I’m aiming at the forehead,
Cutting right to the culmination
Of our ongoing misery,
Getting revenge for all those nearly dead
Via this campaign of esoteric extermination,
These shots will be the truest sounds of liberty!

Packed my shovel just for this occasion,
How long has it been since an attempt this brazen,
Deck this palace with the blood and bone
Of a trio of failures botched right from the get go!

And as the blood drains from the jugular,
Into the void go these three newcomers,
Staining their palaces, the color palette forever changed,
Justified, all of this is; how can you condemn this rage?

Let it be known, this isn’t for you,
My hands didn’t press down on the windpipe
For what you think is “right” or “true”,
Acting alone, I am; only I made the choice to decide!

Where do we go from here
Now that we no longer hear
The roaring sounds of self-righteous jeers,
Burdened no more by conjured-up fears?

Time to drink up; it tastes so good,
How I savor the taste,
Intoxicated there I stood,
Not letting it go to waste!

From these ruins, to which end
Shall my weary feet tread,
Gazing upon all of the dead,
Is there no limit, is infinity
My newfound friend?

O’, I can breathe; o’, what a relief…

And now I stare out into the void,
Chances of a new hope are destroyed,
Undone by my hands with the greatest glee,
No “calm after the storm” into which you can flee,
So don’t question me about an end goal,
Just hold on tight to your very soul…

Nights full of dreams,
Days full of delight…



I’m lurking around in the darkest corner,
Near this presence, no coat could make you warmer,
An inevitability you can never escape,
The fear itself makes your heart falter and your bones ache,
Where shall you go and flee to?

Here I am, waiting here,
Patiently standing as a conclusion draws near,
A birth cannot happen without me first,
For blood to flow, quenched must be my eager thirst!

I’m never going to be gotten rid of,
Try as you might, I’m the below that reaches above,
My hand holds the blade that cuts through all things,
And my crows will peck apart what decays as they all sing,
What do you think awaits you?

Eyes watch, hollow and black,
Life’s containment allows me to seep through the cracks,
But if things must grow,
I must clear away what grows old!

Seeds must sprout
Upon which is now
Forgotten to time,
Never again, to stand and rise!


If there’s one thing I cannot stand…it’s a lack of creativity, a lack of originality. And if there’s something else I cannot stand, is uniformity. Where are both found? In things concocted for the purposes of massification and machinification, which are always ruthlessly and violently imposed. Because if order isn’t there to be found, then anarchy reigns. Ergo, a lack of control, a lack of a grasp on what would otherwise organically develop without outside influence, a lack of things meddled with, corralled and coerced about as a result of some jackass having “a vision”.

Perhaps where this phenomenon of boring predictability manufactured to keep dullards happy and outcasts, dreamers of the dark and dangerous, sidelined, is most obvious (for those who are just entering the realm of what is dubbed “radical thought”, anyway) and therefore most glaring, most ripe for vicious and savage critiqur, is in regards to most of humanity’s views on gender and sexuality.

Cisgendered, heterosexual society and its standards serve to impose a bland, levelling, conformist, dull, unimaginative mode of existence upon everyone and everything, and despite what its root word, “hetero”, implying difference, may say, it in fact loathes any kind of sexuality or gendered/non-gendered feelings, practices, or experiences that lie outside of its all-too-arrogant norm, proudly proclaiming itself, in the vein of the Abrahamic father who spawned this accursed thing, to be the one truth, the one universal definition of “correct”, “just”, “righteous”, “moral”, etc. Many of those caught in the trap laid by swindlers who constructed the foundations for this disgrace long ago will balk at these notions, saying that it’s all nonsensical ramblings, that it’s really the gays that wish to make everything all the same, and that heterosexuality and being cisgendered are the norm because that is just the way things are, unable to picture much else outside of the stifling reality that has suffocated their minds and hearts from birth, too vapid to even make the attempt to break out of the mold.

