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.



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

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

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

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

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

Plenty of dirt, for the bodies that will fall.

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

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


And so, he comes back home.

Or, well, what’s left of it.

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

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

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

What was he looking for?


That’s it.


But, hmm, where was it?

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

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

Surely, he must look so odd.

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

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

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

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

Would such an outburst change much? Hell no.

Yet, would it bring him much satisfaction? Absolutely.

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

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

A sane Satan against a gibbering Jehova.

Rejoicing in turning these churches into heaping husks.

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

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

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

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

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

He knew God intimately.

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

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

It’d be perfectly fair, he thought.

Desecration for desecration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



There it was.

Familiar territory.

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

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

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

Think. He could finally…think.


Serenity, o, is it ever omnipresent this way out.

What could one
Desire more than
This, glorious splendor?

Vast, ever stretching, without end,
A man could travel for hours, and
Still, would the grand much of it
Be unexplored. Beacons everywhere
Call out, promising new adventures,
Surely not to be ignored.

Tranquility, one wants? Here, tranquility, one hast.

Step forth, savoring soul.

Ocular organs peering into lush corridors, head turning
About to survey all that makes itself known to you.

So soft, is the ground underneath.

Palpable under your bare heel and toes, calloused
Due to all of the rewilding they
Have had to endure.

Moist, damp, fresh.

Peculiar scents meet your nostrils,
Undoubtedly rising up from the soil,
Concocting pleasant vapors that
Filled your lungs.

Molding, it seemed, to your feet,
Not unlike a shoe, or a glove, but
It felt…better. Realer. Purer.

A shiver runs up your spine as
The cooler moisture nestles
Betwixt thy toes, coating
All around. It would seem,
If one could imagine it,
That the Earth itself
Were applying gentle kisses
Upon your trotters. A gentle greeting
Amidst a new morning, as if to say,
“Welcome back, love”.

Verdurous growth mischievously
Tickles the skin underneath,
Dainty growths of floral life
Encompassing the appendage. One could
Be inclined to think it were…dragging
You deeper into its fold. And yes,
It, too, is pleasantly full of
Wetness. Tempting, isn’t it? To
Simply…join it, on the forest bed,
Relax into its hold. An enticing prospect, to be sure.

Yes, it had rained the previous night. You
Heard the drops pitter-patter
Against the walls and roof
Of your home. Lulling you into
Slumber with their comforting,
Yet disjointed, rhythm.

Light breezes blow by,
Caressing your skin
So delicately and tenderly,
Much akin to the arms
Of a doting mother
Pulling her child lovingly
Into her warm embrace on
A frigid night,
Blowing faint whispers
Laced with the promises
You’ve come to expect
Out of this sanctuary. Promises kept, a
Word that never is given
Deceptively. Lies, She tells not. For that is
Not of her way.

Drink in the sights,
Sounds, touches, scents, tastes,
As well as all other profound, delectable delights.

Warmth surges through gatherings of leaves,
Bathing you in a glow of
Golden glory, the eye of Life gazing
Upon thee, offering a contrast to the
Chill of the playful wind. Not harsh,
Not biting, at is sometimes wont to
Do. Nay, merely teasing,
Occasionally raising goosebumps as the
Body is tricked into believing it is colder than is true.

Speaking of both the canopy and undergrowth of
Emerald coloration sprouting forth
From the outstretched arms,
Both large and small soaking
In the radiant beams emanating
Eternally from high on, you are
Surrounded. Engulfed in immense beauty. All rooted deep
Within the ground, tendrils
Buried into the dirt, drinking
Happily. Up and out, is its way. A myriad of shapes
Greets your curious gaze,
Pupils tracing along every curve. No
Artists of the species homo sapiens
Could ever hope to
Replicate something like them. It’d be
An impossible undertaking. Those who
Are arrogant enough to proclaim
Themselves worthy, are foolish. Laugh at them,
Laugh in their faces.

Oh, those sounds. You can hear them,
Can’t you? Clear as day. They cannot
Be missed, not for a moment.

Seems that thou are not alone here.

Older, wiser, tougher, stranger
Emanations from Being, shaped
Through its essence, descended
Down from the immaterial (as all that lives is),
Nestling and settling into
Its new home, through which it
Reaches out, expressing the
Nature of that acausal mysteriousness,
Keeping it safe, sheltering it, invigorating it, that which it is animated by,
A mysteriousness they are intimately connected with,
And you still are trying every day
To understand more and more.

