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.




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”.


Wordlessly, he affirmed to these twins, and himself, that he would carry on. For their sake, and his own. Because…why not? What else was he going to do? Sure, it wasn’t apt to be perceived as glamorous by most (everything that is seen by most as glamorous, is in all actuality, disgusting, pitiful, nauseous, corrupt, and worthy of the most virulent, accusatory, seething contempt), but they were more than enough for him. Then again, there was actually a certain loftiness, a certain grandiosity, in this new undertaking. He would be, in essence, a father. Keeping them safe, guiding them through this terrifying and wondrous world; that would be his new mission, from here on out. The guiding light that would serve to motivate his legs to walk forward more and more.

Vowing, silently, within his heart, Bruce promised to never make the same mistakes that his own father had made. Like Charlie, he would not be. These two would be properly cared for and loved. Shown affection, reminded that they were not merely potential soldiers, potential killing machines. Their wills would not be negated for his own whims and desires. If they wished to live like him, so be it. Yet, if they did not, then judge, he would not. Nor force them. And they would not tormented, berated, and borderline abused (it would seem that he was finally starting to realize, in recent weeks, that he’d been looking on Charlie raising him, that part of his upbringing, with heavily rose-tinted glasses). Certainly, Bruce would never, ever, under any circumstances, resort to killing them, or attempting to, anyway. For any reason.

Bruce hadn’t really raised anything before. Truly brought a being up from juvenility to adulthood or what have you; such an endeavor had never been undertaken in his lifetime. Never had the desire sprang up within him, come to think of it. However, he now knew that what he went through, was no way to rear a child. Even Charlie, throughout his life, acknowledged this, and despite Bruce (admittedly, in a half-hearted manner, now looking back on it all) trying to reassure his father that he’d done a good job…there was no denying that Bruce’s early life had been wrought with trauma, hardship, strife, and (relatively) unnecessary suffering.

And the young man had been all the worse off for it…

No, things would be different for these pups.

Did he know anything about being a father? Not exactly. As far as examples go, he was given the most mixed one in existence.

Goddamnit, he’d still try. These pups deserved that much. His highest efforts.

Oddly enough, the fact that it was a human being he was to consume, in that rundown, structurally unsound shack, did not produce much anxiety within himself. Wholly undisturbed by the fact, he cut the corpse down, flung it over his shoulder, and carried it into the shack for him and his new friends to enjoy by a bright, dancing, seductive gathering of flames and sparks and cinders. To this day, he wasn’t sure why that was the case, his lack of perturbation towards the indulging of human remains. Could it have been as simple as his hunger, his demanding appetite, screaming out for something edible, roaring feverishly deep within at the presence of a potential series of meals? Maybe the sheer lack of energy made it thoroughly impossible to care? Perhaps the thought of sharing a meal with another sentient lifeform sparked some joy within that heart of his, that weary, war-torn soul, gripping in a white-knuckled manner to the last vestiges of life? Or…or…just a thought, but…this could’ve been his ultimate revenge against a species that had wronged him greatly, in his eyes? A dabbling in that most forbidden practice, as a way of slandering a race, a breed, a creature, which he had started out with a rather disdainful opinion of, and found himself, now, wanting to see extinguished from the face of the Earth?

Either way, with his newfound companions, he cooked and prepared said flesh as best as he could. It turned out quite well, which was a shock to himself. Meat was never a meal, in any form, he’d indulged in, as mentioned a little while ago. For his first time ever…making it, the results were quite edible. Dare he say, delicious. And the little furry critters now under his care certainly shared those sentiments.

Never again had his teeth, his jaws, his tongue, indulged in, swallowed down, digested, chewed and mashed and broken down, chunks of flesh.

From here on out, that stomach of his would know the nutrients and proteins nestled within fat, muscle tissue, blood, sinew, ligaments, and the flavor exuded by the bone, no more from that point forth.

Interestingly enough…something did change. A spiritual occurrence, of a…peculiar kind. T’was hard to name it, hard to put a finger on it, so as to grasp it and examine it. Study it. Certainly something of an adversarial variety, gifted from a place beyond anything even he, in all of his experiences…could hope to imagine. Nor was it subtle. Seems as if some kind of different, hidden nature, some buried potential that he had been eager to get for so long, had been unlocked within him, allowed to burst forth and surge in his veins, in his blood, freely and excessively. An uncontrolled wildfire searing every inch of his internal structure, setting his soul ablaze in a manner that was, despite the way that description may sound…extremely pleasant. It could be seen in the darkening of his bright, shiny blue orb, singular and lonely, lying in his skull, a nod towards something…other. As though whatever he were composed of wasn’t the material of mere mankind. Not a swift, readily apparent shift in the coloration, in that eye of his. Yet, to the keen observer (of which there were none around, aside from the chipper pups currently laying on either side of him, occasionally staring at him in a perceptive manner, as if they knew…something was up), the difference was staggering, and a bit…disconcerting. Seeing such lovely ocular organs turn blacker and blacker.

The key to all of this, of course, lay in the consumption of a human being.

Now, why him?

He’d come across many a cannibal in his life. For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of (besides his great aversion to the consumption of flesh), the act always disgusted him. But, of the cannibals he often ran into, there was no doubt some other element there that made it beyond vile. Example: many of them made sure it turned sexual. Applied fetishistic logic to it, sprouting burgeoning erections as their teeth gnashed through skin and down to bones. Usually accompanied by sick violation and defilement of the person in question.

Could be the numinosity carried within. His ties to…something else. Of course, he’d only ever taken it purely on unshakeable faith, an unwavering belief. Whether he knew for sure or not, whether it was even truly there or not, that did not matter. This was not the most pertinent aspect of it all. And everyone else who he was raised alongside, was aware of this fact, his…his difference. Able to apprehend the unnamable that made him uncommon. Perhaps, some had theorized, he’d been born out of somewhere else. Here, he did not belong. In this realm, he was not truly a member. More of a long-term guest. They were knowledgeable of his true nature, and their own, those who he often accompanied or was accompanied by. But there’s never been any proof that could be detected by the profane ways of the more ordinary and more asleep. That’s not to say that it wasn’t there. It absolutely was. Even the dullards, who were absolutely in the majority, got the hint. Bruce, in addition to those who Bruce associated with, and chose to associate with him in kind, were no ordinary men and women, no mere mortals. Well, in a sense, anyway. He, as well as they, certainly possessed a kind of mortality (this, despite the tales weaved by mythmakers on all sides, was irrefutable and unquestionable). Yet, in comparison to the numerous, the many, the…all too human, shall we say, there was a gap. One that was always every widening, to the point of potentially being insurmountable. Many, many times, during countless days and nights, he could distinctly recall feeling the ever-present chasm that formed between him and his kindred, and those who were…mundane. “Everyone else”, as Charlie would say. Never again able to join them (if he ever had that potential to begin with), even if it was only an acausal thing, and not something physically present in the material world.

