- Registrado
- 21 de Mayo, 2019
This is a deliberate provocation directed at any and all worthless third rate hacks who still dare to call themselves writers;
There you are, adrift in a sea of slop, a sea of milk, a sea of rancid faggot jizz, malformed malnourished and maladapted by means of daily baptismal immersion in decades of a bloated and dead culture's corpse gasses. Even those of you who pretend at swimming against the rising tide of banality are in thrall to it. Even those who think they see the problem are only a part of it; faux rebels content to idly masturbate into one another's simpering little queer mouths in their fruity marginal sex cults masquerading as underground publishing houses. I see you, I know what you are, and I hold nothing but contempt for the lot of you. When — not if, but surely WHEN — you finally have the decency to end it all (and ultimately fail at that too whether you live or die) all your faggy little friends will hungrily slurp every last drop of excrement out of your rotting and diseased orifices because that's all any of you will ever know how to do.
Not even ephemeral but merely disposable, interchangeable, mass-produced — utterly vapid above all else. Worthless, just worthless.
But then there is no rising above, no. To rise now under the auspices of this time's spirit is merely to sink. To aspire to anything higher within this paradigm is only to have one's soul dragged down by gravity. So then you must sink all the more fiercely, knowingly. The only way forward is through Hell's own bowels. There is no glory, there is no fame or fortune along this road. Only disgrace and desolation which you must drink down as though it were the sweetest vintage. If banality is the enemy then there is no solution but the final one; to become anathema and adversary to all.
Take up the chalice and drink deep of the poison therein.
In the war against all things insipid one must renounce their humanity. To do battle with banality itself one must flay the flesh of their own ego. When seeking victory against the world and everyone in it, there can never be an effort to please, placate, or tickle the prostates of the masses. All virtue becomes vice. All selflessness turns sour. All recognition is but a retarding of the fire which must be kindled and turned on the masses. Your only companions must needs be insanity, ridicule, despair, pain, and hatred for they alone can show you the way to lands yet unseen and depths still unfathomed. It's not peering into the abyss you must fear, but the dead bovine eyes of all who dared not look for fear of what might look back at them. And if you should go there and dredge something up for the unworthy above to be transfixed by, do it not for the public good but in the spirit of vengeance against all those who said it couldn't and shouldn't be done.
Burn everything away down to your very bones then grind even those into dust and you'll find you never had anything worth more than the fire to begin with.
There you are, adrift in a sea of slop, a sea of milk, a sea of rancid faggot jizz, malformed malnourished and maladapted by means of daily baptismal immersion in decades of a bloated and dead culture's corpse gasses. Even those of you who pretend at swimming against the rising tide of banality are in thrall to it. Even those who think they see the problem are only a part of it; faux rebels content to idly masturbate into one another's simpering little queer mouths in their fruity marginal sex cults masquerading as underground publishing houses. I see you, I know what you are, and I hold nothing but contempt for the lot of you. When — not if, but surely WHEN — you finally have the decency to end it all (and ultimately fail at that too whether you live or die) all your faggy little friends will hungrily slurp every last drop of excrement out of your rotting and diseased orifices because that's all any of you will ever know how to do.
Not even ephemeral but merely disposable, interchangeable, mass-produced — utterly vapid above all else. Worthless, just worthless.
But then there is no rising above, no. To rise now under the auspices of this time's spirit is merely to sink. To aspire to anything higher within this paradigm is only to have one's soul dragged down by gravity. So then you must sink all the more fiercely, knowingly. The only way forward is through Hell's own bowels. There is no glory, there is no fame or fortune along this road. Only disgrace and desolation which you must drink down as though it were the sweetest vintage. If banality is the enemy then there is no solution but the final one; to become anathema and adversary to all.
Take up the chalice and drink deep of the poison therein.
In the war against all things insipid one must renounce their humanity. To do battle with banality itself one must flay the flesh of their own ego. When seeking victory against the world and everyone in it, there can never be an effort to please, placate, or tickle the prostates of the masses. All virtue becomes vice. All selflessness turns sour. All recognition is but a retarding of the fire which must be kindled and turned on the masses. Your only companions must needs be insanity, ridicule, despair, pain, and hatred for they alone can show you the way to lands yet unseen and depths still unfathomed. It's not peering into the abyss you must fear, but the dead bovine eyes of all who dared not look for fear of what might look back at them. And if you should go there and dredge something up for the unworthy above to be transfixed by, do it not for the public good but in the spirit of vengeance against all those who said it couldn't and shouldn't be done.
Burn everything away down to your very bones then grind even those into dust and you'll find you never had anything worth more than the fire to begin with.
anti-reader manifesto and just copypaste 