Do you yearn for a master?
A Solanas, hooks, Chomsky, or
A Malcolm, Davis, Shakur, maybe?
A Spengler, Duke, Pierce, perhaps
An Evola, Rand, Kaczynski?
Those eyes see the dead at the feet.
I see scum.
I see instructions.
Signs: eyes, page, entangle, encode.
Do those eyes see the deadbeat protest?
This page is the intersection of war and sex.
Burn your Cookbook.
The prophets rage and reign incumbent.
Ideas will push you toward the cliff,
Off the deep end into a swampy mess,
Making you forever it.
So you will be afraid—no ultimatum.
You want these words for yourself,
But this is my antithesis.
Take my name off your watchlist.