Even among crowds of the ordinary, he was simply…not there.

Appearance-wise, he may’ve been virtually indistinguishable from your everyday member of mankind, but, as the saying goes, appearances can be deceiving.

We all know this…

In the beginning, the great Mother had set to
Vitalizing and animating all things.

Flora and fauna, by Her hand, were given parts of
Her flesh and spirit, shaped by a deep and gracious love.

Soil, wind, water, minerals, fire, night and day, for they art also true,
Were blessed with Her soul and essence as well, proven by
The expressions gifted to our world by winter, summer, fall, and spring.

Aye, this creation is a part of Her, and Her, a part of it, but not, exactly, above,
No, not the right term to use; nevertheless, it is not all of her, for there is still much
Of Her that is beyond this world, this universe; so much that soars into infinity like a dove.

Disharmony was not present, for all was balanced, and all was free,
Living in accordance with its own True Will.

Order and chaos, discord and form, neither fluctuated and sank into excess, you see,
And there was no concept of struggle for mere struggling sake,
Greed and overconsumption seen as detriments, for then the Mother would be killed.

And why, pray tell, would anything want their Mother to perish?

She is the source of life, the wellspring from which the tree drinks and grows.

Birth and rebirth would not be without Her; non-existent would be life and death’s great throes.

To server the ties to the over soul, to cut away that which binds everything,
From most complex to charmingly simple, to Her,
Would be tantamount to suicide; ergo, She is, consciously or unconsciously, cherished.

One day, a new being
Was soon fashioned by Her hands.

A pestilential monster that
Would take over and dominate all
Of the lands.

Atop two legs and two feet it stood,
Gazing upon all with a hard look.

Fiendish things they were,
Thus species of wicked crooks.

Perhaps it was Her only mistake,
It goes by the name of “Man”.

After a period of what Bruce had assumed to be several days (he counted six nights), he decided to venture. Having exhausted the remains of the body, as well as a cache of various edible plant items (a bit stale and rotten, many of them were, but not past the point of no return; besides, given the fact that he’d just ate a human carcass…one could imagine his gullet was probably fashioned out of iron), and plenty of aged meat for his two furry comrades to devour, along with enough water to hydrate this trio of admittedly mangy scroungers, the inevitability of having to leave this shoddily constructed den slowly became a reality he’d have to contend with. Oh well. This…”break”, if it could accurately be called that…from all of the carnage and raging entropy that plagued his existence, was a welcome one. For once in his life, he’d managed to acquire healthy, sizeable amounts of rest. Granted, his body was wracked with exhaustion and near-lethal physical trauma, making his biological instincts mandate, more or less, sleep, yet if that’s what it took to get a string of nights where his mind didn’t wake him up after grotesque images flashed through it over and over, or being interrupted by outside interferences hell bent on either turning him into Swiss cheese, a tasty snack, or decorations on a decrepit wall, he would gladly take it. And even now, peering out of the doorway, into the pale, uninviting abyss that was the snowy plains of Oregon, every part of him, every single fiber and cell of his physical anatomy, felt sluggish. Perhaps revolting and rebelling against what Bruce would, once again, command his body once more to do, to endure, to act upon, to be subjugated to. Weak and way out of his element, did he feel to such an immense degree. Sure, he might’ve been tiptoeing on the very brink of death, but the idea of his state being “pathetic” still rang true in his head.

Trudging out into the unknown, eyes wandering about, a lost, vacant gaze plastered on his face, wearily scanning for anything that could be deemed a threat, his two companions now at his side, he realized a bit late that he saw…something…

Feet stopping dead in the snow, he figured that there should be a heightening of fear and worry going on in his veins, alerting him to a danger that he couldn’t even begin to fathom. Screaming at him to back away, turn in a different direction, hope and pray to whatever deity he adhered to for a chance at surviving unscathed. What he was looking at should’ve surely driven him to madness, no doubt. Even though he was already quite well off his rocker.

But…none of that happened…

Just…just didn’t kick into high gear.

What…what was it?

Skulking about in the fog, looking like some kind of ghostly apparition, resembling more of a paranoia-induced hallucination than a physical being proper (though rest assure, whatever he saw was indeed…very real), the details were nonetheless unmistakably apparent.

Black fur, shaggy and unkempt, matted and overgrown, claws like knives upon its giant forepaws, antlers growing out of the skull it had for a head, a hunched over form that, if stood fully upright, might’ve well measured…maybe 12 feet talk, and fangs lining its upper and lower jaw, with eye sockets empty, hollow…similar to black holes in space, deep voids where there was no light.

It paused its eerie trotting…

And then turned its head ever so slightly, to look back at him.


Another one dead
By the road,
Ruthlessly tread upon
And robbed of its soul.

A grizzly sight,
One which catches the eye,
Rubber marks etched into the skin,
It’s enough to make you want to cry.

Trampled under by rolling feet,
The usurpation of our mother’s complete.

Torn apart by rubber teeth,
Silently reminded it didn’t deserve to breathe.

Another one dead,
Another one gone,
Gasoline spews into the air
And motors sing their siren songs.

That foul black serpent
Wants to strangle life,
Venom spewing forth from its fangs
As they pierce the Mother like a pair of knives.

Her children are murdered
By Her biggest mistake,
Rain falling hard everyday as She
Weeps from the constant rape.

Butchered upon the
Cold concrete,
By steel machines,
Innocent creatures are torn and beat.

It was their home first,
Despite our claims.

Man has an unquenchable thirst,
A desire to kill, torture, and maim.

Another one dead,
Left to rot,
And all pass by,
The corpse they forgot.

Why should they care?

A natural consequence
Of their dominance.

The little vermin shouldn’t have been there.

And we’re told that there are innocents,
There are those who don’t deserve to die.

Find me a pure soul,
And I’ll show you a pure lie.

A giant gang of serial rapists
Is on the loose.

Murderous offspring drag their weakened
Mother right to the noose.

Another one dead,
Killed for the cause,
An ugly strip laid
And another home lost.

To make way
For the doomsday machines,
Asphalt poured deep in the ground
While species galore are wiped clean.

More and more are laid to rest.

Despite what the tyrants say,
They were our brightest and best.

Bipedal monsters pilot
Their fuming horses.

Blackened is the air,
Heading towards suicide.

Kill the inhabitants with glee,
Spill their blood with heinous pride.

It’s all so goddamned sordid.

Another one dead,
Buried inside a concrete tomb.

The sky cracks and shakes
As filthy hands dig into our Mother’s breast and womb.

Gotta make way for the coming end,
That’s why they’re speeding into oblivion,
And they all invite their family and friends,
Ushering in a decadent age, just like that old Gideon.

Metal phalluses erected,
Plunging deep,
Forcefully injected,
And some wonder why our Mother
Just wants to enter eternal sleep
As the dross that is homo hubris continues to smother.

Hell is here,
It’s where we went.

Built on Earth,
That’s where we were sent.

Every man is damned,
And I’d say they all deserve to be.

