TO OTHER FOLKS I CANNOT RELATE

Millions of warm bodies surround me,
Yet I feel so distant and cold,
It doesn’t get better than this,
Or at least that’s what I’m told!

But in my time spent out there,
T’would appear I’ve come to disagree,
Day by day, night by night, I’m
Shocked by how unhinged they prove to be!

Can I really count myself
As another one of you,
Would I, embracing the so-called reality
Of my existence, feel it to be true?

Love; it’s what I’m told to
Meet you with, as one of my theoretical “own”,
Freely give it out and dole,
However, I find it difficult to love those
Who so clearly lack a soul!

It hurts to breathe,
Very well may suffocate,
Damned to live and die as one of them,
Bitter tears roll as a result of my bitter fate!

Condemned from birth,
I feel like a walking hearse,
Getting shoved into this species is a curse,
“Neigh!”, screams my heart to these destroyers of Earth,
So I’ll just walk away and leave you to burn,
Even as you roast, I doubt you’ll learn!

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I’M NOT YOUR STEPPIN STONE (HEY HEY HEY HEY)

Your boot is eager to come down
Upon my windpipe,
To crush and stomp out and
Server me from my connection to life,
Eager to dig in your heel,
Grind it into my chest,
Malice in your cold, dead eyes
As you lay me to rest!

Come and see our newest king,
O’ supreme overlord of all that exists,
No more room for us to breathe
For our continued existence makes him pissed,
Hands drenched in the blood of our kin,
Mouth tainted with the stench of death,
Proudly wearing us upon his skin,
Billions fall with a single breath!

Fists were smashed right into my face
As the insults were screamed over and over,
Kicking and flailing with all of my strength
But it’s no use; I’m only guaranteed a demise so much slower,
And they wonder why I cannot sleep at night,
Looking over my shoulder as I cross a path,
I’m haunted by him, the strangler of life’s light,
Doomed to flee from my home to escape his wrath!

Rivers of red have flooded the streets,
Tidal waves of crimson borne from pure deceit,
Burning carcasses are seared into my brain,
Hammering appendages upon soft surfaces drives me slowly insane!

A plaything for the master,
Or at least that’s what I’m told,
Can I be blamed for thinking they’re bastards
When their god cursed me to not fit their mold?

Perhaps some day it won’t be this way,
Yet I highly doubt I’m anyone’s priority,
Left in the dust after being torn and flayed,
At the mercy of a ravenous majority!

Hell is real, I see it every time I open my eyes,
Don’t tell me about your problems; from birth I’m despised,
Concoctions aplenty made just to bleed me dry,
It hurts so much, I’m no longer strong enough to cry!

Sentenced once I exited the womb…

Before I could walk, constructed for me was a tomb…

Upon me they will always tread…

My waking days are spent being full of dread…

HE CAME TO FUCKIN DIE

Antlers covered in the blood of another
Who thought they could just slaughter
In this holy place the beast and their own
Have always known to be home,
Entrails decorating sharpened bone like a crown,
Hooves trudging through the blood
That drips upon the ground,
Eager to bring back another trophy
So it could be mounted on the wall,
But now their insides are mounted
Upon a cervid’s head, the would-be killer forced to crawl…

Teeth clasp around the throat,
On the blood, the bastard chokes,
Several pairs of jaws from the pack
Dismembering while the trespasser’s on their back
Claws digging through the chest
As the fucker’s laid to rest,
Spilling guts while they eat,
Life’s liquid leaves the body and slowly depletes,
Dirt stained red,
A potential killer dead,
Jugular is leaking,
Blood junkie no longer fiending…

Beaks peck at the sockets
Of a scumbag with shells
Nestled in their pockets,
Slumped up against a trunk
With the roots growing ‘round their ankles,
Body long since having long been slumped,
Food for the little ones that nibble at the flesh,
Delighted to have food so fresh,
Flora and fauna nourished by the dripping crimson,
Having foiled another scumbag’s mission,
Branches and bark having made their incisions,
And those who don’t partake
Gaze on appreciatively, for this specimen that tried to
Walk among them was never, to them, ever great…

PASS THE SHOVEL

Oh, it’s hungry.

