21 nov. 2018

a very very very very angry observation

The modern man is driven to the cliff's edge; no longer is he content with life in spirit for he is an adventurer by heart: when people are shot and killed on the street, he watches in confused content from his window, and when natural disasters hit, he laughs in pace with the whipping of flood-water; when wars break out across the globe, however far off or close, just he gets the whiff of them, there is a silly side to him, a silly person within him who could not be happier; the modern man is so bored by the current world that anything which might potentially throw it out of balance, will be rejoiced and welcomed by principal. But maybe I should stop painting with big brushes, and maybe I should stop referring to myself as the "modern man", because I am not at all typical of him; I speak about myself and I make no crude generalizations, for it is I who want to revel in the bloodied excesses of terrorism and barrel-bombing, not my neighbor nor my colleague at work; for them, everything is good and nice as it is. Always as it is. As long as it is comfortable for them. Swine, I say.

i have no idea what this really means but otters are cool and humans belong in their assholes

There is a little pouch on an otters' body where it can keep its favorite rock. The otter also has an asshole, and therein it keeps its favorite human. 

hail paglia, the empress of the only modern-western incarnation of feminism worthy a single fuck

Only a weak woman would not admit the great potency and the great achievements of men, but by the same token, only a pathetic and puny man would not admit the woman to possess intrinsically a similar potentiality for glory as do men.

"ego death" has just become a hollow meme spread like gonorrhea by pseudo-religious assholes trying to appear pristine in mind and in praxis but they are mostly just shallow losers with no understanding beyond the surface of things

I remain a skeptic to this, the ever-revigorating myth of ego-death as an intrinsical existential ideal, and I conclude the matter hereby saying that ego-life is a thousand times more important for the religious human than any ego-death.

19 nov. 2018

Something new from the Throat of the Zorza


"Perhaps the man is envious of the woman! And from this, he is forcing her as a means of psycho-social compensation to struggle like some eunuch of a wisdom unaccessible to her, and, as a means of clouded self-insecurity he will condemn her, with all the earthly domination he can muster forth, to walk on the dead clay of the bottoms of the stratas and to beg along the dirt-roads at the base of our hierarchies, given only what man chewed and spat out, to eat? Could this, but in part, give some explanation or shed some light, but a frail glimpse of lucidity, on the sick masculine tendency, personal as well as collective; historical as well as contemporary, of repressively subordinating the other sex into orders of power built on the strained shoulders of female worth itself, erected with the scaffolding of her disadvantage, made worse and worse and worse by the violent and pathological gender-gender hostility it generates, and perpetuated by the evolutionary intendency of nature, the seeming unhappening, of the permittance of man to develop the same child-bearing abilities as those of the woman. If there is any merit to this theory of psychology, could this possibly be a factor in driving men furthermore, as a means of resentful overcompensation and not only as some mechanism of psycho-biological and hormonal realities, to pursue other objectives in life such as those found in and around, for example, the fields of commerce, architecture, technology, law, economics and politics? Even in ascetic isolation perhaps man may find indirect domination over woman... in fact, the potential of man dominating woman is great in every domain and in every area of human life, it is a cold and stark truth, with the exception being found in the domain of the actual creating of it. Perhaps for the futile and bitter man, this tendency can grow into the bitterest of them all, outshadowing all of their other bitternesses, causing them deep disharmony and confusion, incentivizing in them the humiliation of women over the self-authenticization their souls weep for in the deepest depth of them? There are inarguably fields of human activity from where women, statistically and historically, have scattered, and on the basis of temperament and of psychology, they seem to continually even in our gender-equal, industrialized, socio-economically and materially privileged modernity to avoid these domains, albeit not in as profound numbers as before. The reasons for these human behaviors are obscure, to say the least; be it created out of social-political policy or be it self-developed from innate temperamental difference en masse... different people fancy different explanations to this reality, but real it is (I personally would argue both explanations are correct and indeed not mutually exclusive). Indeed there are fields from which women gravitate outward, and these are indeed fields around which no feminist can boast with huge numbers of participation on behalf of their female kin, and these are fields which can not be described with any female significance next to the significance of the achievements of man, given it is possible to measure achievements in such a clumsy and simplifying manner (...for they are never tantamount only to their total numerical statistics, but rather they should be understood and valued with the measuring rod of passion and of authenticity, and their weight should be weighed in terms of their direct influence and of their indirect influence, in both the material-political as well as in the spiritual-empathetical realm - but that is a completely different discussion).

