it had been right here.

No, instead, it was a truly grotesque sight. A small plaza, fitted with everything a modern man and woman needs. Shops decked with neon lights, conjoined together like Siamese twins, until all of them merged into one giant monument of concrete, windows plastered with papers advertising this or that, saying the food was fresh (liars), or that you couldn’t get this cheaper than anywhere else (everyone says that), maybe a for-hire sign (debase myself? Ha, you were wrong). Mounted atop a huge asphalt slab, packed with motor vehicles, faceless and soulless decadents clamoring out of them. Why? Who knows. Who cares. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth noting. Hardly anything anyone ever does is so. Billboards erected, like giant, permanently erect phalluses, the eternal hard-on that draws in the lustful stragglers, always eager and needy for…something. What are they searching for? It’s unknown, both by them, and those who are not them. The top, the head, ever climaxing, so bright in comparison to the dullness of the shaft. Always trying to assuage each other. Unfortunately, both pits are so deep, so bottomless. How long have they been there, those pits? Ever since the lurking biped started roaming the landscape.

Surely, he must look so odd.

Given the stares and gazes of uncertainty, perhaps even scorn, his suspicions are concerned.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a strong urge to decimate them wells up within his gullet. A bestial, animalistic need to rend them apart. Tear them to pieces. Tear “their property” to pieces. Come to think of it, they’d probably be worried more about the latter, than the former. And this is the free world. So free, it can’t even picture the ball-and-chain attached to its neck. Clench and unclench, clench and unclench. Hands balling into tight fists, then unfurling again like frightened armadillos. Or geysers struck with pitch black gold. The only outward expression of that rage. Otherwise, his fury was tranquil. Well-hidden. Stuffed deep down inside. We are civilized, better than that dingy, mangy world. Don’t give in to the impulses, nay, for then you shall rediscover yourself. What you are. And what you are, we cannot leash. Or cloak.

Oh, the stench. The stench. It was awful. Reeked of foul waste and industrial dross. Discarded material from choking, dark, unholy mills. Dens of depravity spewing forth garbage.

Ugly, too. Absolutely offensive to his sight. Corrupt beyond repair. They twisted and mangled perfectly fine land for this? For this? This…this is their monument of greatness? Aye, it is true. So accomplished, they think themselves to be. Why? Because of this. This…thing.

Would such an outburst change much? Hell no.

Yet, would it bring him much satisfaction? Absolutely.

Perhaps a lifetime’s worth. So, so invigorating.

The man had to wonder, did that old hero that stayed out in Montana…did he feel the same fire, the same embers licking at his soul, sparking a rush of primal excitement to course through his veins, as he made his stand?

A sane Satan against a gibbering Jehova.

Rejoicing in turning these churches into heaping husks.

That poor old German fellow. Yahweh, Christ, was sadly not dead.

Some kind of diabolical shapeshifting had occurred, that’s all.

God’s a sorry excuse for a deity if He lets this slide. Then again, this is God. Transferred into them, via the wretched Luther (thank you, o wise German spirits). The talking, breathing, blood-and-bone machines, that, from what he hears, is God. And, also, though not as explicitly proclaimed, the…eyesores, as he designates these constructions that hefty, cigar-chomping, genetic failures call upon drunken philistines to manifest, via a green hypnotism…these are also known to be God. Even if it is not outright said…

Fools, all of them. In all of their stupidity, what would they know of God? In all of their idolatry, all of their massacring of God itself (herself, actually), quite literally…raping her (proudly, angrily, arrogantly, they got off on it, lived for it, in the most literal manner)…how could they know?

Aha, see, there it was. Yes, they knew not God, but their concocted demiurge. Foul, fiendish creature that is known as Marduk.

He knew God intimately.

God was encountered whenever he laid in the grass, gazed at the stars, leaned against an old, sturdy tree, saw a coyote chasing a rabbit, a duck raising its young, witnessing the sprouting of roses, getting lost in the clear waters of a pristine lake, as well as the fish swimming around in it, basking in the flow of the sun, and feeling and tasting the pitter-patter of rain drops upon his skin. He knew God to be beautiful, sublime, a grand artist with a taste for beauty, creator of a colorful, vibrant, lush world, filled with wondrous beings, and places where these beings dwelled.

God…God didn’t have a hand in this drab, dull, nightmarish, conformist shit heap. She couldn’t have. Nay, this was not her handiwork. Square monoliths, with rotting interiors, a sterilized, soulless den, that nevertheless, was always dirty. You walk in, and feel the need to shower once you’ve gotten out.

It’d be perfectly fair, he thought.