So, so…hungry…

More, more…

Never…satisfied…

It suffers from the type of hunger which never goes away. A ceaseless, agonizing, relentless, unbearable hunger that can never, ever be satiated, no matter much is shoveled into its bottomless gullet. Each hour, of each day, it roars with a horrific roar that demands an unbearable amount of material be fed to it. Sacrificed, if you will. Those who do not meet its demands are…well, never heard from again. Perhaps they became outlaws, plotting to wage war against it, hiding either in plain sight or on the outskirts beyond the reach of the monster. Maybe…maybe they just…disappeared.

Forever.

What does it hunger for? Any and all things. The soil, the water, the minerals, the air, the sky itself. And it shits out distorted, warped, twisted, mangled versions of these things. Water as black as the air it breathes out from its lungs once it has begun digesting soil and what was contained in the soil, or the rock, obscuring the blue shield of our home in the process. Does the hunger cease? Don’t be silly. The hunger…never…ceases. Even if those who work for the damned thing wanted the hunger to cease, the accursed beast would still compel them to provide nutrients, sustenance. Its influence is all-consuming, ever-expanding, never-ending. Beckoning all whoever come into contact with it to serve its tyrannical interests with a demented, insane sort of selflessness. For it considers service towards its sickening ends to be virtuous. To be one of its subjects, is to be duty-bound to it…for life. A blood pact is made with it once you join up with it. You can never leave…ever.

You think it stops there, don’t you? You think that’s the end of the line?

Oh…oh you poor thing.

We’ve only just begun.

Subjects become the prey. Whoever greases the machine, is eventually bound to become swallowed by it. Churned up and crushed, grinded into bits of meat for it to enjoy, and, maybe, make something new out of it. After all, it’s always on the cutting edge. Innovation. Progress. Always inventing. Just don’t question where all this comes from. Don’t think about it. Blind yourself to the pools of blood on your hands, my dear. Forget about the maddening screams of the wailing ghosts of all the dead that float all around and grab at your ankles from below the ground. Anyway, if it doesn’t steal your flesh, then…then it’ll just steal your soul instead. If it can’t make you dead on the outside, it’ll make you dead inside. Young, old, it does not matter. Upper, lower, you become a slave to it all the same. Fucker or breeder (because those are the only two distinctions it makes between its subjects; those who fuck, and those who breed…those who make, and those who deliver), the hammer pounds upon you all the same. The gears whir their cackling, maddening whir whether you like it or not. No consent required om your end. It’d be silly to think it ever needed it…

Not to mention, all of the…victims, subjected to its insatiable whims. Packed in dozens deep. Cramped into conditions so squalid and miserable, that it makes those of the subjects seem like paradise. Never seeing the sun. Never seeing the sky. But, wait, the sun is blocked out by thick clouds of hateful, acrid smoke, and the sky is now tinged with a dingy, decrepit, dull color that makes one’s nose bleed and eyes burn. Whole families. Fathers conditioned to force themselves on what could’ve been mates, lovers, all for the sake of creating children who will later be turned into meals for the subjects, who know not where all of this comes from, and how it got onto their plates. Cut up, beaten, burned, tortured, flogged, raped…eaten. And those who partake in all this, well…they are the dead flesh walking. Zombies that talk and breathe. Their hearts stopped beating long ago…and the blood is now in their veins. Frosty, like fresh snow during a blizzard. The pupils of their eyes disappearing as they brutalize the victims in ways that are simply too tragic to describe. And…and those with roots…who come from the ground…just slaughtered en masse. Gotten rid of. Later repurposed, stoically and precisely, with chilling precision, into…into…well, useless things that will eventually be gotten rid of immediately. Their lives worth about minutes, perhaps even seconds, of attention, at most. Deprived of lives, of a chance to exist. Trampled underfoot by the marching of the iron heel. So rhythmic, so perfect…so, so disturbing…

The world becomes warped to how it desires existence itself to be. All shall be constructed as a large, concrete rectangle. This shall be the template of the future. Built upon the holy shape of the square, with constantly observed innards kept up with by frightened, starving, weary wastrels who see no other alternative to this den of putridity and nastiness. All hail the grid, all hail the foreman and the cameras he employs to make sure you keep his god alive (it is a god, it is a god, and we must kill the god…but how can we kill the god; is it even able to be killed…can we?). But the god doesn’t need us, does it? Even without our help, it’ll never be a broken god. It won’t allow itself to fall into disrepair, allow itself to go unmaintained and lose its power. See, the god is slowly gaining more and more of a foothold, and soon, the god will be here to stay. It won’t need us, or anything made of flesh, bone, blood, chlorophyll, wood, or leaves anymore. Not to keep it going. Feast? Oh, it shall definitely still feast. But it’ll invent new ways of making sure it survives, and thrives. Becoming autonomous in the process. A free machine. An unbound deity of nightmarish proportions.

