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.

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I NEED REMINDERS OF THE LOVE I HAVE

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

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

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

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

Oh no…

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

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

Is there hope after all?

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

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

Yes, it really is.

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

Hope.

KINGDOM AGAINST KINGDOM

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

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

A sadistic gleam takes over their eyes.

Within their presence, all life shall die.

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

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

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

Descartes has driven us
To murder and rape.

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

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

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”.

EXCERPT

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.

TOTAL WAR

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

This is what I want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE STRONG AND THE GREAT

Frost permeates the ground.

The crunch of pale bitterness,
Dissolving away in the wake
Of footsteps,
Are amongst the few prominent sounds.

Inhospitable, unforgiving,
Such a place is…

Yet, so wondrous, too,
And one cannot help but give thinks
To Her, who made this.

Your frozen Hell, is their frosty Heaven.

Undisturbed and pristine it shall be,
Off-limits to you and your noxious brethren.

Prints are left upon the white blanket,
The marks embedded in the terrain by the proud
And eternally hated.

Cool air leaveth the
Bitter, snarling jaws,
Death and rot
Lingering heavy in their gaping maws,
Their arrival signaling doom for all around.

Nightfall cometh,
And none may witness
What is surely to come,
Or, rather, who
Is to come.

Moonlight hangs ominously in the sky,
Procurer of eccentric happenings
And fever dreams, oh my; strange ordeals
Take place in the glow of the
Lunar body. Yet, even as it
Hangs and casts down its rays
Of illumination, its beams
That pierce the thick veil of
Darkness, still, is the cover so prominent,
As to obscure everything underneath it
So perfectly.

Disconcerting silhouettes can be seen.

Ghostly apparitions lumbering about,
Fur bristling and
Their eyes keen.

Ever looking, ever looking…

Pupils glowing brightly in the dark.

Moonlight bouncing off of the
Glassy orbs burrowed in their skulls.

Canines and molars, those gnashing
Weapons of both war and harvest
(One and the same, if you
Follow thy history and mythology),
Glistening, bouncing back beams,
Rays of that old candle in Hell.

Large shadows creeping across
This land, peering into every corner
With a piercing, faraway gaze, that
Reaches within and beyond.

Individually, one is a menace to all,
Capable of having all that
Stands before them, razed,
But together, as a martial unit, a battalion,
It cannot be said enough, how much
They define the very word “strong”.

Multiples of them, for they are not alone.

Never are…

Embodiments of both life
And death. The objects of fear
In the eyes of many. Negative and
Positive come together, melded perfectly
Within their very essence. Talked about in
Hushed whispers. Critters scurry away,
Scampering off into parts unknown
At the sight of them, shaken by the
Dark, grey figure that haunts their minds, day
In and day out.

This hour be theirs…

All else quietly moves aside.

It is bountiful this time of year, their
Preferred meals, and so
Other, less appealing, morsels, are
Left to their own devices.

Besides, they are
As fit and ripe as
Ever; strapping,
Virile creatures,
In the prime of their condition.

Yet, it is wise, they know,
To not let their breasts
Swell with arrogance.

Big game means big rewards.

However, big rewards are never won so easily…

This applies even to the proudest, who stand boldly erect.

Playfully nipping
And wrestling
With each other,
Out of the stupor, the
Day-born daze and laze these
Beasts climb, blood
Flowing in their veins
Once more,
Tufts of fur collecting
Chunks of snow
As they tumble on the ground.

In a flash, ears perk up,
And everyone is on high alert…

Nostrils flare into deep, dark,
Expansive caverns, curious particles
Traversing through the tunnels,
Sending signals in their minds.

Pupils dilate as they stand still upon the obscured soil.

Of course, what they detected…

Could only mean one thing…

It reeks of would-be prey,
Of future death.

Desire grows heavy
In their veins
At the prospect,
Salivating through ragged breath.

The scent of sickened,
Ailing life, just begging,
Via its rancid odor, to
Be relieved of its ever-increasing strife.

A herd travels off in the distance.

Shaggy beasts, big, bold, and brash,
Made for such a cruel existence.