I look forward to the end of Man,
I cannot wait to see him bleed.

Someday a rain will come,
And wipe away the scum that breeds.

Scum breeds scum, all roads lead
Right into the heart of decay.

She’ll be right when upon us She feeds,
For suicide is the gospel of humanity, and the logic of to-day.

For now, all I can do is watch
As more and more are driven over.

Extinction draws near for the precious ones,
Upon the critters, it creeps closer and closer.

What did they do to deserve this fate?

It’s man that’s wrong; the furry things don’t deserve our hate.

Hate with all your heart, the spawn of Man.

Remove him from this place, to help heal the broken land.

Disable his chariots of doom,
That should bring about his end soon.

I see the scum walking about,
And I’m told they have worth,
But my hateful heart just fills with doubt.

Another one dead,
Another one dead.

Four screaming wheels
Crushed its head.

Another one dead,
Another one gone.

Man thinks he’s invincible,
But his end’s around the corner; it won’t be long.

And I pray to God, I pray to Her,
Get rid of this bipedal disease,
Send us all to Hell, where we belong,
Make sure our lives, you fucking cease.

I cannot stand the sights I see
In this here modern world that torments me,
And torments creatures both big and small,
None of us deserve a place in that sacred Nordic hall.

It’s time to start over,
Just get rid of us.

Make war upon this race called Man,
For I think it’d be rather just.


Broken sobs left his lips as the pangs of hunger grew stronger and stronger.

Whatever was left of his humanity…

It was hardly due for a longer stay.

The departure of his former essence was clinging to that heart of his, yet, as his mind became further and further shattered by the realization of the awful truth, his soul became twisted and corrupt, heart as black as the coal used to keep campfires burning.

Cold, bitter, frosty tears, ravaging his face as the harsh winds blew past him, carrying off the spirits of the restless dead that lay all around him, butchered, massacred, by his own hands. Stained with chunks of human remains. Ligaments, tissue, bone…coating his body like paint. Choked wails leaving his throat as he felt the most forbidden of meals, what was left of it, dribbled down his teeth, jaw, and chin.

Eyes sunken into deep within the dark recesses of his sockets, he surveyed what was left of his now dead compatriots. Body parts strewn about like grotesque party streamers. Splattered, smattered, all over the surrounding trees.

The snowy surroundings caused his tall, gaunt, deathly pale figure to tremble and shiver, quaking from the severe lack of warmth. His body had long since crossed the point of recoverability, and now in the territory of permanent emaciation, skin riddled with scars, looking less and less human by the second, he became more and more akin to a hairy, unkempt, bestial nightmare. A demon. A devil.

No return.

Solace? Gone, dashed away like those he himself, with his long, claw-adorned fingers, dashed away. Dashed away their lives. Their chances at perhaps seeing a way out of this frigid, icy hell. He would surely never be afforded such a luxury. This was his domain now. His realm.

Eerie, ghostly, milky white orbs, buried within the former man’s skull, suddenly went blank. Having lost any and all semblance of personhood. Now…now they were just predatory ocular organs, staring forward, always, searching eternally for the next forbidden meal.

In the next town over, a pained, ghastly roar could be heard. One that shook the residents to their very cores. The last utterance of a man…before a monster took over. For good.


I’m aware that the planet is too far gone, at this stage, to be “saved”. Deforestation irreversibly got rid of huge swaths of once proud, lush, impossibly green fields. Pollution turned our water and air into consumable arsenic. Humanity disconnected itself from the source of life via its arts, its architecture, its wretched philosophies, and its unprecedented arrogance. Species have gone extinct in uncountable numbers, never again to be seen. Industrialization has smoothed over gargantuan plots of soil and grass, displaced by ugly concrete, covered in the blood of many. Domestication rendered many animal types dreadfully subservient, possibly for forever. And even if great, great catastrophe struck tomorrow, there’d still be many of them, ready at hand, to pillage and rape their way through the bosom of Mother Nature. Maybe many of them would get wise, after being humbled in the wake of catastrophe, but the dirty streak would still prevail in a grotesque and frightening amount.

To say that I’m ignorant that the point of redemption has long since sailed, would be an error. We’re about 300 to 350 years too late. We’re on a runaway train now, heading for oblivion. Stuck in “go”, I can feel the train rattle erratically on the tracks, unable to stay on the straight and narrow much longer. All we can do is stay aboard for the ride. Or hop off. It’ll hurt like hell if we hop off, and many will scream and curse our names, but fuck them. Let them go out in a giant fireball. I won’t be swimming in the abyss with them when it’s all said and done.

But it’s not about saving anything. I’m not the ardent communist, nor the whiny liberal. Savior syndrome is something I abhor greatly. Leave it to the Rudyard Kiplings of the world, with their self-imposed burdens. You can’t save a sinking ship, anyway.

No, it merely pleases me a great deal to reject and disengage from one of the cornerstones of industrial society: the food industry. Perhaps, the sole reason it is still propped up today. A Shoah, a goddamn Holocaust (sorry, I won’t let the second Great War have a monopoly on these words), directed towards the fauna, who were around a lot longer than we, and have more of a right to this world than we ever could, is perpetuated in every slaughterhouse. A never-ending meat grinder that dwarfs the numbers of the Holodomor, takes place, gleefully, carried out by dead flesh walking, soulless, robotic killing machines, who are so numb, they must cut throat after throat, of foal, calf, little lamb, piglet, chicklet, puppy, kitten, etc., to feel anything, making them rape each other to satisfy the decadent urge. Joy is brought into my being when I find myself further and further detached from industrial society’s most accusrsed, sickening, depraved, and gut-wrenching apparatus, the thing that keeps it afloat the most. Sure, the blood can never be wiped off of my hands from my days before this great revelation. Nevertheless, I spit in the face of the towering giant that stuffs its grimy citizens with poisoned flesh, and praises them for doing so. I live amidst a sea of serial killers, it seems. When you’re surrounded by Jeffrey Dahmers and Ted Bundys, it makes sense that you’ll be disdained for having emotion. Dead flesh walking, the automatons, hate anything that isn’t mechanical and artificial. You know this. The mob, the rabble, they may hate me for it. I say, if the mob, the rabble, adore something, it is practically worthless. And if they are revolted by something, then there must be great value within it. Ignore the cries of the brainwashed people. Allow them to stew in their vast cretinism.

Cut out the meat industry, and industrial society will starve, that’s my theory. Civilization will crumble to its knees, weeping from the hunger pangs. It’s the great Western narcotic, more pervasive than even tobacco, alcohol, or opium. And as anyone who knows me knows, I am passionately straight edge. Withdrawals will be experienced on a scale thought inconceivable; the detox process will, no doubt, render a great many in the throes of misery, along with the loss of their shiny gadgets, trite cinemas and bland music, precious technology, artificial warmth and cold, and the beloved four walls that they can’t seem to do without. So be it.

“You show great love for the animals, but no love for your own, the species man!”