Escape? Is that an option? Maybe now. Here and now, potentially. Hopefully (gah, hope, such a funny…funny thing…heh…). While it’s not entirely too late. But the window is closing, fast. Evade, outwit, distract. Get out while you still can. Or fight, fight however possible. No matter how small, no matter how fruitless. Buck against it, swing your fist, scream at it, damage it. Just do it, in whichever way you come across or think about, even. You will weaken the grip it has on you, loosen the mental and maybe even physical chains that bind you. Refuse, resist. Nothing will change, but freedom, liberation, will start to become known to you. Do what thou wilt, because that is the opposite of its law. Not its law. Never was. Do what it wills, yes.

This…

Ah, this…

It’s all thanks to you.

What? This is what you wanted…right?

Pay your dues to the devil you have created.

Yes, penance is not cheap…is it?

Can you hear it groaning for more? Aching for more? More, more it needs…

Wants…more…

Give it more…

Everything…even you, yes, you…

Now…

Do your duty…

Be good…be…

Good…

LET’S GET FREE

Curiously, there are those who seem to believe that the totalitarian doctrine of capitalism is even remotely compatible with the ways of anarchy and individualism. Who foolishly seem to think that capitalism is a path to freedom, rather than a grave hindrance, a monumental obstacle, a roadblock that stands in the way of liberation. Nothing, nothing at all, could be any further from the truth. Capitalism seeks to crush both the tenets of anarchy, and individualism. Whoever deems it to be a friend of either, is wrong, and idiotic. Allow me to explain.

You see, capitalism’s so-called “individualism” is decidedly non-existent. It’s actually quite collectivistic. For starters, the economic model of capitalism, being a many-tendriled menace, requires as many participants, actors, if you will, in its grandiose stage play, demanding that all be subsumed into its gullet as possible, so as to allow for maximum growth and efficiency. The more participants, the more opportunities to bolster, profit, produce, consume, etc. Its entire goal is to level flat everything, steamrolling it all until there is only robotic machines making and taking, and nothing else. No cultures, no art, no thought or belief, no fun, no joy, no love, no passion, no ways of life that are different from each other, no myths or tales or stories. Only the endless, computational repetition of number-crunching and calculation. This can clearly be seen by the fact that capitalism, throughout its existence, has been recklessly and miserably imperialistic, expansionistic, wanting to stamp its footprint into every location on Earth. Once it achieved this, it could lasso every throat into being dragged inches and inches closer to its blades, to chop their heads off. Like cattle being led into a slaughterhouse. You have no choice but to allow capitalism into your life, into your world, because if you don’t, then capitalism will kill everything you care about outright, rather than slowly, through the insidious façade of “enrichment” and “prosperity”. The mechanism cannot allow for you to be free of it, and it never will. Opt out? There is no opting out. You’re in it, and the only way out is a mass grave.

Not to mention, concepts central to capitalism, such as businesses, “private property”, etc., all require large, concentrated masses to uphold, either through swindling, intimidation, or indoctrination. To collectively believe in them, and hold them to be true, as well as support these mammoth constructs. And, because capitalism treats these geists as absolutely real and unquestionable, you are required, out of a sense of duty, to your boss and fellow man, to adhere to them, to capitalism’s “law and order”. Many libertarians claim to be against the scourge of democracy, but it seems to me, rather, that free marketeerism, with its reliance on collectives and collectivism, the submission of the individual to the wants and whims of the many-too-many (after all, the populace that comprises the free market shall decide everything, and you, the individual, get no sort of say in your fate), its spiritual egalitarianism (everyone is equally a producer/consumer, capable of working and buying, and the only difference is someone’s bank account balance), and its populist message, signify that it is, in fact, the perfection of democracy. Besides, no “free market” is ever really free…

To piggy back off of all this, capitalism favors regimentation, rigidity, uniformity, conformity, homogeneity. It is often said capitalism leads to variety and difference; nothing could be further from the truth. Capitalism’s much akin to a black hole. Everything gets sucked into it, mashed together until it’s a hodge-podge of grey, undifferentiated material to be used later, and then shat out as a line of identically made products ready to be thrown away by beings who could not possibly afford them or find much use in them (outside of coercion and conditioning).