Songs and sentences passing from
Magical throats,
And unknowable
Filling thy ears.

Hear the pitter-patter
Of killer and victim on
The loose. An eternal
Game of chase and be chased.

Fur and feathers of all
Shapes, sizes, and colors
Loom into sight. Somewhat
Similar to witnessing
Objects scurrying along
A canvas.

So unlike you, they are,
And yet, you feel connected
To them, in a way
Words cannot accurately describe.

A kind of knowing
Of a most inherent variety,
Not cultivated, not strived for,
Simply there from the start. All that was
Needed was to rediscover it.

Close by, the peering eye
Of her, gazing from inside,
Into the outside, seeing all
Reflected in her vision. Her creations
Lapping up what they need,
Drinking her in, always carrying
A part of her, wherever they go (although,
They are already of her, and joined
With her in harmony), always bowing their
Heads in reverence when they approach.

Bouncing off of the surface of
The clear orb of our
Great Mother, able to gaze back
Into her, as she is us,
Above is seen below. Clear,
Blue acres suspended, always
Present, never gone. Undisturbed,
Untouched, unmolested, it is allowed its
Own recourse, left to its own devices.

Primordial, perennial,
Everlasting, eternal.

Heaven sent you here,
Guided you back home.

Of course, you came to find out…this was Heaven.

What could be a more perfect setting?

This place, it looks
And even feels the
Same is it did yesterday.

Alas, it also doesn’t.

Little changes, subtle rearrangements. Small to the
Undiscerning eye, but to those who can
Truly make use of their vision, they’re

This is not your first encounter
With this realm.

Nay, I think it not; rather,
This be all that you now know. Yes,
Intimately you know thy region of dwelling,
Thoroughly intertwined with it, body and essence,
Like the hands of two young lovers.

Daily, every cycle of
Sun and moon
Grazing along the protective cover
Which allows us
To peer into the depths,
And become lost
In the stars, you
Find yourself
Coming into contact with it,
More and more immersed in its mysteries,
Delving deep, always,
Into the arms of the One.

This, this is your home now.

O, what of that
Lesser home, you once
Belonged to, so long ago?

Perish the thought.

Tis nothing else but
Mere distant memories,
Recollections from a time
Now bygone, in your eyes.

Poorly reflecting on you, as you are now.

Despicable ways you have cast
To the wayside,
Shedding the superficialities of
A world wrong and wretched.

Chains and shackles long since
Ripped from your wrists,
Left in the dust of your wake.

Soul no longer clouded,
Overwhelmed with fog,
Trapped in a daze,
Confused and wandering, ever searching,
Lost in an abyss.

Do you miss it?

Could you miss it?

Nay, you think it impossible.

After all, only a fool could.

Fools pine over the most detrimental of things.

Something stirs on the periphery of
The otherwise serene, near silent setting

Nay, not a sound of here.

She didn’t give way to whatever this might be.

Again, there it is again. Sharp, grating,
Distracting, unlike anything you’ve
Heard in recent times,
Ears unaccustomed to this racket.

The sound, the sound.

Your footsteps plod in the direction
Of the offending crashing and banging, a
Jackhammering pace
Igniting within
Thy chest.

Hypotheses and predictions born
From an immense worry,
Ideas of the worst hurtling
Right into the forefront
Of your mind.

It cannot be.

O Gods, do not let it be so…

Louder, and louder…

Clearer, and clearer…

Backing up, moving forth,
Grinding of gears,
Flapping of lips and tongues and throats,
Whirring of engines,
Valves opening and closing,
Noxious breath bellowing from the belching lungs of the titans,
Rushing veins pumping scalding hot, toxic blood,
The feast of rape and murder,
O, can you hear the screams? Aye, if only thy
Ears were open, able to hear the screams…

Soil ruined for generations.

A floor trampled and torn asunder.

Flora and fauna crushed under metal teeth, digging greedily into Her breast.

Dear God…

The horror…

O, the horror…

Something ignites deep within, a kind of
Bursting forth, as if a bulkhead
Within that wasteful, demonic
Monument to modernity, now
Plunged into the barren, aquatic desert,
Hath broken from the immense pressure.