What do I have in common with man? Virtually nothing. There’s hardly any resemblance, in mind, in spirit, between me, and some passerby on the street. A skulking individual who enters my sight on the street, what do I possibly have in common with this goon, other than our genetic makeup? My answer: fucking nothing. Do not compare me and them. I am not of their kind. I’d let them know that in a heartbeat.

Love? Don’t speak to me of love, when Holocausts take place in concrete squares, to savagely skewer the innards of women and children, lorded over by wicked men, who desire to punish all for merely being alive. Love? What love? You preach to me of love, while you annihilate whole families of hooved, winged, scaled, clawed, warm-blooded, cold-blooded, water-born, walking, breathing, feeling, thinking things, every single day. Without a trace of remorse. You enjoy it. Hell, I wonder if it gets you hard, you absolute monsters. Until they suffer no longer at your hands, don’t speak to me of love. And don’t speak to me of peace, either. I’d rather see entire cities leveled flat in nuclear ash, than hear your empty platitudes about “love” and “peace”. Let war after war take place, so long as this blatant hypocrisy still stands.

Rejecting this monolithic superstructure also means disavowing materialism, and engaging in spirituality again. Reconnecting with God. Not the Judeo-Islamo-Christian conception of God, with some dead dude foisted upon a pair of hacked up trees, waved around to everyone in sight. A humanist spirituality that puts man squarely at the center of all things, puffing up its already overblown ego. So much so, that it’s taken up sucking its own dick, to make itself feel good. As you know, the good book says animals are worth less than even the most egregious error produced by man. Kill the cow; save the child molester, says the holy roller. And I’m supposed to be mad that some Norwegian kids torched some old churches. Give me a fucking break. I’m upset they didn’t burn enough of them. “Think of Fantoft!”. Fuck you.

No, the wonderful artist who painted the cosmos, the great architect of the universe. Nature. That is God. Where all pieces of the beautiful puzzle, from the smallest atom, to the brightest star, make up its infinite majesty. Certainly, certainly not a bearded man in the sky, a totalitarian narcissist who punishes everyone and everything for the most arbitrary of reasons, watching all moves that are being made.

Three ideas are held in high regard by the food industry: utilitarianism, mass production, and mechanization. A triplet of thought processes I scorn more than anything. I care little for what causes the most amount of happiness for the most amount of people. John Stuart Mill should’ve been guillotined for conjuring this nonsense up. Happiness is fleeting, especially in the hive mind of the herd. No sense in trying to satisfy their whims. Quantity over quality is a doctrine I cannot abide by (all worthwhile things are debased to cheapness by the mindset of “having too much” of it); neither the soullessness of mechanization, of industrialism, with its reason, logic, utter lack of passion and high ideals, and gutting/vivisecting of Mother Nature Herself. Both of them feed on each other, and propagate each other. Kicked into overdrive by philistines, who run everything. All three are the building blocks of disastrous materialism.

“Educated”, if you want to call it that, with empty heads. Hearts and minds fixed on gold and food, but they’re walking around spiritually dead.

One may cry, “but the poor surely cannot afford to partake in this!”

Well, very well, then; tell me, why do they buy the most expensive item on our menus? Here’s a hint: it’s not fucking broccoli and lettuce.

The meat industry bleeds the poor dry, sucking the life out of them like a slob sucking blood mixed with A1 sauce out of a horrific slice of veal.

Quit it, by the way, with the deification of the working class. Time and time again, they’ve shown us they don’t want out of the nefarious rut they’re stuck in (try convincing them to steal their food, somehow; “oh, but that is against the law, oh, the law, my god, my precious god, I must obey it at all times, even when it would be very advantageous to ignore its existence”). Oh, how you wish to champion their cause, and placate their desires, you red menaces of the world.

Great, so, let’s install a bigoted, conformist, narrow-minded, materialistic, hateful, envious society focused solely on economics.

Oh wait…

“But they will not get enough to eat!”

Fine with me. The general population could stand to lose some weight. I’m surprised sinkholes haven’t formed in America by the thousands, from how heavy everyone is.

Maybe, they might even feel a bit better, too. I felt like shit every time I ate meat. Like a bloated, overweight jackass. Can’t say the same after a heart plate of veggies or pasta.

Traveling down this road also means parting ways with the stupid idea of “might is right”. Ah yes, the wisdom of the meathead who can’t think, but can certainly throw hands (he’s just a pawn for some smarter, cleverer fellow, anyway; he’s a puppet guided by strings), the misogynistic brute who probably beats his wife, mother, and sister, the cowardly rapist, the pedophile, the Ed Kemper copycat. Humanity does quite enjoy raping the Earth. Does it everyday. Without pause, without thought. I can’t think of any other animal that lives purely on sexual assault. Humanity would actually die if it couldn’t live on it any longer.

Sure, it might not be on par with toting guns and emptying magazines. Yet, that isn’t practical for everyone to engage in. This is quite a good start, I’d say.

What do you liberals and communists do? Sit around and complain, arguing over petty issues that only stall the downfall of everything you and your “opponents” (not really) hold dear. You’d never even think about taking the steps. Because without civilization, you’d be nothing. And I hate you for it. “Kill a commie, kill a commie!”, as Gang Green once said.

Deep down, you’re the worst of us all.


Look at it.

O, how it snarls and growls,
Stamping, stomping, flailing,
Leveling flat all that is
As its temper is allowed
A kind of free reign.

Its masters, who once had the
Idea of trying to, how shall we say,
Keep it on a leash, I suppose?
They gave that idea up ages ago.

Recognizing the futility in such a folly,
Unable to control the growth
Of the savage beast they placated
For so long that, they too,
Shall be doomed by it
Going horrifically insane…

…it would be seem that they opted to sit back.

And just, well, watch.

This once was a beautiful land, you know.

Miles and miles of boundless fields.

Trees as far as the eye could see,
Stretching forever, endlessly,
Until the line of sight was,
By its finitude, made to yield.

Shrubbery, springing up in both
Plains and hills alike,
Grass and flowers rooted in the soil,
A place for all to go enjoy a bit of respite.

Fauna of all kinds, occupying land, sky, and sea,
Harmonious in their relationship with…Her, yes, Her; I forget
Her name, although we all seem to refer to her as “Mother”, or sometimes…”Nature”; any who,
Yes, all kinds, many, innumerable, unique in every way, beautiful, indescribably precious.

…I wonder where they went…

Where are they…?

Back then, if you can believe it,
There was water to drink, and air to breathe.

Here, we were given
Everything we could
Ever want, ever need.

Children will look into their little books.

Read tales of wondrous lands.

See depictions of colorful sights.

Marvelous creatures, plants, animals, filling their pages.

Quite adorable, its; they wish to know more.

How they cannot stop turning the papers with their hands.

Eyes wide with wonder, they’ll eagerly look outside.

“I, too, wish to see this world, so clear and bright!”

Outside doesn’t look like the pages, does it?