Who knows the truth? I do not. But I always liked the theory, and I think it can have some serious grounding in the reality of things, and it may put into light some of the tendencies of the social structuring we can observe through-out the lineage of human societes running like a life-vein all along the avenue of history, from the archaic and ruinous cities of Sumer and Egypt to the misogynist-Islamist theocracies of our contemporary world... But, caveat, even if it has some bearing as a science and as a theory, I refute the notion that it would account for the whole of the various incomprehensibly complex and multifaceted explanations to these conundrums... But, if I am allowed playing with the thought for a bit, jolly in a Socratic spirit, I propose that the envy of the womb is an envy man might feel, though not all men feel it (for it is a sign of male patheticness; not all males are pathetic), but those who do, may not do so necessarily consciously... but it can be a psychological mechanism to whom its subject remains unaware. I can say that I believe that the idea of a male envy felt about a woman's sovereignty in the domain of the parturition and sustenance of life itself is a complex and serious idea, and I often think, if bearing any real credence, about if this then would be more of a cultural and psychosocial tendency within the collective and within the larger movements of societies across time, or if it is rather actually more to be considered an innate and inseparable trait of primordial masculine psychology, or both... either way, it seems clear to me that the manifestations of womb-envy straddles over a vast spectrum like a horse-courier of the Mongolians is running his epistles to the ambassadors and the vassals of the hinterland across the largest expanses of wasteland (there are as many explanations to it as there are rocks and stones on the steppe): it may show itself with a thousand different manifestations; from the unconscious and indirect but ultimately harmless frustrations of a young boy, to the unconscious and indirect but ultimately devastating resentments of powerful men in group; from the clearly lucid and conscious and direct but ultimately disregardable and unnoticable provocations of the unloved teenage boy, to the malevolently conscious and direct machinations of men's social structuring around the idea of the feminine as somehow - partially or totally - valuably lesser, something which - disastrously, I would add - culminates often but not always in socio-political and philosophical structures endorsing sheer feminine inferiority, ranging from notions of seemingly empathetic pity towards women, the second class, to more despicable and debased notions of sheer and resentful misogyny...

I ask myself: what, really, is the need for female belittlement, if not a viscious attack on the void of femininity within man himself? And where, for example, is the moral justice in incredulous accusations of witchraft en masse? Men have always produced, promulgated and defended both philosophy and morality - then, where is its justification, where lies its impediment to divine and unquestionable justice? Is every unjust disregard for the female achievements contra those of the male borne out of a fear of out-competition? Sometimes it strikes me, as if a bolt of lightning from the grey and shaking sky, although I am aware of the academic unrootedness of these theories, that the womb-envy might be a powerful and elementary factor in the psychological and, necessarily, egoical insecurities of the basic man: a man's insecurity before (what may honestly be perceived of as) the miraculous biological and reproductive capabilities of the female body may impel the man to seek definitions of identity which are in blatant opposition to womanhood in itself, and cause him, because of this blinding phosphene in his spiritual eye, to pursue ideals not in authenticity with his own heart and spirit, but in spite of everything "unmanly", and in doing so, creating the most destructive and severe of all masculine pathologies. Hence, men who are distraught over, and even suffer within, this psychological deformation may start to delineate a blind and often radical dichotomization between the masculine and the feminine, original to, and exacerbated by, the insistance that what constitutes the "real man" must be, by clear and pristine definition, "not-a-woman". In accord with this miscarriage of spirituality and in service of this psycho-pathology which might steer whole societes and whole histories to their irrevocable collapses and dooms, they seek to socially and/or physically dominate women as a pathetic compensation for what men can not achieve biologically - which is, the fecundation of the very seed of life itself. Simply put, this psycho-social tendency produces and agitates misogyny in neurotic men, and it may give, and have given a thousand or a million times before, rise to political systems which suppress the woman as subject and the feminine as archetype to the extreme of hardly even considering them anymore the harbourers of any noticeable intrinsical human value at all. Is the patriarchy, in marginal or in greater part, founded on man's resentful desire for the woman's advantage of the power of parturition - a power which, in most spiritual and mythological systems, well outshine the advantages of the man, struck with the inferiority complex neither he nor his sister, spouse, daughter nor mother can understand, down on the ground, appearing rich and jubilant in bounty with all the earthly delights any king could dream of, and with the captured slave-girls entertaining him carnally, kissing his feet in submission and in esoteric coercion... but what is the sum of all worldly opulence in comparison to the absolute and self-aggrandizing power of harnessing life - as it is, in itself - the very quantum of material existence on earth?"