“Good morning, everyone. Today’s top story…a rather tragic one. Harrowing, shocking; the product of a deranged terrorist, perhaps? Goodness, what is our world coming to. A crew, part of a local logging company, who wish to remain nameless, was found viciously mutilated outside of town, in a historic piece of land that, after being declared to be under preservation and untouched for virtually decades, had been bought out. From what we could gather, it was supposed to be an extension of the town. A new plaza, a new strip mall, a highway, something along those lines. They kept everything tight-lipped, fearing an uproar, if the news were to get out…although, the town has expressed positive sentiments towards growing in size. Guess they wouldn’t want to upset the greens, eh? The company has been working with the local authorities, and vows to find whoever perpetrated this terrible, loathsome act…to justice. And they shall be punished to the fullest extent of the law. If you know anything, see anything, please…contact this number. We have a dangerous killer on our hands.”


Anarchists…they’re a funny lot. “Freedom” is their rallying cry, or so they say. Liberty. They repeat the word over and over in reference to their failing worldview. Libertarian socialists, they often call themselves. Holding a monopoly, it seems, on the sacred word “libertarian”, which they are not worthy of at all, I’d say. But, let’s examine that. Because beneath all that talk of having the shackles of authoritarian might released form their ankles, I’d wager that they don’t champion anarchy. Not at all. No, what they want is a variety of…small-scale statism. Municipal statism, as Bob Black would call it. Small-scale Bolshevism, to be precise. The “New Left’s” variety of Bolshevism, anyway. Real Bolshevism, as it manifested, scares them so much that they shirk at the mere mention of Lenin and Stalin (though they are very quick to defend the source of Lenin and Stalin’s ideas). Bolshevism that’s been liberalized, so as to be acceptable and palpable to college kids who have never known anything other than being totally pampered and sheltered their whole lives. Self-determination, freedom of association, that’s not what they want, and subconsciously, they know it. They want order. Order reduced to the size of a small town, a village, a community. A strict, regimented, clear-cut order (to the point of detailing what ro do with the “criminally insane”; and these are the people who shout “ACAB”). Their kind of order, that is. Explicitly defined in the tomes of Bakunin, Kropotkin, Goldman, Malatesta, and the other “Marxists moving in fast forward”. And none other shall be tolerated. No other vision is compatible. As long as they believe hard enough, as long as they wish for it whilst donning their black hoodies and red bandanas, getting into street fights with John Birch wannabes, it will happen. It has to. How could it not? Their gods said it would. Even going as far as to lay it all out for them, giving them a program to work with. A new heaven, in place of the old one. Because, well, let’s face it: they don’t want to be free. And if that be the case, then I say, let them be slaves, either to themselves, or the system at large. We’ll gladly strip them of the title “anarchist”. Or we can abandon that term altogether. It’s been sullied enough.

That’s all besides the point. Not really what we’re here for, and honestly, it’s a bit of a dead horse. It’s not exactly new knowledge, to those of us who really know. However, the rant in the first paragraph does pertain to the actual topic of this piece. One that may rock the boat a bit more, and stir up more controversy.

This idyllic world, this paradise, is all supposed to come from a peaceful, bloodless revolution (where the rich are still eaten, and the cops are still lynched, but otherwise harmless and family friendly; “presenting, The Revolution, come see it for yourself, at your local province, and don’t forget the popcorn, hell, you can join in if you like”), since mutual aid, squatting, economic subversion, protesting, community service/organizing, and volunteer/charity groups alone somehow serve to topple the monolithic Leviathan (not that I have anything against these things, not at all, but I’m not stupid enough to think that freedom is somehow won without some brutality and the will being imposed), and then, after all is said and done, everything still miraculously intact, ready to still be used (even though they were all apparatuses of the state, which they were in total rebellion against…allegedly), everything magically sorts itself out, all falls into place, because human nature (a ghost in itself; hardly as real as anything else that’s been thought up) conforms to their idea that human beings are polite, civilized, altruistic beings who will naturally do the “right thing” (which means no hatred or bigotry, no reactionary or “oppressive” ideals being lived out, no war, no imperialism, no struggle, no discrimination or exclusion (or, if you’re a deluded anarcho-capitalist, then only the kinds you like will take place), rampant egalitarianism (if you’re a libertarian, then rampant equality of opportunity, combined with widespread prosperity), no elitism (populism and democracy for all), no harsh language, no “bad” cultures, no religion, individualism and collectivism will be reconciled (both capitalists and communists hilariously believe such nonsense), no more territorialism or tribalism, everyone will be accepting towards each other and get along just fine, and no irrationality). If they don’t, well, that’s not even a factor, is it? Everyone will do the right thing. Even if they have to bludgeoned into it. Well, not bludgeoned, of course. More like…quietly and democratically convinced. If it doesn’t come to fruition, then the illusion is shattered, their faith is called into question, and they martyr themselves for a hungry, bloodthirsty phantom.