Which brings me to a second point: capitalism discourages any sort of “independence”, any sort of “self-reliance”. You might think to yourself, “well, capitalism encourages all of this atomism and disintegration”, and yes, capitalism, because of its uncanny ability to stretch itself thinner and thinner until it eventually starts to fall apart and tear at the seams, going berserk as it desperately tries to recuperate, clinging to dear life, does indeed lead to disintegration and alienation. How could it not? Out of a desire for a war of all against all, it simply manufactures one. Out of a desire for might to be right, it makes it so. Out of a desire of contracts, it turns everything into a binding document, from your first breath, to your last, pained heave. However…because of it forcibly welding so many things together in order to sculpt its vision of a grand, economic, materialistic Leviathan, the supposed “self reliance” capitalism offers is quite nonexistent. Like previously mentioned, capitalism discourages the “dropping out” mentality, of simply saying “no thanks”. Why? Because it needs you. It needs your time, your body, your mind, your soul, your heart, it needs it all. Denying it this starves the beast, causing it to throw a tantrum, like a petulant infant. First it will tempt you with promises of luxury, power, and comfort, saying that, “oh, well, you must rely on this, and everything born from it, and everything bound to it”. Then it shall mock, ridicule, deride, denigrate. Finally, there shall be scorn, hate, violence, a war to be waged, and much tyrannizing practiced. Eating you alive in the process. All because it thirsts for profit, for green, for cash.

Consent, it should be clear, is no part of capitalism. Quite hilarious, since libertarianism (allegedly) places so much emphasis on consent, although when it comes down to it, libertarianism will throw consent out of the window for its own ridiculous ends. No, capitalism does not give a shit about consent. It doesn’t ask, and it damn sure doesn’t take no for an answer. Either it gets what it wants, or, if one denies it, then one’s throat is slit. Capitalism, at heart, is the ideology of rape. And even many libertarians eventually realize that capitalism requires force, that it requires a sort of…how shall we say…predatory, jackbooted implementation. From Hoppe’s desire to create a yellow and black, national socialist coalition, to Rothbard’s notorious love affair with cops and wanting to exterminate the homeless, we know where libertarianism truly leads. And it is not towards anarchy…

Now for the connections between capitalism, centralization, and statism. All of the aforementioned characteristics lead out should make one realize that capitalism doesn’t lead to decentralization, to smallness, but rather bigness, and a concentration in one particular area. It’s much akin to Perlman’s conception of the Leviathan that takes the form of an octopus. Many arms will have a stranglehold in many areas, but they all lead back to the same source, the same body, and feed the same mouth. Quite like how a railroad network extends in all directions, but they all congregate, eventually, into one spot. All roads, in capitalism, thanks to its need for accumulation, for hoarding, for an incessant hunger that manifests in a never-ending quest for acquisition, lead back to an ugly head, and a cold, coal-like heart, with a mouth that spews toxic waste all over the land, unleashing noxious breath that only serves to increase the growing number of dead left in its wake.

As you can see, this all leads to a state. To enforce capitalism’s rules and regulations (because it will foster many, even “anarchist” capitalists, these idiotic libertarians, have so many stipulations attached), police forces, laws, courts, judges and juries and executioners, prisons, will have to be constructed and mandated. And because of capitalism’s rapacious appetite, it will need to tax, to rob and commit theft from whoever’s caught between its teeth, stuck in the gaping maw, about to be forever swallowed into its gullet. Who shall do all of this? Rulers, of course. States. Monolithic entities that eventually become the sole carriers of the sword, the ones with the monopoly on violence, and says to all, “obey or die”. Like all states, it will grow to enormous proportions. Even libertarians will find themselves having to concede this point, assuming their logic is taken to the conclusion. You see it in David Friedman, Lew Rockwell, and perhaps even further than either combined, Insula Qui.