19 okt. 2018



Your gale and tempest smite our land,
everything's at stake;

Even hills and mountains anguish, 
shaking with your quake!

The heavens break like wounds awide

and shower earth with salt!

No more maize and no more rye;

no more wheat nor malt...

And woman veils her chalice … 
and curses it with drought, 
and men no longer seek her love

to still his angst and doubt.

All the flowers died from age

and wombs dried up with sand; 
shall children breathe anew tomorrow

bless'd by heaven's hand? 
Our labour here's eternal, 
the reward but short and brief; 
will the cracking of our bones 
bear some remedy for grief? 
Will the breaking chains of iron slaves

cause a roar aloud,

or shall penance be fulfilled, with wrath, 
thund'ring from some cloud?

17 okt. 2018

"Dumuzid & Ishtar / The Zorya's Passionate Sermon" (Zolpidem-fueled draft for the book)

Where do the human live its life's large margins but not exactly across, and over, the line which separates heaven from hell? Up there in heaven, they exult in indifference because they believe to have found care! Up there, they conjoin in sweatless hands, believing to have found meaning... meanwhile, love and amphetamine has become by far the most widely abused drugs in hell. Love turns the sweetness sour in the great cauldron! And love turns cold into warmth over the lapse of seasons! In love, the idealist and the realist, side by side, must together bear the burden of candour and embrace the subjective nature of love's horrendous phenomena! In love, both must persevere; not the one nor the other, but both! must be victorious... In love, no-one - except for other people - may be left behind - because only your love is important; fuck all other peoples' loves. You love; it is your love, and you therefore are privileged; other people can not feel your love; therefore they should be dismissed on this subject, for indeed they have nothing to say about the passion of it; together, you and the one you love can rip the tongues fast from their throats until words and arguments and logic run out like vomit, and it shall feel like a festive ceremony of exclusion; this is the selfish and unglamorous side to love, as well as one of its most obvious outlets into the Divine. Yes, through the egress of egoism our human love flows out into the ocean of God. In love, as if an epistle of the Lord itself, heavy in meaning and impact, the strong and the weak, side by side, must endure the great vice of temptation...and they must both fear the resignation of responsibility; the resentment over responsibility, and the bitterness of responsibility over the love which they carry sisyphean. To each-other they say: "here you have my love"; and it is a lechery too delicious to be refrained from; too astute as to be ignored; too arrogant as to even consider any options, and too meaningful as to even leave a choice. Love is a religious experience because it moves you to change your life, and surely it moves me to take one more step away from that which has been granted by default... and for this reason love is a prime mover of passion, and it is around this foremost measuring rod which i wish to conduct my dances and walks of abandon until i am dizzy and laughing - from the jubilance of merely being alive. With the heirloom of existential confusion swaying around the pig-neck, the human being sleeps, and the heredity of human worthlessness sucks like a leech humanity out of the human. Is there any plane of being upon the human may ascend which is cleansed from the darkness of being... or is the cultivation of the human soul dependent intrinsically on the attachment of suffering to it? And is there really any love to be lived which does not taste of the bitter salt of ruination? Can the coolness of the ocean and the warmness of the sun work unison until the earth has become a better place? And can I kill myself? I do not hold any answers, but of love I can say just that if you can hug a person from behind, then you love them; it does not matter if it is momentarily, episodically, eternally; there is yet love there. Actually, I do not care if it is just momentarily or if it is episodically... because true love is a concept completely dissociated from timeless love. For the time being, I do not care about timeless love. All I want to say is that if you hug the person from behind, there is love happening. And that to me is a very elemental and straight-forward matter; try to hug someone from behind; someone you do not like at all. Impossible task; even heroes refuse! In the amorous relationship, we may ick the wound that is infected, and what infects is loves' bacteria! And I am this barren planet you terraform... I will die from it and I feel my tongue shivering; nevertheless I choose no other way; no other mode; no other path; no other style; for many it is an alien form... nevertheless, my form it is! I am a genie of romance and you broke the lamp! You broke the lamp and now oil runs out as to cover everything in darkness, but what happens when the match ignites this darkness and turns the oil aflame, as to emit the strongest light of them all, the light of a whole galaxy blazing, the one you sought from the very first place? Eros herself answers mystically: darkness and the nature of darkness as phenomenawill be changed forever! For such is the transformative power of love. "You are worthy of this lamp, it is beautiful and it can be mirrored in, and to me it is a good idea, because to put a mirror in front of your face is to put an ocean beneath the sky as to reflect the sun", Dumuzid said to Ishtar, whom rejoiced. "As a human being I lack the power of being silent, and I must confess to the world and scream and shriek and shout my love outward so that it may catch wind." Ishtar responded mystically. She continued: "and for this reason, I promulgate the most resentful accusations against a family of which i am mysef a member". The human being becomes an artwork when the human being starts to lead her existence without reference to any other being. And Dumuzid spoke again: "Ishtar, if you can scare me away, I may become impressed, given the ardent toughness of my love. We must build our relationship with ruinenwert in mind. Romantic love is impermanent but the meaning behind it is surely endless. Our wild love, which outreaches convention, may not be contained and it might outlive its stale brother of jealousy at any and every cost -  but that is for the future, and us, to decide". 