The absolute that they crave is very, very gluttonous. Oh, how it demands, and demands.

Lo and behold, the benevolent dictatorship of the proletariat happens (somehow it happened all over the world, simultaneously, and it all succeeded), and all is well.

Everyone bothered to listen to their proselytizing, their declarations, accepting, along with these sorry bastards, the reality of something that isn’t even there, and is constantly found to be absent, in more ways than the most obvious one.

All they had to do was dress it up as a new faith, since that’s the only way a man can possibly think. And that is not the sarcasm talking. I think the human condition is inclined towards myth. It puts a lot of stock in it. Without which, much of man’s activities would be impossible. Unable to be actualized.

Now, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why this is all a load of shit. But, I’m going to tell why it is, from an anarchist’s perspective, because liberals, fascists, communists, and other such dullards have already given their multitude of reasons, haven’t they? Now’s not the time for them to speak. The dead should stay dead, after all.

Revolutions, as we all know, are violent, disgusting, merciless, shocking, dangerous affairs. They’re gory. Messy. Traumatic. Not for the faint of heart. People will be strung up from lampposts by nooses. Barrels of guns will be turned on various members of society, of all kinds. Not just government officials, banksters, businessmen, law enforcement, etc. But parents, children, elderly, neighbors, fellow workers, friends, teachers, scientists, doctors, minorities, all will be facing the reaper to some degree. Infrastructure, whether that be medical, communications, entertainment, transportation, economic, electric, will crumble to dust, as a result of being blown apart, since, naturally, you cripple your enemy during a war by attacking their means of waging war. And if it isn’t, it will be abandoned. Falling into states of disrepair. Unable to be brought back, now that the necessary means of keeping it functioning, human or otherwise, are now gone. Once could argue that they’d simply be taken over, but why would that be viable? You’d just create the state all over again. The ownership would’ve just changed hands. Which, one could argue, all revolutions are. Ownership of power being swapped. Not exactly untrue, I think. Manifestations of the “revolution” or “insurrection”, disappointingly, tend to turn out this way. Maybe due to the inherent populism present in both ideas.

True, not every revolutionary will be taking up arms, engaging in raucous slaughter. Some will partake in “direct action”, sabotage and disruption and obstruction of various kinds. Large-scale and small-scale. Attacking the enemy’s methods of carrying out their whims, usually technological, throwing wrenches in their carefully-planned logistics. In a scenario like this, casualties will inevitably result, whether directly or indirectly. Others may disseminate propaganda, fueling the fiery hatred of the rebels, writing words that keep the flames of passionate, unreasonable, fanatical hatred alive, conjuring images on both canvas and page that inspire terror in the foe and lively vigor in the friend, since that’s all this struggle really is, at the end of the day. Another lot may decide to take refuge in the unknown, untouched, untapped reserves of Mother Earth, ignoring and undermining their foe, telling it that, to them, it doesn’t mean shit. Nor will it ever. It can kindly, or unkindly, go fuck itself. Their authority is, to them, null and void. Nonexistent. It’s a sham. They have no need for it, and certainly no want for it. What good is it, in their eyes? It doesn’t represent them. If anything, it does quite the opposite. It has no power over them. And if it thinks, for a second, that it does, then they are willing to show the state that it’s only kidding itself. To stay the fuck away. Only attacking when provoked, like wild animals.