Yet, when these were written, these old tales
That they so adore, inspiration came from
Out there, no? Those authors…didn’t they draw from the
Eternal source, that beauty beyond the edges of town?

Surely, that is the case, young one…

But…that was in the past.

Bother not, in some desperate plea to see what they saw.

Those parts are unhallowed ground.

All of that…

It is gone…

“O, what could’ve caused such a cruel injustice?”

I’ll merely point out of the window,
At the rampaging creature
That spews forth muck
Into the dirt
And kills off all the evergreens,
Grass, bushes, young petals,
Claws raking the crust,
Kicking up thick clouds of angry dust,
As it, that thing,
Doesn’t like challengers; doesn’t like rebels,
Nor does it favor and joy…instead, only punishment and hurt.

Starving and stampeding
Many numbers of
Shocked, frightened beings,
Causing them to tremble and quake
(Flee or fight, they’ll try both
As it succeeds in getting what it wishes to take),
It does with pride; homes annihilated,
Leaving them to wander aimlessly
Into the yards of
Those taught to hate,
Beat, eat, greet
With hostility and rage.

Unless, usefulness is proved
(Only by the decree of so many,
As is the usual decider),
At which point
They can be worthy of
“Love” and “care” again,
Relegated to long hours alone
In a cage.

“Weren’t these green and non-bipedal things here first?”

I nod, affirming their suspicions.

“And we’re tearing up their home?”

Again, another sad, despairing nod.

“Sad.” “I agree.”

Indignant, a mother storms forward, taking the child away in a huff.

“Do not let them poison you with their filthy lies.” She said in a biting, scathing tone.

“You’ll be ruined…

…just like them.”

“You don’t want the masters to come for you, no?”

“They will, you know that.”

“And what did I tell you of this world, this one in your books?
In those old pictures you look through so often?”

“Remember what they said; it was uncouth and unclean.”

“Primitive boulder dash, they said; worst of the worst things to be seen.”

“Now, here we are. Satisfied, happy, and free.”

“Please, do not dare try to flee.”

“There’s nothing for you out there.”

“Accept the love, and the care.”

“Another thing; stop trying to get a hold of the Mother.”

“You and your desire to be close to Her, how foolish;
You’ll just be distracted
From your sisters and brothers.”

I scowl for a bit, but carry on nonetheless.

A chuckle can’t help but always escape my lips at that word. Masters.

Please, they have no control over this anymore.

Did they ever? No. For you see, that drive, that lust, that…narcotic (let us
Be honest as to what it is), well, it is not containable; it even breaks out
Upon the skin, the eyes, the face, the teeth, the breath, and renders
Whoever possessed by it, a boiling sore.

Quite clear, it is, that all that merely takes place, is the bidding is done
Through flesh puppets who’s dark minds are enraptured by mad poltergeists
From two millennia ago and a country stormed some centennials that have passed
Us by, threatened by everything that wasn’t them, longing to make them all pay the price,
Engaging in audacious heists,
Souls pitch black,
Illuminated no longer
By the light of the sun.

I never saw them ever again.

Unbeknownst to me, the whole family was eaten.

Swallowed, gulped down, forced into its gullet.

Could I have known? Unlikely. I was busy trying to
Avoid the wrath.

A difficult feat, in these troubling times.

Into the stomach they went.

Hell is where they were sent.

Forcibly melded with others.

Made, by another will, their sisters and brothers.

Grey, amorphous, moldable, indistinguishable.

Just one giant mesh; differentiation? Inconceivable.

Leveled flat, mixed around until all dissolved into all.

Keeping a herd in line is hard work; it’s better
If their traits and whatnot are irreparably mauled.

Stirred by the lining and walls,
Deep inside, no one can hear
The pained, pleading calls,
Badly burned and seared,
Soon they shall be flushed down the halls.

Years and years and years ago,
Those….masters…they would sometimes,
Silver-tongued smooth talkers they are,
Go the route of playing nice.

When this didn’t work as well as they had hoped,
Away went all of the politeness and rhetoric,
Thinly-veiled smugness, a superiority complex to rival their long dead God
(Intelligent among us will know this as
The true father of this monster,
Evidence that even ghosts
Can give birth)
Set forth was this living storm; indulge, they did, in the great vice.

Has it an abode?

I think not.

Mindlessly, it just consumes and roams.

Gas of a most foul kind has overtaken the air.

I want to choke it, make it unable to inhale.

Liquids vital to life have never been so worse for wear.

Bleed it dry, dismember it; it’s my only wish, until it is empty and pale.

Loud, noisy, its innards turn as it grinds its meals
Into steaming batches of sameness, literal shit
Eaten by future meals in their lairs (to which they’re permanently confined).

What little is left here, is what little we’ve got.

Dying everyday, she’s already in the coffin.

Within Her breast, Her many children go,
A safe place to escape all that is rotten.

I’ve considered joining Her myself.


The hips jerk violent forward,
Eager to plunder Her guts.

All ours for the taking, isn’t that it?

Just another worthless slut.

Only what She can give us
Is what matters at all, the
Treasures that lie within, sacred and
Hidden from the profane, the unworthy,
Now stolen and pillaged,
Gobbled up and consumed
By those overtaken by the death drive.

Sectioned off and bound up real tight,
Put on display for all who
Come by to see. O’, how deep the
Member digs in, again and again. Some
Wish to help, trying to fight their way to
Her. But it’s no use; they’re beaten
Back, murdered or left to rot alone,
Going mad with the knowledge that her
Defilement is taking place.

After all, who wants to see
Their own mother violated?

Convulsions, convulsions…

Her captors and tormentors
Do not know the meaning
Of the word “revulsion”…

An incestuous appetite
Unable to be satiated…

Only a whore She’ll
Forever be. Ripe to be
Plundered; the might
Makes it right, makes it
So. Wide open She is,
Bared like a dame
Upon a bed. If She
Was not made for this,
Then why, uncovered and not
Hidden from the eyes and hands,
Is She? Touched and
Ravaged, raped and
Degraded, that is Her destiny.

Groped, felt up,
A serpent’s tongue
Slithering from the mouth
Of anthropic filth
Probes in Her mouth,
Nails tearing inside,
Thundering howls of anguish
Leaving Her throat, the
Emotional outburst growing more
Fierce as it all becomes too much to bear.

Dying, She is close to…

Every day, She withers greatly…

Beaten and defeated, lying
Curled in on herself
Upon the ground…

Thick, black semen, like sludge,
Like tar, cover her wounds and skin,
Solidifying in Her throat, choking Her…

Rubber tread have left their marks…

Deep scars have been filled
With concrete; flesh sealed up
Thanks to gravel and asphalt…

Guts and entrails lie upon
All over everywhere…

Her blood is contaminated,
Poisoned and botched,
Toxic like the dark
Ejaculate that shuts her mouth…


Does it make you feel
Like a man? To know by your
Hands, a disadvantaged
Creature dies? Does it
Make you hard, you fucking
Scumbag, that you got to show
This miracle of creation how much,
By you, it is despised? I bet you
Were aroused as you stared coldly
Into its frightened eyes.