8 okt. 2018

after spending a few lazy years basically just writing and compiling short works of poetic existentialist drivel, culminating in a collection I call "Sword of Angst - Existential Poems", I have decided to emply a quite different approach now, at least predominately, and I wish to focus on more surreal, nightmarish,  stream-of-consciousness-like attacks of poetry, shorter in length and with an even stronger emphasis on graphic violence and human debasement than before; I want to, but for a time at least, paint my stupid poems with a more dreamlike brush than before; I want, in certain ways, an even more offensive and grisly approach, as opposed to the sometimes overtly technical and terminological works that can be found in "sword of angst". as much as I feel some kind of distant pride over "sword...", I have decided to take a break from its mode of conduct because it has come to bore me. I will save the philosophical ramblings for the book... but it is important to notice that I can not seem to stop writing about my (quite mediocre, in my own estimation) hogwash of existential philosophy, psychology and theology, so surely it will rear its face  here and there in the "newer" poems too. also i want to utilize fucked up punctuation and weird sentence structures way more than before, as to confuse and make intellectually dizzy the reader. In this sense I want to try to be a modernist for a while, or, in maybe more suitable terms, a lingustic terrorist. There is only one rule, and that is that these poems must be written under the influence of certain sleeping pills of the Z-analogue class - zolpidem and zopiclone, to be precise. when i feel it has been completed, i will call this anthology "The Tower of Sleep - The Zolpidem Poems". 

also i would like to mention that the music bands INFESTER and NUCLEAR DEATH, both in their lyrical and musical exploits, are huge influences on this undertaking, for these are the two musical outfits i have found that to me captures insanity, depravation, cruelty, perversion, disgust, and plain nightmare the best.  along with certain poetes maudits writers and also all the disgusting things i see in my everyday life.  i want these poems to be  revulsive, surreal, mystical, weird and dark - for the most part - but, if you know me in person, you know that there is a great and vigorous love in everything i do which can potentially smash every darkness to bits and pieces. but i can also allow for the darkness to suffocate that love, for i decide it, and i decide to do so in these works, but not until it dies. i just want love to really think it will die. only then i stop (for a while).