It’s not a secret, I’m sure you can guess, that, for a large part of it being carried out, the revolution, whatever form it takes (a revolution, a real one, cannot be controlled, directed, molded, and shaped, for a revolution is not some laboratory creation made by intelligent men; it is a chaotic affair where all sensibility and good sense man decides to forgo, as war, gratuitous violence, is the revealer of what humans really are), whenever and wherever it decides to happen, why ever it happens in the first place, will be…unsightly. Nasty. Blood will flow through the streets. Cries for more bodies will be sounded. Explosions, gunshots, raging flames, all will be heard and seen throughout the land. Agitated mobs of people, once they’ve decided to cast away the notions of civil behavior, morality, respect, manners, worldly and emotional attachments, and the demands and pleas of various figures belonging to institutions of all stripes, they’ll find themselves back in the so-called “state of nature”. To think that the revolution could be anything but wickedly and devilishly violent, well, that’s absurd.

By the way, the revolution, if it does ever happen, and it happens the way we would like it to, will likely not involve the participation of the many. Not for most of its lifespan. The multitude are too content in their slavery and victimhood to do much of anything about it. You know it’s true. If the marginalized and downtrodden really wanted to make a fuss and stir the pot, they would’ve done so by now. Sheep may express discontent towards their shepherd and the dogs nipping at their heals, but never will they fight back and kick the shepherd’s ass.

If anything, they’d rather just vote in another agitator, a demagogue, a rabble-rouser, who pays lip-service to their cries for relief, only to do the exact opposite when no one’s looking.

This brings me to my second point.

Liberty giving birth to order, as Proudhon put it, will not suddenly come about once the chips have fallen and all is said and done. I’d argue that freedom, real, visceral, perennial, ancient liberty, will not give way to order. Not immediately anyway, and certainly not in some carefully thought-out, well-planned, well-structured manner. You’re kidding yourself if you think that mankind will just suddenly behave itself in the absence of a parental figure (for men, the masses of man, have the mental faculties of young, bratty children).

Now, I don’t think we’ll simply “eat each other” right away, and hardly wholesale. Most of humanity is not bred for sociopathic bouts of rending and ripping flesh. Killing is not a matter to take lightly, and even without the eternal watchman around to provide divine or legal punishment, the mark killing leaves on the psyche is not one that disappears. Otherwise, soldiers wouldn’t come back home screaming in the middle of the night.

But don’t think for one second that things won’t be, to an extent greater than any of us would likely expect (stripping away civilization by itself will prove, for many, to be a brutal adjustment period), painful, miserly, hard, dull, tedious, existentially demanding, and scarring. It’s like taking a dog, who has known nothing but a warm house, a steady stream of food, and tender affection his life, and then casting him into the cold, expecting him to somehow act like all is totally well and good.

There will be conflict. There will be battles, and maybe even full-scale wars. Territorialism and tribalism will be present. Imperialism of a crude, unorganized, frenzied, and disjointed variety may even be dabbled in. Rape and pillaging and even some sort of perverse slavery may occur.

As a rather erudite fellow once said, peace is a desire; war is a fact. Humanity thrives on conflict, even when there’s nothing to drive it into said conflict. It’s volatile by its own volition.

To try and predict what will happen, much less try and formulate it, make it so before anything has even had a chance to blossom, you’re engaging in a delusion so grandiose, you’ve become a slave to it. Freedom leads to spontaneity. Any attempts to make the future commit to your needs and ideals is fruitless, futile.

And that brings us to the final point I wish to make.

People will naturally band together in the aftermath of society’s collapse, of the downfall of the wretched institutions, the crumbling of civilization, cities and towns and states falling into disarray and disrepair, where ideals and languages and philosophies and religions shatter. Humanity is a social creature, and it tends to seek out others to be around. Usually of like-mind, and, if they’re so inclined, of similar kin. Small communities will form, and maybe seek out other small communities to bond with. Or they may prefer to stay isolated. They might decide to be hostile towards anything and everything, or they might be peaceniks who just want to live uneventful and relatively comfortable lives. Who knows? The possibilities are endless.

Lots of decent, tolerable folks would probably find company that corresponds to how they feel and think, and wish to live. Free love types, psychonauts, nature lovers (both militant and non-militant), queers, vegans, primitivists, simple agrarians, pagans and Satanists, etc.

Yet, the consequence of unrestricted, boundless freedom, much like the consequences of freedom of speech, would be that not-so-nice individuals would form their own factions. Racists of all kinds, whether they be Klansmen, Nazis (or any other fascist for that matter), CSA-worshipping goons, Nation of Islam adherents, hardcore Zionists, or plain-old hatemongers, would have a chance to really revel in what it is they believe. Militant Abrahamics, too. Bigots and intolerant, close-minded chauvinists (misogynists, homophobes, xenophobic nationalists, etc.) of many varieties might find company in those of a similar thought process. They’d all get to live out their lives however they wish. The world would be a truly diverse and…interesting place.

