Our “betters” don’t conceive of their subjects’ woe. We are not a problem to them, which is the problem. We’re only a variable of usefulness: Of whether we will show up to work on time, of whether we will destroy everything and what the powder keg is to be, of whether the units of usefulness who assumed the roles of protectors of this way of existence can sufficiently genocide everyone who stands up for their own lives quickly and cleanly enough to get the economy back and running the next month. We are the wheels of their project. To pretend like we have a say on the matter inside its operation is ludicrous. The modes and manners by which what we have known persists was won by the consent of the governed, that is, the silent consent to have one’s life shuffled around by a cluster of fat-headed assholes only interested in further enriching their dynasties, their agendas, their exclusive rule over pleasure and wellness while we among the many go without. A multitude of this in perpetuity is sure to win the hearts of those plentiful morons who believe in a “normal life” within this very real and present hell on Earth. Such morons conceive of any unrest as merely a necessary audit of and response to liberal society’s management of other people’s lives. The very worst can be protested all day and night with little bearing on its actual coming to pass. What then? Beautiful art lamenting our impossible conundrum? Clever and witty summations stacked in the zines of our decades? Dramatic showings of ultimately symbolic counter-spectacle? I praise all who have said what needed saying… but now we reach a point where we know. We know the next thing to be said after our long, friendly back-and-forths about our predicament being old as writing. Where is the rupture? Where is the firelight that grows and grows with the anxieties of the stupid and the powerful? When may it finally engulf the dead hearts of those who adore fascism and worship fallen empires and masturbate to their aesthetics and customs so they may wallow in the despair of knowing their forfeited human goodness and live their remaining seconds in dread of our blades and guns? For there are varmints in the terrains of life: Not a second thought of mercy ought be paid to those who pay not a thought of mercy to those merely living their best, advocating only the same. Advocating something better than this rotten, soulless shit.
Contribution By Jim