    panzer night sky salute come blood eagle
         with morbid mercury and grace urine
              flapping wings like limp dicks
               of once courageous conquerors and kings
                mark the pathway entrance
                      to the place where time dies
                     with claw and talon of death's bird
               conquer the sky
                  with bronze and beak
                    fuck the stars
                       until they say please stop 


the air is thick as blood
   a moat of vomit and stench
    the tower sinks into the sea
     the paradigm offends and revokes itself
              by revealing its most fundamental truths
                   about life


phosphor and fire
 like wings engulf
  the throne of optimism.
    phosphor, fire, the ignivomous hydra
      offer mortality itself as a sacrifice!
        it exhales the breath of life
             from at least seven throats
          and now the eucharist of genocide
             has been delivered
               to the whore-children of gomorrah
glorious future
     or apocalypse
          who can tell? 


  semen dry over the flower of life
     and the fearsome skeletal woman
     creates a husk from this human stearine
     as to evermore put it in capsule
        as a means of savoring it from the enemies.


smashed ivory towers i can see
fallen brickwork
 dying dragons gasping for carbon dioxide
  stomped hamsters
      raped dogs
      destroyed bridges
        fallen in the chasms of the cliffs
  all the bees have died out as well
  and the mounds of death and stone
     mark the memorial
   of debris, doom and destruction
   and a fallen and ruinous volcano
    creates a new throat for the world
    and its spit is lava
    and its breath is a fog of demons
          created and fostered by fire 
i can see people torn inside out
    and their purtenance is an oily and secretious offal
     and gravel is put inside the vacancy it leaves
             in their bellies.
12 salty mouths of 12 great imams pray
to wetten their tongues on the stone of absolution
  but gets rewarded
      for arrogance
        instead more and more blocks of salt.


 to confront with sword and spellbook
the hydra-headed beast of the kingdom,
a feat of heroic courageousness...
or a puny cowardice of survival -
        i know not.

i can not separate these concepts
                  from one another. 


a saprophytic mist of parasite
   surrounds he who sits in fire
      leprous and forlorn
    on the throne of dead calliphoridae
   and from his mouth
      a vortex births a storm
    through the throat tunnel of something vertiginous
  and the tidal current of the sea-worm
          unhinges over the dark ocean
          which sleeps like a child in utero
             before the rape of its bearing mother

            the one who sits in fire
                boils with the blood of doom
       and a vomit-cyclone bursts
              from the storm-eye of belial.

                   everything ends
                            without pride

                       and everything reboots
                             beyond purpose


smite the world
  but build the fire slowly.

        cram yourself into
  the brazen bull, yes, that same one,
   the one of hope and of moral
   in which you cook and boil your enemies!

spare yourself not
   your grazing cattle,
     ox nor sheep;
      pig nor ass;
 spare not even the beloved daughter nor a son!
     all shall wail the song of false hope
             from inside the bull of bronze...


the tower is hit by a lightning
that can only be observed
 in the purest and most constant vacuum
    of spacelessness

and the girl spake: 

"I absolutely repudiate the term 'islamophobia' precisely because it has a manipulatory element built into its very fundament; outside of the immature political jargon of unsophisticated dogmatists and ideologues, the suffix -phobia has a very direct, uncomplicated and technical meaning which is utilized extensively across the medical and psychological fields out of which it arose; -phobia denotes an irrational fear perceived towards any given subject; for example, arachnophobia, the irrational fear of (harmless) spiders. The term -phobia has been quite dishonestly appropriated from a technical medical and psychological phraseology into a political setting, and it has become weaponized by combattants of political pseudo-polemics as to manipulate the critic of Islam into subjugation; it is a dishonest move of political subterfuge. It implies that all and every critique of Islam is, by definition, irrational, and that is a manipulatory tactic of psycho-social and verbal domination, nothing more and nothing less. It is an intellectually pathetic move."

7 okt. 2018

"...everyone has an ultimate concern, and this concern can be in an act of faith, even if the act of faith includes the denial of God. Where there is ultimate concern, God can be denied only in the name of God."