Whether or not one may wish to trample upon them or not, root them out, that’s another story. The only limits one would have are the ones self-imposed. Only by how much strength one or more possesses, and how they are willing to use it, if they wish to.


Every poison, every disease, every plague, whether it be liberalism, egalitarianism, democracy, socialism, capitalism, pacifism, rationalism, utopianism, totalism, statism, populism, substance abuse, collectivism, solidarity, is born out of its foul womb, a stench that reminds one of nauseating corpses left to fester in opulent wood carvings.

They claim that every other train of thought leads to death, reveres the reaper’s touch. Nay, I say it is not true at all. While we have great respect for Señor La Muerte, unlike the pissant filth that erects mosques, synagogues, and churches, for without death, there is no life, and that which dies lives om elsewhere, renewed and restored, for cosmic energy, matter, does not dissipate, we do not “worship” death. We love life. Greatly. We don’t run from it. Sure, it is suffering, it is pain, it is hate, it is war, it is strife and struggle and misery and setback after setback, disappointment after disappointment. Yet, it is also joy, it is also love, it is also beauty, it is also art, it is also greatness and glory and wonder and excitement, a bounty of treasures no gold, silver, platinum, or diamonds could ever hope to eclipse. We accept life as it is, for perfection shall not be the enemy of good. As accuser, I say that it is the Abrahamic scourge that hates life. Rejects it. They claim animals and plants are not nexions to the great Beyond, such a ludicrously false statement if I ever heard one, overtaken by Cartesian nonsense and Thomistic lies; rich coming from those whose souls are as dead as the meat in the market, and guilt trip humans into thinking that they must self-flagellate constantly, kept in a constant state of paranoia, fear, and loathing of everyone else, and especially themselves. That the soil, air, and water are mere “material” things, and do not speak their own language. Contain their own hidden truths, that which many will never understand. It scoffs at the idea of living, truly living. Not just existing, ad dead flesh walking. Their “life” is somewhere else. Not here. That’s why they stand idly by as their ilk are allowed to wreck it. Because they think life is ugly, and should be killed.

You know what I say to this? We should help them to their desired home. Send them to the putrid, pallid palace they grovel at the feet of. They’d be all the happier for it, wouldn’t they? They don’t want to live. They’ve come down with suicide ideation, but are in denial of it. There’s nothing more that an Abrahamic adores more than death.

Many think that we should tolerate them. It doesn’t look well when one persecutes the three biggest faiths in the world. While I don’t disagree with the idea, I should clarify what I happen to mean.

Their existence should be tolerated. That’s about it. They can be amongst their own kind. They can have their little communities. And as long as they leave us alone, then we shall let them be. But, for the love of all things worth loving, do not, under any circumstances, let them penetrate what it is we stand for. They are like communists. Once they get in, they’ll subvert it. And it will be ruined. Tainted. And they will be to blame. They’ll contaminate it under the many guises they take, the many masks and cloaks they don to still maintain and exert their influence upon the world.

Let it be understood, however, that war must be waged upon them. Upon their institutions. Their buildings. Their congregations. Their ideals. Viciously and savagely attacked. Ravaged. Like wolves annihilating a freshly caught bison carcass. In the ensuing collapse of the current order, they will have to be swept away. Which shouldn’t be all that hard, thankfully. Civilization facilitates this sort of nonsense. Perpetuates these scornful ideologies. Without nation-states and other such geists and phantoms, their nonsensical philosophies wouldn’t flourish. Not at all. They’d be relegated to certain regions, their cults festering amongst their own, a cruel cycle, clinging to their dead man on a stick, their martyr on a pike. Feebly clutching to carvings of that feeble joke of a human with a crown of thorns and an emaciated physique. Slaves to each other, as is their natural instinct, for they enjoy living on their hands and knees, heads facing the floor, beaten down and pulverized, so their infectious degeneracy wouldn’t be allowed to be master of anything except excrement, mountains of shit gathered together in human form.

A botched birth, a sick old man, a bleeding corpse, a disfigured cadaver, a puppet held up by desperate onlookers and pleading fools. That is all that would be left, I would imagine. Any attempted revivals should be snuffed out harshly, and swiftly.