Desecration for desecration.

Ruin their god. Ruin the god that they have been told they are.

Blood for blood, Ruth for Ruth,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.

Sighing, he realized he’d been here for too long. Made himself more of a stranger than he’d already felt. Stepping forth, across the street, past the plaza, resisting the urge to look at the other human beings, ducking and lowering his eyes or head whenever an individual’s field of vision fixated on him. Barely anything came out of his mouth. If a greeting came his way, he merely nodded, gave an awkward smile, and kept on his way. Plodding along the highway. One foot after the other, making continuous contact with the concrete.

Voices speak of things he couldn’t even care to remember. He wished, oh he wished, to grasp their throats. Shut them up. T’was hardly worthy of recollection. Half-baked humorous remarks told amidst testosterone-riddled youths. Mates trying to woo one another. Conversations on devices, a beggar or two lingering, hoping for reprieve, brats annoying their tired mothers, and tired mothers annoying insolent, petulant brats. Silly, inane arguments. Some of them spoke fondly, in relation to the words of the…preachers, who gladly enslaved themselves and brought to life this new god. Others prattled on about their lives. The chit-chat blurred together into one singular story. Indistinguishable. Lost in a sea of perfect sameness. Who were they? He didn’t know. And neither did they, for that matter. Eyes vacant, devoid of emotion. Breathe, talk, walk, yes, they did all that…well enough. Yet, did they truly live? Were they even capable?

Of course, the peace wouldn’t come, even if their windpipes were shut. Oh no.

Because there was another menace, hurtling right past him, multiples every second. Practically blinding his eyes as the sun began to set (what little he could see of it, anyway; blot out the sun, why don’t ya!). Did the roads ever rest? Did the pavement ever sleep? It certainly should. For his sake, not for the pavement’s. Fuck the pavement.

Hurtling towards death, he liked to think of this travel. Humanity loved death, craved it. Mankind wanted to die. Wanted to kill itself. Come on; what was all this for, if not to satisfy that suicidal drive? In a literal sense, they were hurtling towards death, yes. Or, at least, the risk of it. On the other hand, there was a subtler meaning to such a statement. Faster and faster, towards their own demise, at the hands of progress, of wanting, no, needing…to go forward, always. Ceaselessly. Endlessly.

Well, if they wanted bloodshed and carnage, bloodshed and carnage they could have. Pleading, begging, crying, for their blood to be spilled, flowing out of their veins, onto the ground. Someday, their wishes would be granted. Thy death they demanded? Thy death they’d receive, in full. No questions asked. Might take some time, but soon, the end, their dream, their ideal, on a silver platter, fresh and steaming hot, would it be served.

Besides, they hated the Mother? Good, the mother hated them back. Soon, they’d know it. Maybe not now (although a sizeable chunk are starting to suspect this may be the case; and the children, the brave outlaws that are still authentically connected to her, and wish to be, revolt, as best as they can, every day), but in the near future, it’d be burned into their skulls. Stamped with the label: “HATED”. Rejected, because they chose to reject first. Abandoned, because they chose to abandon first. Sever the connection, and you shall no longer be a child of the Mother. You decided you didn’t want her. It should be unsurprising she no longer wants you.

Treading along the way, his eyes would focus on a corpse. Animal, not human. Humans are worth more, he’s always been told. Yeah? Worth more than what? The creatures they senselessly murder, so they can get to their jobs they hate, or their homes they spend more time out of, than inside? Feed their ever-growing numbers, and ever-growing bodies? Rape the Mother, God, more and more? Tie her up? Drill her real good, over and over? Be blind to Truth, intoxicated instead by lies? Kill each other, for reasons so baffling, he wanted to laugh in their faces? Prostrate at the alter of an Israeli communist agitator, who, if he were around today, should deserve to be strapped to the hood of a truck, and paraded around like a war trophy, whilst lashed endlessly? Did that prove their worth? What were they worth more than? Shit, they weren’t the bullets spent every day in their never ending quest to kill themselves.

A sigh left his throat, though it wasn’t heard. Stopping for a moment, tilting his head as his eyes fixated on it. Splayed out, tongue lolling out, eyes bulging, limbs flung in every which way, maggots digging around in what was no doubt a fresh body.

Sweet thing, you didn’t deserve this. You deserved better.

Time to get a move on. Don’t mourn the dead, or you’ll be deemed crazy. Sent to an asylum, locked away, shocked, beaten, poked, prodded, mentally rearranged to their liking.

He wasn’t crazy. All of them were. Not him. He was sane. A sane Satan.