P. Tillich is nice. 

another new poem draft


there is no normal standard of health
and there is no definite criterion or measurement
there is no intrinsically correct mode of being
and there is no evidence suggesting
that the human is necessarily content and cheerful by nature;
rather, by the fact of just being human,
     of being condemned to painful consciousness,
we can conclude that there is one animal
        which is sicker and frailer than the rest of the lot,
 and that is surely the human being,
 for what is consciousness if not a disease;
  a purulent scab in the side of histories,
  and an inflammation of the nervous system of evolution;
  what is consciousness really,
   except for a disease and a blemish
      upon evolution?

the human is born with an overdevelopment in skill
     and with an overemphasis in passion;
both of which do not fit into the design of the natural world.

the human being has an overdevelopment of understanding,
and she is programmed with an overemphasis on care;
traits which do not rather help the human in the forest
but only further chasms the concept of man and nature away from each-other.

since human beings search for answers to questions
we can simply not measure in the laboratory,
we try, as an epistemological constant, to overcome the human in us
    by probing the mystical for answers,
      fishing the deeper deeps,
        digging longer and longer holes downward...

the human craving
  for philosophical and valual justification
     on matters like these
is a prayer left unheard.

the human life is same for all
       but at the same time
         fundamentally different for all:
a suffering which is relative
   in terms of experience and management
but absolute
   in terms of its causality of damnation.

the want to know about life and death can not be satisfied,
therefore the human is faced with a reality no other animal must grapple with,
and the human experiences it increasingly absurdly, since,
due to its elemental paradoxical nature, the closer one gets to the core of these questions
       , the vaster, the shadier, the greyer, and more fleeting it will start to seem.

it is a perennial
  and objectively incomprehensible darkness.

a new draft for a poem


zartosht came storming down the hillside
with a tail of serpents and moth-clouds
and zartosht proclaimed high the vision
of a man made out of flesh
 but of a flesh made out of steel
  and his fingers were as knives
    and an aura of oil and emptiness
       emitted out from an iron anus,
            scolding hot,
               burning from the lava heat
                  and Gods' fumigating feces
  and this flesh of steel
    it gleams like a weapon in the sun
  and ahura mazda rejoices over this matter; yes
    ahura mazda rejoices and celebrates
   over man as principle, as beast, and as man
   for ahura mazda acknowledges the human pursuit
   for knowledge,
    and how the human
       expects and inquires about it, never stopping:

      zartosht revealed himself
      shining in armor and embellished with the ruby crown
   his sword is sharp and it is indeed craftful;
     it is forged in a blacksmith on the moor 
   with tools looted from the tribes of barbarians to the east
  and the fire which bound the metals
         was indeed the fire of ahura mazda.

verily, the solar king decrees
  from the pulpit of existentialism:
the aura of the human spirit
 is full of carbon subnitride
  and the enemy
   is a ghost made of sparks and faint lights
 emitting electro-thermal death
  five thousand degrees hotter than the human heart

what can we do about such a thing?

     a new explanatory model
    and a religious underpinning
      to how we ought to explain
          the mechanisms of the fire tetrahedron
         has been sought but thus not found;
           zartoosht himself sought the wisdoms of the mountain
           but came down therefrom a man transformed
              into a wolf and a fool one half each

         for he crossed the tetrahedron
                    of fire

his breath has become the vapor of gasoline
and his flesh has turned into coal;
his body is  covered in an oil of existence
  which forces him into refuge from worlds
because everywhere there are sparks, thunders and phosphor
and he can not yet afford becoming the fire of ahura mazda
 because he has not yet enough oxygen to nurture its flame into eternity

   weary and destitute
        zartoosht grabs his wandering staff
        and consults the star-sky for a direction towards the silence of days
                 and the holy flame extirpated unattendedly
                    in the morning thereafter because no one cared;
                        no one could be bothered; all slept in that morning,
                        for it was a festive night before it,
                           it was the night when the prophet left the townsfolk
                               to soil themselves with their spiritual dirt
                                 to mismanage and malnourish the flame
                                  and to welter in ahriman's vicious debaucheries...