Walk among us, you get to, without
Any consequence. Taking you out with
Shotgun justice, that would be deemed
Terroristic dissidence. But fuck it,
If that’s what it takes, then it is
You that’ll be slain. Day by day, your
Numbers will drop; their deaths shall not
Have been in vain. Upon those racks you’ll be
Placed, and you’ll get your own
Doses of pain. Let’s see how you will
Like to have been driven completely insane.

Grab you by your legs,
I’d like to do. Slam you into
Pavement over and over again
Until you’re black, dead, and blue.
You’re one of the dregs,
And hope someone
Someday fucking kills you. Psychopathic
Monster, I hope your contaminated
Innards are twisted and construed.

No love in your heart,
Just possessed by only hate.

Boy, oh boy, I bet, to you,
It feels so fucking great.

Do you think of doing
The same to your
Wife and kids? Nay, I don’t
Imagine you think
Of doing it, but actually
Act, bashing them against the
Hard surface when you’re pissed.

Pray and hope, I do, that no one
Would ever wish to mate with a
Machine such as yourself. May chains
Bound you ever so tightly as armies
Of wicked things drag you off
Right into Hell. Where you must
Abandon and all hope, and every time
You die, once again, you must
Face the goddamn rope.

Can you feel?

Not a chance; I hope your skin
Is slowly peeled.

And it still wouldn’t be enough
For all the babies’ lives you steal.

The families you butcher and maim,
Because to you, it’s just a sick, demented game.

Once you started, your feat was forever sealed.

Violently stop their beating hearts,
And let the beatings start.

Dig into their chest, tear open their
Ribcage, and make sure they’re torn apart.

“There is a practice in the meat industry. PAC, it is called. Which stands for…pound against concrete. You may ask yourself, with uncertainty and terror welling up in your heart: what does “pound against concrete” entail, exactly? To pound against concrete means to take a pig that isn’t viable for consumption by the masses (the fucking masses…), typically a baby, a piglet…grab it by its hind legs, like some kind of metal chain, and whack it against the cold, hard ground repeatedly. Over and over. Until it is dead.

Now, I don’t know about you…but these don’t sound like beings that are alive, to me. Nay, these sound like what I’ve once referred to as…dead flesh walking. “Dead flesh walking” are those bastards who have no soul. Their blood is just liquid ice in their veins, and their hearts do not beat. Matter of a fact, if you were to cut them open (which you absolutely should…), they might not even possess a heart. Famous examples include Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Ed Kemper, Gary Ridgeway, Richard Ramirez, John Wayne Gacy, and many others. What did they all have in common? A distinct knack for the bludgeoning, burning, dissection, beating, torturing, psychologically tormenting, and general murdering…of animals. Of course, those who practice the sadistic art of pounding little piggies against concrete are not regarded as serial killers, or, at least, adjacent to them. Why’s that? Because it serves an economic function. It feeds the ever-gluttonous population of human scum that has overfilled planet Earth. It’s useful, it’s utilitarian. I bet many consider them heroes. Probably revered in their local communities.

I bet they get off on it. I bet it makes them absolutely tickled, these pieces of shit. I bet they can’t wait to tell their fucking family and friends. Hell, I bet it isn’t just pigs they do it to. Why do you think they get so good at it? It starts with critters…and then next thing you know, kids go missing. Entrails drag out, with the evidence of unspeakable acts having been committed against them.

A part of me…a large part of me…would like to, in the name of those poor bovids, get some revenge. Place their teeth against the nearest street curb. Like that infamous scene in the movie American History X, where Derek Vineyard loses his shit, shortly before going to prison. Pound their skulls against concrete with the heel of my boot.

The law has always protected those who least deserve it.

So, I’ll end this with a quote from an Irish playwright I greatly admire…

Whilst we, the conventional…were wasting our time on education, agitation, and organization, some independent genius has taken the matter in hand…”

Pure terror.

All they know, and all they understand.

Why not give them something in return?”


We’re told that animals and plants have no spirit. Have no soul. They can’t feel, or think. All they are is an animated body. You always hear about how they’re not sentient, or aware, or conscious. Not only that, but we’re reminded that they’re unimportant. That they don’t mean anything. And if you think they do, you’re vilified for it. Hated. Scorned. Ridiculed as some sort of “flower power” scumbag who has no guts, even though the same people who say this preach metaphysical communism and live happy, comfortable, bourgeois lives.

“They’re mere beasts, they’re mere vegetables! Why should you feel for them, in any way? What about the humans? The poor, poor humans?”

Better their company, by millions of measures more, than the company of the masses of men. Who cares about what some proletariat windbag or bourgeois jackass thinks? I wouldn’t miss them for a second. I mourn a lot more intensely when a dog, or a cat, or a pig, or a cow, or a bird, or a tree, or a bush, or what have you, dies. Especially at the hands of the many-too-many. Sacrificed by them, for them.

Humanity can go shove it.

Descartes, if I were able to get a hold of him, would’ve had to face a sound beating. Thanks to his bullshit, we think animals are on par with mechanical inventions. Although, the real trouble lies within the Abrahamic trio, and its mountain lies. Descartes was just reshaping the dominant philosophy of his time. I can’t blame him too much, given what he had to work with. I’d still kick his ass, however.

I take the opposite stance. Humanity’s sense of being “alive” is muted. Gutted. Destroyed. Grotesque philosophies have stripped away our affinity for a real home, the woods and forests, fields and deserts, jungles and plains, and replaced them with…innumerable dwellings that we have little-to-no connection to. A direct contradiction to the pagan ways. The wisdom that asserted, through Nature, the higher powers were experienced. We have no connection to these new “homes” because they’re not rooted in anything upon this Earth, within Nature. They’re divorced from Nature, in fact. Have the gall to reject it, and then say that, no, this plane where everything blends together into one great melting pot, at the behest of some desert walker, and his ill-tempered father, is the real abode of mankind. The land, that which made your miserable existence possible in the first place, is only “temporary”. The further you get from it, the more divine you are.

As a result, we were led astray. Over a period of two thousand years, or possibly even more than that, we were torn away from Gaia. Now, look at us. Trying to reconcile the theory of us not being natural, with our clearly “natural” behaviors. Separating flesh from spirit (even though they need each other; the spirit animates the flesh and illuminates the otherwise dark corridors of the body, and the flesh protects and houses the spirit). We neglect ourselves, and we neglect our habitat. Why care for native place of residence, when everything tell us that, according to some tomes written long ago by dead men, with dead thoughts, and vapid words, we don’t even really live here?