Hooves gallop on the ground,
Causing it to tremble
All around,
The clattering of the bones
Upon the soil
Reverberating wildly,
Even from such a good distance,
Not knowing one of them shall become spoils,
For it shall be the one in the back
Who keeps up, even through pained groans.

Surveying the size of their target,
Calculating in their rapidly-moving
Minds, the odds of a capture. Tongues move
Across their lips, salivating as images rush
Through their minds of being, for these
Great mountains of fur, flesh, and bone,
Equivalent to that old Norse rapture.

Hearts pound as their swift jogs
Transform into full-blown gallops,
Eyes narrowing, becoming blind to
All else that may be in the world,
Vision blurring the slightest bit
As the North Wind of Hyperborea whirls,
Stinging their corneas and pupils,
Yes, even the skin that
Lieth beneath their
Dull grey tufts.

But it doesn’t deter them.

Nay, only spurs them forth
With more fanatical drive,
Their insurmountable Wills
In full effect…

Do not, however, mistaketh
All of this for
Mere greed, for vulgar acquisition.

Tis a flawed view,
Indeed, as brute over-consumption
Does not factor into their mission.

It just so happens that the
Chase gives them such a thrill.

Predator they art, predator, always
Shall they be,
Knowing that to live,
One must be killed.

Just a simple fact…

It delivers unto them
No wanton need for
Godhood, like those that
Would love to see them snuffed out.

Oh, how the scent grows,
When the prize becomes near…

All the others pick up the pace,
Becoming filled with that primordial fear…

Snorting and huffing, a determined
Creature it is, not prepared to
Let go of life just yet…not just yet.

That being said…it can detect that
Wobble in its bones, that worrisome
Tremble, a sign of old age.

Further and further at the mercy
Of the pack, it becomes,
Whilst their family,
Understandably,
Must carry on,
Leaving it behind…

Sick and alone, sick and alone,
The nipping at its
Heels grows more prominent, that
Indomitable need to keep fighting
Not so, anymore, dominant.

Bites and swipes at its sensitive
Flesh send it tumbling
Into the snow.

Burying its face involuntarily
Within the stinging, hateful,
Splendid, comforting, paradoxical,
Intoxicating substance that covers
The Earth, always and forever,
Eyes close as it no longer could
Must up the strength to carry on.

Poor thing didn’t even have
The energy to howl in pain
As fangs began to rend and tear,
Eviscerating its gullet,
Jaws pulling out glistening innards,
The crimson fluid that blesses one
With life spilling out
Like a burst water main, a
Red river, pouring and seeping,
Burgundy rapids staining the pure white
Frost. Meat was torn from meat, bone
Crunching with pathetic ease,
Ligaments and tendons, along with
Stringy fat, being unceremoniously separated
From flesh; flesh divorced from other flesh.

Growls and groans and huffs and sighs
Of pleasure and satisfaction and pure
Hunger erupted from the throats of these
Assailants, muzzles and paws
Painted with a distinctly
Dark, scarlet hue, savoring that
Addictive taste of copper and iron,
Life itself on their tongues.

Meanwhile, the defeated brute
Splayed in a most undignified manner
Upon the ground…all it could do was
Let out pitiful moans of
Pain and sorrow, barely able
To keep its eyes open,
Eyelids feeling heavy
As multiple mouths
Dug around in the treasure-filled
Mine that were the cavernous
Insides of this proud, mammoth-like being.

Their stomachs had filled with a quickness,
Indulging in their hard-won carcass,
With plenty of servings to go around
For everyone.

Once they all had their fill,
The little troop,
Both brotherhood and sisterhood,
A band of potent anima and animus,
Mixed together into a
Vigorous bond that could not be broken,
A strength beyond any other strength
(Forever stronger than all),
Only loyal to their kin and their kin alone,
By their catch they sat,
Sitting guard, heads swiveling about,
Drowsily lazing in the ghostly carpeting,
Their coats staving off the frigid breezes
As best as they could.

Off in the distance, the many glowing eyes
Could be seen, peering out from within the darkness.

ONLY A FOOL WOULD CLING TO THIS WORLD AS IT IS

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.

LOOK AT THEIR SCALPS REAL CLOSE (YOU’LL SEE TRIPLE SIXES)

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…

NO ONE IS SAFE

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?”