Where heterosexuality and cisgendered ideals have really just one option, one supposedly “right” way to live, one possibility, queerness is infinity. It is chaos, a boundless array of possibilities. It can be everything and nothing (I mean these two in the most literal sense), as well as everything in between. It is unbound and unchained, broken loose from all of the fragile fetters that were born from the brains of those frightened by the reality of how things really are (namely, unknowable and unnamable lawlesslessness, pandemonium). Obviously, this conflicts quite heavily with this marauding monster called civilization, which parades around like an abusive, meatheaded drunkard, bashing, maiming, screaming, eating, and crushing everything that dares step in front of its path. Civilization desires, nay, requires, order. It is aroused most fervently by the squashing of dissent, of the fearsome other. Oh, how it shirks in terror at the mere prospect of an other. And so, it must root out any possibility of an other existing to begin with. For an other shows that it is failing, that it can’t ever succeed, and will remain a utopian pipedream for all time.

How dreadful this is, to Leviathan.

Of course, chaos is useless to civilization. All chaos does is seek to break it up, to wither it away, keep it from ever fulfilling its wishes. For chaos is natural, and civilization is very much not natural. Civilization can’t utilize chaos, because chaos, by definition, isn’t able to be bottled up and leashed. It’s never ending, always changing, forever thrashing around and escaping through whatever containment trying to box it in, leaking out and pouring out.

Now, you may ask, what does this have to do with queerness? Dear reader, it’s very simple: queerness, being chaotic, is not at all able to be reconciled with the squarely utilitarian, efficiency-minded mentality of civilization and its supporters. Cisgendered, heterosexual norms serve to keep civilization going, to keep it upright, instead of causing it to fall apart. These two things maintain order and growth, more so when they are actively propagated. Fostering progress, advancement, linear, upward development, and bolster economic activity, property, the circulation and continuation of money, etc. Queerness, if anything, actively rebels against growth and order, especially since (forgive me for stressing this part so much and repeating it) it is chaotic. Makes sense as to why civilization, since its very incarnation, has always been against the queers.

And if the pinnacle of civilization is to be found in the teachings of Jehovah/Yahweh/Allah, which is also, coincidentally (or maybe not coincidentally), a deity that champions heterosexuality and being cis, as well as law and order, progress (called millenarianism/the end of history), mercantilism, economic absurdities, and all kinds of nonsense, then it becomes all too apparent in my eyes why being queer is associated with Lucifer/Satan, the devil, deviancy and insurrection against Jesus and the cop-angels of Heaven.

Something I think queers should actively embrace.

Does it sound conspiratorially minded? A bit kooky, a bit strange? Yeah, I wouldn’t disagree.

But if one really thinks about it…

Am I wrong?


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.


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

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

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

Life wilts away,
Evaporating in their presence.

Here be the world’s greatest pestilence.


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.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deep in the crimson river,
She stands and wades.

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

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

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


God is dead, God is dead. Yes, his corpse is paraded about and maneuvered like a morbid puppet being manipulated by a cryptic ventriloquist, but make no mistake; the stench of rot lingers heavy in the air. Because God is, in fact, dead. We did kill him. Butchered him, and desecrated him. We refuse to bury the body, because we cannot accept the reality of the situation. However, the facts are still undeniable. Jehovah is dead.

Travel to any church. Be in the presence of the pious. And ye shall see. The foul odor shall overwhelm thy nostrils to an insufferable degree. All you will be able to detect is the scent of a long-perished deity.

Pretend all they may wish, their God is dead. Even as they madly, inanely, seek God. “I seek God! I seek God!”, screaming incessantly for his revival, for him to come back.

He never will.

He never can.

In some ways, this is quite harrowing. Since God has monopolized the metaphysical realm, pushing away all other spirits and deities and heroes from other realms to the periphery, the metaphysical, for all intents and purposes, has been lost. No longer do the many-too-many, the all-too-human, have a pathway to the Divine. At best, the few, the bold, the brash, will have to seek alternatives elsewhere. More authentic traditions, which have never disappointed. Unfortunately, the masses are lost. Spiritually, they are left floundering, since what lead them to that ethereal plane is now gone, ripped away from them. Whether it be a good representation of it or not, that can be argued at a later date. But, it was…something. Through that, they might’ve heard some kind of calling. The layman, that is. The pneumatic need not worry, for they always will find a way to that animating spark, those rays of light that emanate from the dark depths (because all things were born in the gap; everything came from nothing, and all that is shall become all that isn’t, and vice versa).