By contrast, animals and plants…they value the Earth, in their own way. It might not be in the form of sophisticated rituals or poetic pontifications or overblown and needlessly sacred cathedrals, but I think do. For them, Earth is everything. They recognize that, without the Earth, they are nothing. They’d all be dead. In fact, it’s all they need. More? What more? It’s all right here. Nature provides abundance, plenty, contrary to the ruminations of dumbass humans. Nature gives us them all they need, all they could ever want. Animals don’t live in poverty, not in my eyes. They’re rich, materially and spiritually. We’re poisoned materially, and totally lacking, spiritually. Exploitation? Endless plundering? Raping and pillaging? Using up the bountiful resources an area is totally dead? Out of the question. Totally, totally out of the question. For what good is the blood, without the soil?

Now, of course, both plant and animal alter the environment. They can’t help it. Otherwise, shelter would be out of the question for them. And even growing into and settling into soil, or walking around, looking for prey, setting up shop wherever is most convenient for the time being, minute little activities that are so simple that they are innate and not worthy of thought, have an impact. Yet, it’s nowhere near an egregious one. Not like the impact we, as humans, have. Nature always manages to recover. Because Nature, our Mother, she’s all about balance. There’s a rhyme and reason for everything. One action has an equal, and opposite, reaction. She has her moments of occasional fury or depression, but it’s never so severe that she, or those who live on her, can’t ever recover. It’s reciprocal. There’s a respect. Not parasitic, but symbiotic.

They give their lives back to her (all must depart the plane of existence at some point; the old and sick must perish, making way for the young and healthy, those that managed to survive the struggle and hardship), nourishing her, and, using what they gave, she nourishes the living, allowing the dead to, in a way, live on. Sure, the long-lived are swept away, put to rest. Yes, many must perish in finding their way through life. Hear this: “everlasting” is a nice word, sure. Unrealistic as shit, however. The scythe swings upon everyone and everything’s heads at some point. A passing means a renewal. Nature’s not stale. It hates what’s stale, actually. Indolence and stagnation, as Nature has shown, leads to decay. Neither can there be too many. Obviously, too little is not ideal. Death will come when that happens. Think about this, though. Too much, eventually turns into too little. Sounds like a paradox? Well, it’s very true. The beams that support too many will eventually give out, and it’ll collapse in on itself. Too little is now in effect.

This is all best expressed in the wolfsangel, the ouroborous, and the sunwheel.

Humans have trouble grasping concepts as basic as this.

Animals and plants, however, thanks to being uncorrupted by machinery and the thoughts of ignorant goons who deserve nooses instead of pedestals, are not hindered at all in reaching these conclusions. They didn’t have to be taught, or have to meditate day in and day out. It’s in them from the very start, from birth. Wisdom wasn’t something out of reach, hidden, on the periphery, requiring one to cast off everything in order to even begin to glimpse a portion of it. Demiurgic gibberish didn’t even touch them, so there was little need to plumb the depths in search of the truth. Truth lived inside them from the get-go, and their existences, their lives, were expressions of it. Artificialities hadn’t destroyed their being, cut it up and vivisected what they were, physically or otherwise. Reason and logic, toxins that do enormous damage on every level to the living (reason and logic render everything dead, I think), with its modernity and notions of “progress”, linear thinking driving towards some imagined, fictional, insane end, are unheard of in this realm, in this world.

No mammoth creation forces itself upon them, and they don’t desire, need, want, some titanic institution, or collection of institutions, to regulate and rule them. In all actuality, something of this nature would only demolish and devastate their way of life, instead of improve it, or what have you. Written laws would crystallize and petrify into sacred dogmas, disrupting the flow of something fluid and organic, stifling it and choking it. Plants and animals have their place, they know it. Anyone with a brain knows that organisms don’t exist in isolation. Entities are a part of a whole. Their diversity (I know, I hate to use this insufferable word, but bear with me), it adds to the whole, by virtue of the inequality that is present. Being leveled flat, it’s something they avoid like the plague. Desire it, they do not. Either by their own hand, or foreign influence. It’s resisted, bravely, even as we try our hardest to achieve it. Chaos is present in Nature, we know that. To the observant eye, however, there’s also a sense of order, even if there’s also some (or a lot, a whole lot of) discord and rambunctiousness. Enforcement, more than likely born from inscriptions on paper, parroted by men in positions that aren’t tangible, let alone valid, I can only imagine, in my mind, would serve no other purpose than to impede upon the fluid traditions they have established over the course of centuries and millennia, wrecking a delicate, divine heritage. Hell, that’s all it does today, in this day and age. As far as a figurehead bossing them around, you’ll notice a distinct lack of that as well. Because they all know, once the beast grows, the more it’ll eat. And in its gullet, the totality will become nothing else but a sloshing, indistinguishable mass of digested bits, before dissolving into it completely. Which is completely contrary to how it should be.

Nature is like…a painting, or a novel. Every line, every curve, every color, every stroke, every contour, every design, or, in the novel’s case, every word, every paragraph, every sentence, every simile and metaphor, every image and symbol buried in the text…it’s different. Serves a purpose. That doesn’t mean it loses itself in it, though. Not by a long shot. The discerning eye notices the small details, and appreciates them. Makes it all the sweeter when one stands back, able to appreciate the piece in its full glory.

A governing body would squash all of that. It knows it. It’s well aware of it. The fake…hates the real.

Governing bodies loathe the arts, and works of art.

Expression, genuine expression, is always met with derision and scorn.

To me, all of this, it is sacred. Divine. It is experienced through Nature. Understanding of the gods, it comes through this. Books and churches? The rushing of the wind, the flowing of the waters, the calls of birds and mammals, the sounds of falling rain, these are the sacred languages, and they speak the sacred words. Mountains, fields, beaches, hills, plains, caves, lakes, oceans, ponds, shores, these are the churches. My churches. Only through these, do we understand what is holy.

Hardly any of us do. Or even want to

They, on the other hand…

Therefore, I postulate animals and plants are closer to the divine, than we can ever hope to be.

Declarations are often made that humans are superior to animals. Really? Is that so? Throw a human into…any environment, undisturbed, to a great extent, by civilization, by human presences. We have no fur. Our teeth are unfit to chew cooked steak, let alone raw animal hide. The skin we possess, the flesh we have, it’s delicate, and requires thick layers for protection. Bones and muscles that are frail as can be. Anxiety-ridden wrecks we tend to be, out in the wilderness. Distracted easily. Don’t even get me started on most people’s eyesight and hearing. Collectively, the cardio of the human race is so bad a mere couple miles of walking will drive most to irritation and frustration.

Sure, ok, we’ve developed ways to compensate for our many flaws. And how many times has technology proven to be fickle, unreliable to the point where you might as well not have it? Only throughout our entire existence. Thanks to our heavy reliance on it, we’re practically useless. Our intellect will provide little comfort when we’re thrown out of the residences we’ve built for ourselves, and all we have is our body, along with whatever covering it. Especially since all we’re taught is meant to dull the mind, not stimulate it. Not in the goddamned slightest.