19 sep. 2018

It reminds me. There is a runestone in the forest around where I came from, a great menhir. It is the stele of existentialism, and it reads:


5 sep. 2018

excerpts from after berlin

*i erased this one because it was incomplete, too personal and also it sucked* 

fuck you 
come back later

18 aug. 2018

from August the first

Ku pamięci Armia Krajowa...

I would like to announce a commemoration; it is up to you, reader, whether to care or to not care. I do this not on behalf of every member of The End Commune, but I do this only on the behalf of my own sincere passions. At 17:00 on this date, the first of August, something of great personal as well as historical significance took place a long time ago, and at precisely 17:00 I will, but for a moment, submerge in silent respect for it. On August 1, 1944, the Warsaw Uprising commenced, and I think it is in a proper moral spirit for me to salute it. I salute not only the heroes of it, I wish not to paint this desperate battle for survival in any apologetic, exoticising or glorifying manner; for it was a morbid and diabolical struggle, and it was ruthless, brutal, cold and abysmal in ways neither I nor any of you who will read can understand. What happened in Poland (but absolutely not exclusively in Poland) during those cursed years in general, and during those 63 days of rebellion in particular, is literally beyond our comprehension. Suffering must be truly felt in order to be truly understood, and I claim no insight in the trepidations and torments of the combatants and of the civilian victims of this almost apocalyptic terror. This fight for integrity; autonomy; self-worth, fueled by the bitterest fires of anti-Nazi and anti-Soviet resentment was a doomed fight, yet it was fought. And I think there is a lot in that fact to be analysed, ruminated over, integrated into the self. They fought out of self-respect surely, but, ultimately, the fight was about sheer corporeal and spiritual survival, for the Nazis exterminated you otherwise. Therefore, I wish not to paint my homage with a brush of shallow and lazily appropriating glorification of some past event, but I pay my dues to the ones who waded through the excremental sewers; I pay my dues to the girls and boys losing their mothers to traumatic rape and execution, and I pay my dues to the young men storming the enemy with not even a rifle in their courageous but trembling hands! To me, anyways, a summit of resistance, of retaliation and of heroic humanity is, for example, to mockingly spit in the face of Nazi and Soviet tyranny and brutalizing repression, as they did, the A. K. and their affiliated combatant organizations. And forevermore, this spirit has carved into my heart a nest, and it is doubtful if it ever will leave this abode within me. Yes, I pay my dues to the extravagant ugliness of this brutal happening and I do not wish to romanticize the grotesque terror of it (I shall refrain from digging too much into grisly and destitute detail; much has been written about these things and it is of utmost importance to ruminate them, but it is not my mission today), but not only that. To me, it is a paragon of rebellion, the Warsaw Uprising, and in essence and in spirit, I claim that but a miniscule fraction of the essence which became foundational to this uprising is present also in the work that we do, me and my beautiful and beloved friends, and that it is also foundational in some abstract sense to the philosophical-existential foundations of the Endcommunean world as a whole.

So let me revere this day as in remembrance, a holy and absolutely significant remembrance. I honour today the memory of the Warsaw Uprising and in utmost opposition to the pathetic tyrants of authoritarianism. And also, while we are at it, FUCK Armia Ludowa (I do not care at all for Soviet proxies, no matter how "Polish" they were in their ranks), FUCK Stalin (for being one of the shittiest assholes to ever live), FUCK the Soviet Union (for being the failed, pathological, self-deceptive, false and bloodletted vision of ridiculous utopia that it was), FUCK Oskar Dirlewanger (for being positively the worst of almost all Nazis; if I could, I would torture him with delight), FUCKthe Western betrayal (you could have done more, do not lie), and FUCK all the Stalin-apologetic maggots still squirming in the gutters of our contemporary society. You have no fucking idea about what you are playing with.

Ku pamięci Akcja "Burza"
Ku pamięci Żydowska Organizacja Bojowa
Ku pamięci Rzeź Woli
I wszystkie inne.

Let me close with one of the most poignant pieces of poetry I ever read, from my sacred love and the most beautiful Anna Świrszczyńska;

"Choć nikt nas nie zmuszał,
zbudowaliśmy barykadę
pod ostrzałem."