Since the many-too-many have severed the chains that tie them to a metaphysical source, and thus are left to drown in a sea of woe, now rendered soulless husks who shamble about like vacant-eyed, slack-jawed walkers, running on the biological equivalent of autopilot, they begin to…act accordingly. Becoming deranged. Psychotic. Lost and wayward. Shaking and shivering as they tear at themselves and others with incredible ferocity. The metaphysical has fallen out of favor with them, and it now looks upon them as dross, scum, unworthy of its gifts. Banished, they are. And like lost children, desperately looking for their parents, they grasp and fight and claw and beg and scream for something.

But…it won’t ever come.

All of them shall cry out in vain, “God have mercy!”

But, well, God…he’ll be gone.

Let’s face it: the many-too-many are not desiring or wanting of freedom. Nay, the masses revel in their slavery, and wish for it, either subconsciously or consciously. The teeming herd, despite their protests and cries, want to be crushed and controlled and brainwashed, for they know nothing else. Actual, real freedom, would drive them into the pits of insanity itself.

Do not take away their idols, their god-men and kings. For what would they do without them? Crumble into dust, withering away like wilted flowers in winter time. Their shackles? Keep them locked to their ankles and wrists. Bind them, for that is what they want. Do not set them loose, for it will inevitably lead to their demise. Won’t it, won’t it?

Yet, perhaps this would actually be a blessing…

How much have the masses ruined?

When the populace makes something popular, the end result is mediocrity, which leads, eventually, to its total destruction and negation.

Too much of anything is never a good sign.

All of this stems from them not having innate need or even want to be in contact with the Divine (to the real Divine), to…Her. This, of course, explains their need to attach themselves to a demiurge, a false idol, that dreadful Jehovah, that abominable Yahweh. They demand a ready-made…thing. A useful fiction to comfort their aching souls and aching bodies. As I stated before, those who aren’t descended from the clay born sons of Adam, will need nothing from this tradition. Nor should they. For it provides little else than a restrictive bind that would destroy their uniqueness, their individuality. Crush it under the weight of beating wings and crucified martyrs.

However, since this was all swept away, like children who have been pressed under the thumb of authority for so long, subject to the whims of mad tyrants, they simply…do. With all of the reckless abandon of a cheetah trying to catch a gazelle.

You can’t expect millions who have known nothing but a single idea, to somehow not either go through an existential crisis that ends in horror or hedonism, or lash out in hurt and hate and sadness and mania.

Then comes the inevitable fact that they have to grapple with.

Divinity, as they knew and perceived it, as they were taught, was, at heart, a lie. A dirty trick, a phantom concocted to keep them from losing their minds. Even if their feeble “tradition” wasn’t snuffed out, they, in all reality, would’ve never known the divine. Not even close. At best, a barely-recognizable imitation of it. Certainly not its real essence. What they got was a fraud, a twisted deception. Naturally, when they realize this, and either they are already doing so, or at some point will, it either makes them double down even harder on their frail myth…or go mad from the revelation.

Which is why, to the common man, the death of God is nothing short of pure, nightmarish horror. As it should be. Their hideous light is snuffed out. That bad copy of Mithras, of Sol Invictus, lies perished in the blood-soaked halls of Heaven. Their guiding light, their star, is extinguished, rendered null.

And with it, all the morals attached to this fetid human debris.

Who, who, shall enslave them now? Where is their god-king? All of the little systems they so admired and relied upon, to what void have they descended into, churned up and digested, never to be seen again? “Please, please, come back!”, they cry out with tears in their eyes, quivering as they clasp their hands together.

“Come back…” They whimper.