In conclusion, libertarianism, “anarchist capitalism”, is an oxymoron. A phantom, a fraud, a severe case of dupery and con artistry. Anarchy and capitalism, they cannot coexist. This has been proven time and time again, both by history, and the proponents of both (as well as by the jackasses who try to create a synthesis between the two).

NIHILISTISCHEN

It would appear that the devil keeps the company of those we least expect, often times those we most revere/adore, and we should be grateful for that. How sad would it be if all of the greatest heroes were children of God. In fact, I’d wager half, nay, even most, were not. For how could one be considered a hero, and live by the code of the Nazarene? I repeat, I think it is something to be celebrated, not downtrodden and depressed by, that the greats were not, in fact, the disciples of Christ, but rather…the disciples of Satan itself. For Hell contains all of the most interesting and vibrant characters. Heaven contains mere studious dullards and cowardly wimps; the types who did nothing, said nothing, and were nothing. Hell is home to those who separated themselves from the masses, the breathing graveyard that is “the people”. Possessed by a Luciferian impulse, even if they proclaimed otherwise. Eternal rebels, never content to follow along with the whims of the sleepwalkers, the dullards, the idiots and jackasses who didn’t dream (and probably were incapable of such a thing in the first place). Naturally, they were doomed, on this Earth, to be reviled. Becoming the hated of the world. After all, history’s heroes were no doubt deemed heretics, receiving death threats, scowls, and scornful words, oftentimes condemned to The Pit by the all-too-human who groveled at the feet of a meek sand-walker.

But there are two in particular, whom I hold in very high regard, that, while coming from the colorful and confusing world of American Protestantism, and claiming to be admirers of Christ, even Jehovah; who, by their own admission, owe much of their thought to the words spewed out from the pages of that wretched Holy Book, I would argue, owe their thought process to something entirely different.

I am, of course, speaking of two literary giants, both of them forever seared into the written canon of the United States, worthy members of the few from this despicable country I consider worth admiring in a large, overflowing capacity…or in any capacity, for that matter. These two men are none other than Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau. A pair as quintessentially “American” as baseball, capitalism, the hot dog, and crowded centers of urban filth and decay.

Yes, one may raise an eyebrow at the idea that the great Thoreau and the mighty Emerson being…well, not men of God. Whilst certainly not being drab and dull Puritans/Calvinists who thought life was only work, suffering, toil, and merely waiting around to die, sharing not the absurd policeman mentalities of America’s founding theology, not at all, both professed a love for their idea of “God” and Christ, counting them as inspirations for their outlooks. Perhaps both would even balk at my conclusions. These men, men of the devil. I know, it sounds absurd. As absurd as saying that animals should be fear alongside humans. But dear reader, allow me to explain.

See, Thoreau and Emerson, for one thing, were staunch individualists. Divorced from the herd-mentality of Abrahamic religion, its populism and love of democracy, its statism and grotesque love of all things authoritarian, levelling, flattening, and crushing. They extolled self-reliance, independence, the lone outlaw against the idiotic and boorish crowd. Especially Thoreau, for he lived it, whilst Emerson laid the groundwork, so that Thoreau could put it into practice, and expand it even further. No trace of love for the mindless sleepwalkers exists within either’s words, their works. At best, they look upon them with pity, with a certain level of disappointment. Why can the rest not cast aside the shackles of society and state? They aren’t ready. Perhaps they never will be. Both admit this, though not so explicitly and bluntly. Duty? Ha, what an absurd notion to this pair. Obligation? To hell with it. Thoreau and Emerson were baffled by such notions. Such values the Abrahamic trio applaud and praise, demanding that one surrender themselves to the mob, and be one with it, never to leave it, sacrificing yourself for it. It’s the ultimate measure of your worth. Egoists, Emerson and Thoreau were. Ego death, the three-headed hydra of Yahweh wishes for. Kill your Self, they demand.