Without thought, the majority of us assume them to be. “Uncultured filth”, the uncultured filth decree. “They have no thought”, cry those whose brains are empty of any thoughts, beyond what to eat, where to live, what to buy, and who to fuck (maybe). Let me tell you, there’s a plethora of those.

You mean to tell me, that there’s no thought being had, when a predator stalks its prey, trying to work out the tactics it needs to proceed with in order to make short work of its prey, having to consider distance, strength, size, speed, energy contained within it, and a multitude of other factors? What about when a herbivore is desperately attempting to outwit and outmaneuver the literal jaws of death, ready to gladly take it into its mouth, ducking and dodging and occasionally even fighting off its attacker, using every survival mechanism gifted to it by the Mother herself? I’m supposed to believe migration, or the ability to sense changes in the environment, and then react accordingly, doesn’t have shit to do with the firing of neurons? Rudimentary tools, though rudimentary they may be, even using the body as a tool, for various purpose, anything ranging from gathering food to warding off would-be offenders of its life to simply making everyday life a little less tedious, is, what, a genetic fluke built-in, and nothing else? Is shelter made automatically, without any brainpower being utilized? The art of raising young, there’s no rhyme or reason to that? You’re a real dumbass if you think any of this to be so.

By them, much more thought, I think, is put into the processes of life, in comparison to us. Their circumstances demand it. Otherwise, they would perish. In short, nasty fashion. Since we’ve bred like cockroaches and live in excessive comfort, extinction isn’t something we have to fear. Global catastrophe could strike tomorrow, and there’d still be too many of us. As a result, we don’t think.

Uncultured isn’t an apt description of them. Among their ranks lie numerous traditions, of all kinds, all varying methods of meeting the demands of life, and answering its many questions. Languages, social conventions, philosophies, modes of expression that aren’t verbal, an in-tune-ness to their land, and the species, the extended family/community, that bore them, making their life possible. Perennial wisdom flows in their blood, from ancestor to child. Art isn’t created by them; it is them. They themselves are works of art, because Nature is an artist, and the Earth is a living canvas, an evolving, breathing, feeling, animated being upon which the divine is expressed. Bearer to offspring. It’s buried in their bones, their flesh, their thinking apparatuses. Separation from the knowledge passed down through generation after generation, showing to be the way, the carrier of the spark of life, nestling the fate of the organism in it, is not something that can take place. Not really. And it isn’t static. It’s dynamic. Ever-evolving, as life demands of anything that wishes to not be sucked into it. That doesn’t mean, however, that they lose sight of it, casting it away. Tradition is their source of renewal. The fountain from which they always return to take a drink from, refreshing body and spirit. Yet, they keep it organic. Prevent it from crystallizing and turning into mere stifling dogma.

Humans, both today and yesterday, and for the rest of tomorrow, largely, are born soulless. Tabula rasa. Blank slates. Easily swayed, easily molded pieces of clay, the wretched sons of Adam, subject to the whims of silver-tongued swine who know how to sooth and assuage them one minute, and rile them up the next. Dead flesh walking. Zombie-esque, stupefied schmucks who stumble about, muttering incoherently with far-away looks in their eyes, only concerned with how hot she is, or what’s on the plate tonight. Culture? What culture? They possess no higher thought. In fact, I’d argue that they’re incapable of it. Their culture is brands, their heroes are celebrities. These are the supposedly “cultured” ones. At best, they merely consume the culture. They have no hand in shaping it. They have no thoughts about it, no desire to engage in it, an intent towards dialogue with or critique of it. Just an outfit to put on, tailor-made. All the more apparent in the world of the eternal philistine, the Anglo-Saxon filth. Any culture has had its throat slit, left to bleed out on the shop floor. Murdered by the hands of a jealous god who hates anything spiritual. It takes many, many forms. But we all know what it is. And we all know who started it. I can pinpoint the blame to the year, nay, the day, and point out those responsible, who led us to that point.

Whatever is left of our culture, it’s a pale shadow of what it once was. A cheap imitation, a hollow puppet, a corpse draped over a chair. Greatness? More like vapidity, and unoriginality. We’re looking at a senile, crippled old man, not a youthful, strapping young lad, full of vigor. There’s nothing worth salvaging from it. Vast majority of it deserved to be dead anyway. Killed at the start. Prevented from being born. It’s running on fumes. Our traditions, many of them already despicable, are now not even alive. Nihilism is the reigning champ. It won. And it sure as hell is not a graceful victor. Certainly not a handsome face, either.

So don’t lecture me on who’s cultured, and who isn’t. Because where I’m standing, they, the animals and plants, have vastly more to offer, than any of our kind does. Scream and yell all you want. You know it’s damned true.

Animals and plants, you say, cannot feel emotions, and if they can, then it is expressed so poorly, that, well, they might as well be nonexistent. A poorly devised justification used to sadistically, psychopathically butcher creatures by the thousands, in giant concrete squares that resemble our prisons, spraying blood from throats like fountains, all to feed overweight beasts of burden, so heavy, that they’ll collapse the world as we struggle under their weight. Or slash-and-burn forests, razing them to the ground, hacking away at everything, from blades of grass, to sturdy evergreens. From adorable little bushes and fungi, to multitudes of conifers.

Here’s a little experiment: go to any animal. Either one you’re close to, or one that is a total stranger. Shout at it, threaten it, terrorize it, try to emotionally instill the fear of God in it “Show it who’s boss”, as the alcoholic dross may say. See if it does not react in anger, worry, or a mixture of both. Beat an animal. Do try and tell me it does not feel pain, and it is not hurt. Not just physically, but also mentally. Perhaps traumatized. Living with the non-human equivalent of PTSD. Give an animal affection, and it shall feel joy, pleasure, warmth. A sense of attachment to you. Holding you in high regard. Betray its trust, and it shall always gaze upon you with uncertainty and disdain.

Plants, although very limited in their range of expressive capabilities, will not grow as well if you berate them and belligerently remind them they’re worth jack shit. Give them uplifting words of encouragement, however, and praise them, and they shall grow better, in addition to you taking care of them. They even respond to gentle, light, affectionate touch. And I would imagine, to some degree, they can feel pain.

“But we show them more love than they could ever show us!”

Bullshit, is my reply. Most of you do not love them. You view them as novelties, something to add to your nihilistic pursuit of endless amusement, because the abyss stole your soul before birth, and will never give it back.

Don’t give me that nonsense. You, yourself, know it is a hollow lie. A bad one.

Most of you barely feel. Your sadness, your happiness, your pain, your love, your fear, it’s all fake and artificial. You function about as well, emotionally, as fleshy automatons. All that you “express” is so transparent, so see-through, that I’m struggling to maintain the façade of being interested in our interaction. It’d be less troublesome to talk to a goddamned robot, and a lot more honest. At least I wouldn’t be in the process of being lied to.

Depression, apathy, it’s gripped whatever soul you may have so tight, that it’s rendered you vainly seeking some sort of burst of something, all so you can procure an answer to that lingering, incessant question: “how are you today?”

And yet they, are met with hate.