But the pneumatic, they shall not shirk in the absence of YHWH. Matter of a fact, it shall be a moment of great celebration, for the death of God was what they were craving this entire time. Slowly, yet surely, working towards the destruction of that putrid old man. While the masses descend into a collective psychosis at God’s absence, those who found nothing but wretched, pathetic groveling at the feet of a dirty, wicked tyrant, shall begin to revel in their true freedom. It could be argued that God had suffered a demise much earlier, but, eventually, the minds of the many-all-too-many will awaken to the reality that they have sought to deny for so long: God is dead. And what they’ve been holding onto was little else but a stinking cadaver, trying to fool themselves, trying to trick themselves, into God somehow sprouting back to life.

A new age, a new cycle, shall dawn upon us all.

Refreshing and renewed, the world, in this age, shall perhaps not be so blackened, so grey, blotted out by the shadows of a decrepit Israeli.

Oh, how they shall fall into the arms of denial. Trying to relieve those glory days of the past where God was not but a screaming figment of their dull imagination. Feebly and hopelessly attempting to turn back the clock to yesteryear. Believing that if a certain set of circumstances were to arise, then all would be well again. Right, right? Hardly…and deep down, they know this to be the case.

You see it a lot in this day and age. All of them, trying to act as if their great lie didn’t come to an end. It infuriates them to be told otherwise, let alone think it. “No!”, they yell. But underneath that bravado, is pure fear.

“What if they are right? What if God is truly gone?”

“Say it isn’t so!”

Delusional, that’s what they are.

Even from behind the grave, YHWH still cracks the whip over their backs. And even in his absence, they still spill their blood for him, scarring and rending their flesh in his name.

It would appear…that they have a hard-on for the ill-preserved body of whatever it is that truly seek (if they, indeed, do truly seek anything at all). Move on? You dare tell them to move on? Balderdash. Like a grieving mother at the grave of her prematurely deceased child, they will not move on. Never…never.

Yet, unlike the mother torn apart by her child’s departure from this world, this breed of human will try and dig up the shriveled carcass, lusting over their ideal image of it. Perhaps even try to sodomize and sexually defile it. Because their love is not actually love. More of a perverse obsession, a demented attraction born out of their loins, not their hearts. Disrespecting it far more than their invisible enemies ever could…

Us, who are not perturbed in the slightest, will defiantly say, “to hell with the past!”. What have the words of dead man and dead idols got to do with us? Absolutely nothing. These old forms and old ways, we shall leave them to the wastebaskets of history, crushed under the ever-turning wheel that grinds up all things and all people into dust, where nothing, no man or era or civilization, is safe. We didn’t want them anyway. To live in the past; what misery.

Of course, this is not to say the past cannot teach us things, for there are truths everywhere that will always be eternal and valid. But only that which stood the test of time, should be allowed to ring in the ears of the coming generations.

Did Jehovah stand the test of time? I think not.

Nor did his teachings, his lies, his empty words, his hollow promises, his foul rules and sinful schools.

He was but a mere two-millennia long fad, a fluke in the grand scheme of wyrd.

I implore, to any who may have even the slightest inkling…

Forget the past.

We shall be deemed heretics, by those infected by the disease known as “pastism”. Riddled with a grotesque need to “go back”. Go back? Fuck all that. It’s not happening. Wishful thinking at best. No amount of pining for opulent monarchs and gaudy churches will magically bring back that which you love most. And, in all honesty, I would say that you most likely want to appearances back. Not the spirit. Pretenders, posers, fakes. More detestable than the scum who actually believe.

But it is no matter. They shall die, while we, we shall live. Gloriously and without limit or concern for the petty doctrines espoused by the diabolical trio.

To be called a heretic by them would be a high honor.

“Damn right we are heretics! We are in league with your devil! Howl foul mockery at your bastard sand prophets, your crosses and crescent moons and fiendish stars!”

As it currently stands, upon the edge of the abyss it looms. Therefore, it is our duty to push it, and hard. Leave it to the swirling vortex. Make war upon whatever is left of these ridiculous notions, these festering disease, these causes for brain and soul rot. Burn it, burn it, I say. We shall use the remains of it to warm our hands in the coming darkness, in the eternal night. Our feet shall trample upon all that you hold dear. If you wish to leap into the void with your emaciated Nazarene, we shall not stop you. Matter of a fact, we encourage it.



