..A Verso article on the “downtown scene,” the fascist avant-garde, Yarvin and BAP, etc. I’ve been making “aesthetically alive art out of history’s flotsam” for years that takes in real brutality, not the overwrought racial/gendered disgust these people have at the symptoms of capitalism, but the mandarin left would rather talk about a bunch of liberal art school kids and failed models cosplaying fascism than look for anything genuinely new.
If you cannot get beyond your sexual envy of fascism, a movement based in sexual envy/neurosis, then you are a cuck’s cuck, a xerox of a xerox, etc. The left’s job should be to dispel the obvious fakeness of the supposed erotic glamor of fascism, that’s shit they stole from us and simply don’t have, male fantasies 101, and this applies double to fascist e-girls.
..Once in a while, it turns out, they even write books.
..For instance, a lyrical novel about middle-America opioid chic: a rugged and death-haunted war criminal with a heart of gold and a nine-inch dick (ten? no ten would be mythical, unbelievable): a prodigal trust-fund junkie girlfriend with a stripper name who teaches literature at a liberal arts college, etc.: the war criminal with a nine-inch dick becomes a bank robber, Bonnie and Clyde shit, he enters the underworld with a white man’s poetic soul: cucked by a Mid-Atlantic lacrosse player in an Olive Garden, tender and redemptive fucking in a church, the femme fatale who drains your cock and breaks your heart: he says “cunt,” he says “cocksucker,” he says “dilating asshole,” he probably says the n word, oh definitely he says that: he witnesses the death of Babylon in the desert, some Full Metal Jacket shit, the shit flies of the Third World, dismembered body parts, the Aryan race goes kablooey, very serious war writing: comes home to oxy and pornography, rapes a child in Spain, oh heroin, the cruel mirage of heterosexuality brought him here, you can fuck me in the ass if you want, she says, I’d like that, he says, but my heart’s totally broken, so’s mine, she says, I know it is, he says, my ardor, my poor angel…
..I’m bringing back God, Amal said last winter. “God” the word, the concept, the Being. And sure enough, this summer all the hot girls are talking about God. Amal, the Venus boy who falls for Mars girls, who believes in God (“art made for the eyes of God alone”), the beauty of women, the vanguard of love…
..One is never very far from the spiritual-Hitlerist core of fascism. Behind every Chicago Boy gangster economist who wants to starve the poor there’s a twee closeted-homosexual Opus Dei lawyer, last reader of the Falangist poets, and behind him there’s a psychopath Nazi mystic graphomaniac, traveler to the South Pole in search of the Black Sun, anima of Hitler, reincarnation. This is a spiritual system that needs to be wiped off the face of the Earth: denazification on the archetypal plane. The avant-garde that celebrates mass murder, a male mysticism of violence, comprised mostly of faggots, bride of the Daddy State…And of course the anorexic poetesses, writing paeans to the sexual prowess of machines, of dogs, elegies about the lost love of Daddy, short stories featuring BDSM scenes with them praying the rosary, talking endlessly about the heterosexual void (the void of heterosexuality), a feminine aesthetics of pure passivity…There’s no fucking in fascism, not really, only a suspended moment of desire, an amniotic Master Race that can never be born, a rapist’s grimace, those war engravings of Otto Dix, a hallucinatory scene of unremitting bleakness, danse macabre, desecration, decay, the scatological games you see in Salo, necrophiliac frenzy, etc.
..Every fascist dreams of no more than finally being permitted to be a corpse (which is why even death is too good for them)…