Fuck. It was hard to think. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t. Needed to hear his own thoughts. Too many distractions. All this noise. Noise, noise, noise. That’s all there was. Just noise. Goddamnit, he’d need some sort of Zen-like concentration to tune out, to turn it into blank, white static. Or someplace like home. That reminded him of home.

Hmm…

Oh…

There it was.

Familiar territory.

Snarling, growling, like some kind enraged beast, he ran deep into a large patch of woods. A dense, thick forest on the side of the highway.

Tears blinded his vision, but not tears of pain. Jagged edges and thorns and other such things tore at him, made his skin bleed. Lesser folks would’ve been annoyed, angered. Him? Never. He took this as a welcoming back. Yes, he cried tears of joy. He was home. Hurrah, hurrah. He was home, free at last.

Collapsing to the ground in a heap, having founded a large, open patch, breathing and shaking from all of the adrenaline, a smile finally began to creep onto his face.

Think. He could finally…think.

BLOOD IN THE VALLEY

A silhouette could be seen on the street, outlined by the striking scene behind it. A factory was in flames. What kind? Could’ve been any. A manufacturer of building materials. A plant producing chemicals or sorting trash. A cement-making facility. A producer of farm feed. A space that churned construction equipment and construction materials. A slaughterhouse. Didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that it was burning to the ground. A broken mess of steel, concrete, and flesh. A heap of smoldering rubble. Casualties aplenty consumed by smoke and fire, trapped amidst destroyed wreckage. Shockwaves wracked the surrounding area as the scourge, the putrid entity, collapsed further, falling apart in dramatic fashion, screams and wails heard as some tried, with much futility, to escape. There was no saving it, despite earlier attempts. Best to jump ship. Not like they had a chance of doing that.

Man’s hubris had come full circle. Its creation had killed it.

The only thing that tends to kill man, at the end of the day, is man. Yet he remains afraid of Nature. Tormented and haunted by it.

Possibly because Nature reminds him at every turn that, no, many of his kin have gone too far, and most of his own aren’t welcome. Not anymore. Only some may delve deep. Be allowed to take refuge in her arms.

About the silhouette. It was difficult to make out the more minute details, but, the general picture was clear. A man lay beaten on the ground, lying face first upon the street. Standing over him was a man, much younger than the one currently being attacked. Mid 20s, compared to the battered gentleman’s late 40s. He wore a leather jacket, a shirt with an algiz rune on it, a pair of jeans, and heavy, steel-toed combat boots. The man on the ground was wearing a suit. A nice one. The kind that signified a certain…decadence. A degenerate lifestyle. Focused solely on materialistic concerns. Profit. Plutocracy. Dishonorable, disgraceful pursuits. This…man, if you could call him that, symbolized it so perfectly.

The younger man had his leg raised at about a 45° angle in the air, completely straight, not bent in any way. His heel was about to come down on the older man’s head. No doubt would this sickening excuse for a human’s skull be shattered, fractured, turned into shards. His brain, if there was one at all, splattered all over the ground. Staining the rather pristine looking boot.

The younger man’s head was turned towards the carnage behind him. One could guess that there was a look of satisfaction upon his face, though it was hard to tell, given the cover of night, and his facial features obscured by his straight, shoulder-length blonde hair. Proud of his handiwork, it would seem. He had every right to be.

There used to be land, where that eyesore once stood. A vibrant ecosystem, teeming with life. Dense woods populated with critters of all kinds, large and small, herbivorous, carnivorous, and omnivorous, full of blooming flowers, damp, cool, fertile soil, tall grass, lush shrubbery, and some particularly eccentric, exciting forms of flora scattered about. The deep woods led to a lovely field in the center, home to a large pond. The eye of Earth gazing out. Fish, birds, deer, reptiles and amphibians of many kinds, possum, coyotes, and many other life forms congregated or lived around here, enjoying the sweet building block of everything that was alive.

It was gone now. Those trees had been chopped down. That grass mowed mercilessly. Those flowers shredded. That soil was ruined, tarnished. And the creatures? Either slaughtered, or driven out. That pond is now a haven for all kinds of toxic waste. A thick, murky bog of sludge. Everything that goes near it fall ill, or dies.

Perhaps, perhaps…amidst the ruins, Nature can bring back what was lost. The giant was put to sleep, permanently. No longer allowed to wreak havoc like it once did. Maybe she could repair some, or most, of the damage that was done. No longer will it be a dead zone, devoid of beauty. She had a knack for that. With this nuisance out of the way, life may yet prevail, and find its way back to this area.

Let’s hope.