Iron beginning…

Begin again…


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh wait…

“But they will not get enough to eat!”

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

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

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

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

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

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


Look at them. Smiles adorning their beautiful faces. Carefree, overtaken by whimsical passion. Taken into the depths of the joyous daze, drunk with that greatest of intoxicants. Possibly the only kind worth succumbing to. Without it, what is there to live for? What is there to die for? It is the only measure of worth. And they have found much worth in each other. As a result, they are free. In the absence of caution, freedom takes root. To disregard means to disobey danger itself. Tell me; who is more free than they?

The kisses and hugs they share, the pleasure felt in each other’s presences, the reverent glances, the need to be close, the nights shared in bed, it is as truthful as anything else that holds up under the hammer taken to the rest of our world in ruins.

Yet, unfortunately, truthfulness and reality are hated. Fantasy and deceit is the order of our day, always.

A love more pure, more genuine, more free, unshackled from expectation, base necessity, or the pressures of hateful, irredeemable monoliths. No “why” or “because” needed to be dictated. It just “was”. It just “is”. And as we all know, the more you build atop a “why”, trying to reinforce it, the more ridiculous it seems. Only what’s natural, what’s without explanation, is real. Again, to disregard, is to disobey danger. All odds seemed stacked against them. Why? I wish I knew. Such harmless folks they are, I’ve often found.

Then again, most of the villains concocted are less disagreeable than we’d like to think. Satan is powerfully sensual, but what he says has truth woven into it, and you want to sympathize to some degree. Plus, who doesn’t love an underdog, a rebel against a conformist, humorless many?

In addition, love is the eternal enemy of the slobbering brute depicted in a centuries-old tome written by Locke and Rousseau’s equally ignorant, wicked counterpart.

Love is the desired meal of its fuming mouth, meant to be churned up in the pit that is its gullet of hate.

Foul curses are howled at them by sniveling vultures, for a multitude of reasons. “What of the making of children?” And I reply: “we don’t need any more of them; brats are overrated, anyhow”. Another common one: “God commands it not to be so!” Oh, yes, God. The father of an Israeli communist agitator? The Romans were right to stamp out their madhouses and unholy gatherings, and to mount their beloved upon a pair of connected tree trunks. I’m more angry they didn’t go far enough. “It’s not natural!” Hmm, but your mechanistic device you constructed yourselves to oppress and subjugate thy own, is? This miserable beast that loathes all, ends all, in effort to resentfully become all? “I’m unhappy, so why should they be?” Pity your contractual binding failed you, leaving you with heartache and hurt. Nevertheless, that was your choice. I’m not sorry for you, not in the least.

Sometimes, they are even punished. Brutalized. Savagely tortured, lynched, beaten, sexually defiled, imprisoned, and everything else you can think of.

Beware, fellow travelers along the lonely road of perpetual heresy, of those who feel an urgent need to discipline. Fear them like the English fear dentists.

All of this outrage, all of this hullabaloo, a great, grand humbug is made, because they are in possession of the same, er…equipment. They chose one half of the biological pair that make existence possible. It just so happened to be the same half that is the same as themselves. Or maybe, they felt uncomfortable in their skin. Sought a change, wishing to switch to the other side. That is all. That is their enormous crime. How something so innocuous causes an uproar, I am befuddled. Democracy requires ever-increasing homogeneity, and the complacent majority loves to terrorize and tyrannize against the adventurous minority

I say, to these iconoclasts, you have my everlasting support. Even if I cannot feel the same passions you, or your detractors, for that matter do, I salute you nonetheless. Do not be tempted by the sweet words of the masquerading pricks. Never give in. Never lose that fire, the one of revolt. A great revolt. Stand proud, stand erect. Be bold and brash. Cave in? Capitulate? No, never! Carry on, wayward sons and daughters. And never strive for peace. Wage your war, always.