And they’d enjoy it, wouldn’t they? They’d get their rapture. And as they’re trampled, they’ll get to go home, their real home.

While we…we shall live on.


It’s quiet.

Not silent, but quiet.

Compared to the hustle-and-bustle of the asphalt lines surrounded by concrete squares, it’s borderline…dead.

Yet, this is flawed thinking. For only the ignorant would assume that what lies here is “dead”. Only the vapid and superficial, with minds craving gutters and grime, would happen to believe something so inane. The wretched mindset that they’ve carried with them throughout all of their lives, excrement poured into their ears and swishing around in their craniums, beaten into them from birth, the putrid lies that taint the potentially fertile soil of thought, and will most likely carry until they are deceased, has warped their brains to the point where they resent this sort of setting, seeing it as boring and dull. Yet, I think it is they who are boring and dull. And their places of dwelling, that are boring and dull.

Look around.

Does it look dead to you?

To me, it is anything but dead. It is, in fact, very much alive. All of it. Every bit of it. The building blocks of one giant, thinking, breathing, feeling, expressive organism. And all of the parts are alive as well. Micro-organisms that build up to create one splendid, whole, complete creature.

The many trees, the grass, the shrubs, the bushes, the weeds, the flowers, they are more alive than your lines of giant, all-consuming squares that dominate every square inch of any decently sized city. I’d go as far to say that they are more alive than you, or anyone else you may associate with. They are closer to Truth than you could ever hope to be. Meanwhile, you can’t even begin to grasp one iota of the greatness of life, nor would you be able to appreciate it if it made itself known to you. Even though you look down on them, and trample carelessly over them, the flora, they are better than you. Not that you care, or even could. You’re not concerned whatsoever when they are paved over, soil poisoned by your endless desire for construction, your need to endlessly assemble, fabricate. And why should you be? You’re full of rot.

The deer, the armadillos, the possum, the lizards, the hawks and jays, the foxes, the coyotes, the mice and rats, the fish, the insects, even, are as alive as the plants are. Being permeates all that they are. They know it, and they know it well. And they cherish Being, and they value, in their own ways, being-here. What would you know about any of that? Is Being something you could even comprehend? You hardly even exist. Curiously, you denigrate the magnificent creatures. These works of art. Where Being manifested in so many ways. You think your perception is more complete, more put together. Is it? I doubt it. They are colorful and diverse, expressing Nature’s Truth in a variety of manifestations. What you revel in, is gray, and stomps out any difference, demanding conformity. I’d say the inverse is true. The spark of life, the pneuma, it still flows free in them. It doesn’t even have to be brought out, or searched inside of themselves. It just…is. Being is not something foreign to be realized. Even the best of us, of this species called “Man”, have to work exceedingly hard just to grasp what is so innate in those critters, those animals, those fauna, we either view as novelties, nuisances, or useful objects, we often take for granted, and view with contempt.

To hell with your “lively” cities. They aren’t “lively” at all. Your night lives, and facilitators of night lives, are pits of despair, disappointment, and loneliness. Your “individualism” is hardly “individualism”. Picking brands and products to identify with, out of some desire for even the emptiest identity, shows that you are not an individual, and quite possibly, not even a person. Just dead flesh walking. Your “social scenes” are breeding grounds for alienation, dens of artificial commonality. Lost souls thrown together with other lost souls, floundering for some kind of meaningful connection. Your gatherings, proudly hailed as organic and full of vigor, often are flashes in the pan, angst-ridden outbursts, before they fizzle and die, fading into obscurity, or are rendered harmless, any sense of “revolution” gutted, rendered old and stale. Your cultural rebellions are mere aesthetic choices that ultimately do not challenge the status quo, and, if anything, are subsumed into it over time.

I’d gladly see it all engulfed in fire, and watch you panic as your world dies and turns to ashes.

You don’t know what “alive” looks like.

Those who do not know should not speak.

Not on matters they are ignorant of.

To those who sympathize, know that you are not alone. But don’t think the machinations of the current order can be used to make any significant changes. The institutions we rely on so much. The upheaval should not come so they merely take a different form, so their innards are rearranged and reworked to simply benefit us, and our ideals. They need to be annihilated so devastatingly that the mere memory of what they were is gone. Only then…can the world blossom once again.