Another aspect of both of these great men that puts them squarely on the left hand path is their love and adoration for Nature. If one knows their theology, they know that Yahweh/Allah has a disdain for the material world. Calling it corrupt and impure, a fowl mockery of existence, and says only his kingdom is the way. Going so far as to entrust it to the most destructive and habitually suicidal species, merely because they resemble him (and we do…but this is not a laudable sort of thing). He has no care at all for Nature, for our Mother Gaia. Thoreau and Emerson, however…they see the beauty, the wonder, in Gaia. Rightly, they realized our Earth was sacred, worthy of being protected and cherished. An assault on Gaia was an assault on the divine, an assault on the wondrousness of existence, on liberty itself. Gaia was to be worshipped, not devastated and destroyed, not made into a mere tool of man’s wretched needs and wants. The two also recognized that within the embrace of Nature, true freedom was found. It is the only anarchy, the only way into the throes of liberation. It cannot be found in civilization, in society, in the confines of the suffocating environment known as “Leviathan”. Emerson and Thoreau were no humanists, and that puts them squarely at odds with the Abrahamic tradition.

Of course, we cannot also sweep aside the nihilism that lurks in the hearts of Emerson and Thoreau. Good, bad, truth, lies, of what use were they to this dynamic duo? Nay, they were hardly real to this pair. Both were heretics, immoralists, by that time’s standards, and even by today’s. Both resisted much, believing little, to quote Whitman. The maxim, “all things are nothing to me!”, from their German counterpart, who may’ve never heard either of these fellows’ names, but nonetheless shared much with them, rings true in the words they wrote. But this was no Schopenhauerian nihilism, which is defeatist and shrinks away from life. No, no, Emerson and Thoreau sought to embrace the storm of life, the chaos, as cheerful and idealistic pessimists, a truly active nihilism. Finding freedom in this lack of inherent meaning. Abrahamic religion is life denying, saying a resounding “No!” to everything, whilst Thoreau and Emerson shout a clear “Yes!”. Abrahamic religion seeks to strangle life, make it vile and ugly, since it only sees it aa vile and ugly. The world, under the gaze of Yahweh/Allah, becomes monstrous, as he wishes for it to be monstrous.

Let us also not forget the anarchistic character Thoreau and Emerson possessed. Whilst Emerson was not quite fully against the state, he found government to be a tyranny, and society to be an oppressor, both in conspiracy to crush the rebel, the free thinker, with its laws, police, economies, politics, etc. No government was satisfactory in Emerson’s eyes. All of them were corrupt, and the truly admirable always bucked against the system. All of the government’s apparatuses were little else than bulldozers seeking to crush dissidents with their power-tripping ways. Same with Thoreau. Whilst Thoreau professed to not be one of the “no-government-men”, he was hardly a fan of the state. An authoritarian, Thoreau hardly was. The state, in Thoreau’s eyes, needed to be done away with, to be tossed into the wastebasket of history with plenty of other failed ideas. He considered it an out of control abomination that wanted to put a chokehold on the natural state of life, which was anarchy, and potentially snuff it out for good. There was no path to liberty within the walls of Leviathan’s stinking guts, and so Thoreau tried to escape the morbid stench, striving to leave it as far behind as possible. And can one blame him? Thoreau was an anarchist in all but name. And not one of those idiotic libertarians, nor an “anarcho-communist”. But one who despised civilization, who saw to the root of the problem, the core of the dilemma that plagued our existence for millennia, and recognized that nothing worth keeping was found in its grinding bowels. Especially since Thoreau was a passionate lover of Nature. Abrahamic religion, however, is hardly anarchist. Monarchs aplenty in that tradition, with examples of men in the Bible ordained by God to rule with an iron fist. Passages saying that submission to disgusting Rome was encouraged. Quotations encouraging the subjugation of women and other races, ideas which Thoreau and Emerson, staunch abolitionists and admirers of women, found horrid. Yahweh is a totalitarian who watches your every move. If you disobey, to the fiery depths you go. But what would be so bad about that? After all, Satan is far more interesting and worthy of consideration.

So you see, Emerson and Thoreau are not men of God, not at all. Maybe they knew this, but, being in the conformist shitheap that is the US, had to carefully cloak their language in something more acceptable (and naturally, were still, and are still, persecuted for it). To be different in America, is to be indecent. And America hates anyone who doesn’t stoop to its mobocracy. Least of all, the one with a cross stamped into it. To call them members of the right hand path, would be a sorry mistake. It is evident that they were anything but.

