“In times of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” George Orwell

War is as old as God himself. And the War is never over. The War is never-ending. The War is just an orgy of blood and guts masterminded by testosterone-fuelled dirty old men. This is the REAL PORNOGRAPHY. An outrageous cockfight fought by gung-ho cowboys who have drawn a line in the sand and will challenge anyone foolish enough to threaten resistance against the advent of the rodeo mind. No one wins in War. The astronomical expense – at last count, over 360 billion dollars have been wasted on the Iraq war, and the loss of human life, the destruction of villages and towns, the devastation to the widows, orphans and soldiers who struggle to survive – is unimaginable. America has over 200,000 homeless war vets – men tossed to the streets and forced to fend for themselves when they were no longer useful as mercenary cogs on the wheel of the world’s greatest killing machine. And the more they kill, the more I fuck. Call me a contrarian, but in times of war, the only real rebellion is pleasure. Unrestrained, unlimited, outrageous acts of unmitigated pleasure. Because it is our capacity for pleasure, for passion and compassion that endless war seeks to blunt in a mindnumbing cavalcade of horrifying nightly images, which after years

of repetition, become rote, remote. Unremarkable. Maybe War is just menstrual envy. Maybe if men bled like women every month, they wouldn’t have such incredible bloodlust. Maybe I’m dreaming. I know that in the past, I would have been burnt at the stake like one more menstrual murder in the witch hunts of the Middle Ages. Another brilliant war that raged for 400 years instigated by the church and its holy followers. Another campaign of fear and loathing, strikingly similar to the massacres still being propagated by so many self-righteous apocalypticians deluded by the phallacy of the power that they imagine is vested in them. A higher power that sanctions the killing of the ever-present enemy, a God given duty that assures the hero or martyr a badge of glory. Am I imagining it, or were we a lot safer when the so-called leader of the free world was getting blowjobs in the White House? Isn’t it better to blow off a little steam in the face of a willing victim than to take out your sexual frustrations and pent-up aggression on countries halfway around the world, blatantly lying about democracy and freedom in a thinly veiled disguise to suck the juice out of a hole in the ground, while the rest of us are stuck at fuel stations holding petrol pumps in our fists like big limp dicks that we pay out the ass to get perpetually screwed by? We inhabit this vast potential Utopia that is being destroyed.

Behind Every Bloody Battle Lies A Man With A Bad Case Of Sexual Dysfunction, Says Post-punk Poet And Performer Lydia Lunch Blood Lust Lydia Lunch

Man has created a hell on earth, turning the world into a ghetto, a slaughterhouse, a refugee camp, an orphanage, a sweatshop, a bomb factory, a land mine, a shooting gallery, an insane asylum, a toxic dump. And in return, the earth is becoming more violent towards man. And maybe after all, violence is only natural. We are conceived in a passionate act of animal violence. Our first cry is slapped out of us as we are violently wrenched from the relative safety of the crimson universe deep within our mother’s womb. Born in blood, we are battered into breathing. All creation bears the molecular memory of a terrible explosion of electricity, energy, matter and motion. A violent eruption of white light and white heat. Violence was the first act of creation. THE BIG BANG. Chaos is the law of nature, it is the score upon which reality is written. The Universe is just geometry stricken with epilepsy. Creation, a nightmare spectacle. Life is just a trembling accident. We are all just germinating here on this hothouse planet, which has been soaked with the blood of all its creatures for thousands of years. Same as it ever was. I pity the fool who prays for life everlasting. I want my taste of Heaven, and I want it now. I know that at any time I could become the next victim of this War without end. And I plan on dying with a smile on my face. A daisy chain for Satan, maybe screwing half a dozen returning Iraqi war veterans. Hell, somebody’s gotta take care of the vets. Their own governments sure as shit won’t. Those poor kids who got tricked into a war, conned by doublespeak into believing that by killing the perceived enemy, a just war will bring peace, democracy will bring freedom. The War will never be over. Not if we continue to allow religious fanatics, fundamentalists, madmen and maniacs to carry on this millennium-old charade where battles are fought for the glory of God and country. War is an incurable virus, forever mutating, travelling the globe feeding on man’s fear and insecurity, spreading panic and terror, violence and death. Until we find a vaccine that finally inoculates the entire population against stupidity, arrogance, aggression and blind faith, we will be forced to forever repeat history like a bad acid flashback, which loops like a broken film strip ripped through an ancient projector, the unwilling victims of Orwell’s Memory Hole.

62 AnOtherMan Manifesto