CATCH OR BE CAUGHT (SHOOT OR BE SHOT)

Root out their tongue
So swiftly from
Their stench-filled
Mouth, that it
Causes them to choke
On their own
Wicked blood,
Forcing them to taste the
Decadence in what
Gives them life,
Solidifying the rottenness
Preached from their blackened hearts.

Silence, silence
Them all,
Under no circumstances
Will words leave their
Accursed lips,
Lest they
Beckon you forth
Via a foul seduction.

Nay, do not be tempted; thou
Must heed my words.

Life wilts away,
Evaporating in their presence.

Here be the world’s greatest pestilence.

QU’EST-CE QUE C’EST

In the background, She stands
Tall, shadowed
And silhouetted,
Robed, concealed,
Beautiful and grotesque,
Wonderful and wretched,
All at once
Whenever the veil covering her,
The thin veneer that hides her away,
Is, away, peeled.

Bony, pale, and gaunt,
Clearly looking the
Part of an exhumed cadaver,
Eyes as dark as voids,
Minds She cannot help but haunt.

Taciturn, aloof,
Born from the Most High,
Our Mother herself,
Without need or want.

Yet peculiarly splendid and striking,
Endlessly charming and beautiful
Despite the uncanny image
Which meets thine eyes,
Mixing the most gorgeous and ghastly visage,
Demanding the undivided
Attention of one’s gaze,
Mystifying and alluring, seductive, even,
As She draws you into a kind of daze.

Terrifying, but also a
Strange sense of comfort and
Even warmth is drawn
From Her aura; you cannot
Quite place it, but you know
It’s there, and you feel compelled
Towards it, drawn to it,
For it always lurks, in all that
Lays claim to this thing called “life”.

You know Her, and yet you
Do not; both distinctly foreign
And oddly familiar.

Marked upon Her brow
Is a curious brand. A warning sign
To the clay-born
Offspring of wretched man.

In the grip of Her left hand
Standeth the eldest of deadly
Tools meant for the slaying
Of man. Sower of seeds, tiller of
Ground, harvester of the fruit
Bared by the forbidden gardens,
Cause of the first blood to be shed
Upon the fresh, newborn land.

Hire instrument,
Faithful and stinging,
To Her, always clinging,
Is this tilling thing, by the tip,
Dripping with blood. Eternally
Spilling from the blade
And nestling into the soil,
Feebly crying out
Whilst descending into the mud.

Auras of a chilliest kind
Surround Her essence,
Curses falling upon the land
Thanks to Her looming presence.

Deep in the crimson river,
She stands and wades.

Behind riseth the mountain
Of men, young and old, rich and poor, alike,
Souls stripped from their flesh
By both bullets and blades.

On Earth She was first known
When She gave way
To a most fearsome son.

From Her, His mark was received,
And by His hands, the first
Of the holy murders was done.

I PERSIST FOR THE FLOWERS ON MY SLEEVE

Sought after by so many,
Highly regarded by damn near all,
For the beauty it possesses,
Individuals reach out and fall.

Danger comes to those
Who wish to touch and grasp,
And for their daring wants and needs,
They shall face Nature’s wrath.

It shall be untouched,
It shall not be disturbed,
It shall never fall into their hands,
It shall never be torn out and plucked,
Forever its pursuers are perturbed,
Always out of reach to the legions we call man.

Hell is where it dwells,
Or least that’s what they,
In their many quips and tales,
Prattle on about and say.

We want what we can’t get,
The dashing of hopes and dreams,
O’, they shall not let,
The mangling of something beautiful,
They are dead set.

It shall never be felt,
It shall never be theirs,
It shall never be destroyed,
It shall not capitulate and wilt,
A victim, never, of their worries and cares,
By their concerns, it is forever annoyed.

Leviathan cannot stand what
Refuses to be absorbed into it,
So it lashes out in fury and anger,
Determined more than ever
To lay waste to that which resists…

No conception of beauty, does the
Lumbering beast have; never has it,
Or will it, and forever does it hate,
Scorn, this unique thing, that
Bravely, triumphantly, says “no,
I shalt not become one in your ranks”.

CORPSE OF DECADENCE

What would they know about life? What would they know about living? Stuck within the confines of ivory towers they built for themselves, living exclusively within the lap of luxury, they know nothing of life, or living. Life is struggle, life is joy, life is passionate, life is full of fear, mystery, danger, wonder, and a sense of destiny. These characters, they sorely lack a desire for such things. They’ve become dulled, any drive pulverized and crushed. And for those born into this, they never will. Nor will their so-called “friends”, who are just as decadent as they are.

Cowardly materialism, the way of the Enlightenment, of the rationalist, has led us to this point. Where mercantilists are the ones with the final say. Who spread their tendrils everywhere, seeking to occupy every corner of the globe. Nothing has value beyond the monetary amount it can be acquired for or auctioned off for. Rope everyone and everything into their homogenized dystopia. Uniform, steamrolled, crushed under the weight of sacks of currency! Can it make me rich? Then I do not desire it! After all, as the liberal forefathers declared (and you know who they are), all can be reduced to economics, and these are the only things worth giving a rat’s ass about. Spirituality lies murdered in the gutter, and its corpse propped up in a carnival show, drawing curious faces for prices much higher than whatever pocket change they fish out for the exhibit.

Damn the higher causes! All that matters is the cries of the stomach! Oh humanity, do look upon what your desire for more reasons to your wallet has wrought! And look what your desires for bigger wallets to stuff your bigger paychecks in has given us! Your minds swim in the intestines.

Their minds have turned to soup, melted in their skulls, neurons having stopped firing long ago, the chemistry of their mind washed away and dulled. They can’t feel. They can’t think. They exist in a state of permanent autopilot. Green heroin is pumped throughout their veins, stuck in a state of pure euphoria and bliss that has turned whatever cognitive faculties they may’ve had to utter rot. Clouded eyes can only see the value of colored paper and minted coins, nothing else. Life is only useful in that provides more of the drug, more of the dopamine rush. Addicts on thrones, they are! And you are loathesome scum if you dare suggest you don’t want to be a part of the rat race, to be crushed under the iron heel of financiers, bankers, business people, and investors, let alone take actions against such types, or try to exit their clutches!

Their bodies are weak and soft. The mere thought of exercise, of putting the flesh and bone to good use, frightens them. Soft, scared of the world beyond their painted walls, plastered with art that they only value based on price, and not on quality. They are weak. Those who they deem to be “below” them, these false gods, they call botched. But it is they, who are botched! Miserly failures of existence. A waste of flesh and blood! Take away the gold and the diamonds, the palaces and fancy automobiles, immerse them in the state of nature, in the natural order, and see how they fare. We shall see who is weak, then…

Their very existence cheapens reality itself. All they can care for is whatever costs the most. Plutocrats, these meatbags. The rule of money, the reduction of all things to products for consumption, the decimation of culture, of any high and mighty ideal, the evisceration of Nature, the trampling of diversity, real diversity, and not mere brands to choose from, the utilitarian, use-driven philosophy that accompanies their way of life, and their urge towards baseness, towards the lowest common denominator. It is all they know! All they will ever know! What they relish in can only present this fetid, detrimental reality. The nightmare we are currently entrapped in. Human wouldn’t be a fitting term for them, I think. They think with their purse. The dollar does the speaking for them. Not that them using their mouths would be any better! They spew the verbal equivalent of sewage waste.

Our society declares them to be gods. To society, I laugh mockingly at their declarations. These mere impersonators of men and women, for to call them the real thing would be an insult to the actual species, are far from worthy to stand next to the likes of Wotan, Krishna, Mictlantecuhtli, Hekate, or Pan! They aren’t even mortal heroes.

They speak of us as weaklings? Very well. Let them revel in their stupidities. It matters not to me, or anyone else with a healthy outlook, what they happen to think. Nor do I particularly feel bad for the fools who lick their boots. This is what they wanted. What they begged for, pleaded for. What they continue to support. What their “champions” uphold with great pride, even the ones who claim otherwise. And if it’s what they want, then they deserve to get it good and hard. They made this bed, and now they must lie in it.