Andrew Lovely

What the fisherman taught me

One night I saw a school of fish by the crystal pier. Entranced by their swimming beauty in the dark lit waters, five fingers point them out to a nearby fisherman preparing his baits, before my mind could even intervene or stop them. Immediately I felt a pang of regret: I had doomed these creatures to certain entrapment and death.

But the fisherman reassured me:

"We need to expand this facility so we can get even more detainees in there — and Carl, hey, I've heard about a hunger strike, which, you know, I think that's fake news anyway — but if they did, well I'm OK with that, because if they lose weight, we can get even more people on planes for deportation." – Gregory Bovino

Well, there you have it folks. Those of you still taking orders, still taking cues from the Americans, just realize that these may very well be the kinds of people you're dealing with now.

This guy was head of Border Patrol, and it took mass civil unrest all over the country for him to finally be fired. Former Special Government Employee Elon Musk meanwhile was throwin' up straight-up Nazi salutes long before Bovino here finally found the nerve to fully unmask, so this isn't just one bad apple. Stephen Miller, Kristi Noem, Curtis Yarvin acolyte/admirer J.D. Vance, the list goes on and on.

It should be pretty obvious to everyone by now what's going on, and of what kind/quality, or rather I should say, of what kind of poor quality these people are composed. And by poor quality I mean, people devoid of any semblance of a respectable democratic ethos. And if they do pay lip service to democracy, like Vance, it's only to install and establish a new technocratic, plutocratic class.

I've been saying it for a long time, even before it was obvious, and I will continue to say it now that it is so glaringly clear: the Magas are 21st century Nazis. You cooperate with them, you're coordinating with neo-fascist scum.

Do as you wish, but mark my words: history will judge you.

And those of you who know in your hearts that something is wrong, don't go along with it. At the very least, don't cooperate. Don't endear yourselves to these people. Remain civil, but don't endear yourself. Have some respect for yourself.

Too many of you are going to realize too late that this isn't hyperbole. These people are actual fascists. They're not just playing dress-up or pretending.

The truth is staring so many of you right in the face but you don't see it. When public enemy #1 becomes anti-fascism, what does that say about the government? If you say, "We're going to make combatting anti-fascism our #1 priority," then what does that say about you? What is the opposite of an anti-fascist?

But I would expect nothing less from those who flaunt the instrument of Christ's torture and execution as the symbol of his divinity. Once again, the truth is staring you right in the face; it's hiding in plain sight, and you can't see it.

And what a shock it will be to future historians: that those who fought anti-fascism, were in fact fascists. And what a shock it will be to future theologians: that those who proudly wore the instrument of Christ's execution and torture around their necks, were persecuting none other than the Christ Himself. Look no further than the Inquisition, the Crusades, and the Oval Office right now to find your Anti-Christ.

These aren't the first Christians who were hung upside down and thrown to the lions, for whom the cross was a symbol of sacrifice and of ultimate surrender to the divine will; no, for the Beast and the Antichrist the Cross is a symbol of power, control, corruption, and lewd, sinister domination through lies and manipulation.

For the spirit of the Antichrist, the Cross is a constant reminder and a token of pride: "We did it. We killed the Christ. And when He returns, we're gonna nail Him to the Cross again!" Hence that smug, self-satisfied smirk whenever they flaunt that cruel instrument of Christ's execution. This all operates on an unconscious level*, but they don't love the Christ; they hate the Christ. They love the cruelty. That's what they worship: not the Christ, but the Cross. Hence why they cheer when the Christ is denied food, healthcare, detained in abominable conditions, "remigrated" to ghettos and open air prisons, exterminated.

*Unconsciousness being perhaps the single most central identifying, defining quality of such persons, who are hardly even persons with their own agency at all anymore at this point, but rather like a people possessed: soulless husks of inhumanity: dried out, brittle tumbleweeds being taken by the wind this way and that, down the causal chain of their every mindless thought and action, unaware and ever-absent, never fully present in any moment of their lives and therefore devoid of life altogether.

Oh, they love the Cross! And according to the Beast himself, the Bible is his "favorite book!" These are the spiritual descendants of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, and especially of Rome. Look no further than those being persecuted by the Antichrist to find your Christ. Look no farther than Palestine: there you will find the Christ, in every single little boy and girl being starved, maimed and killed. Wake up!

Your beliefs mean nothing if you can't at the very least simply speak up for the least among you. For in the least among you, there you will find the Christ, according to the Christ Himself.

Everything else is insanity presenting itself as authority, in a myriad of ways, and mostly through intimidation. The peak of insanity is that I'm liable to be held as insane simply for expressing that, to quote the late singer.

Somehow though I do feel that this is the art this new society deserves. I've dipped my feet into non-existence as an exercise in comedy/satire and mostly just to humor myself but I don't know if I'll be doing it again. I think I've had my fill already. The exercise actually becomes quite redundant as this is already real life now. It feels less like holding a mirror and more like becoming the very thing you despise.

It's sort of like Luke Skywalker in Dark Empire: you purposefully let yourself fall to the dark side in order to destroy the dark side from within – but this is a very dangerous game to play – because the dark side inevitably pollutes and infects you as well.

Non-existence Part Zero Lightning hydration stops spinning Android compass ate the wedding cake Turnstile potato is sad and resurgent Polyethylene radiator smiled at the ninety-year-old diaper baby

But perhaps most importantly, Piranha bath towels wipe cold meatloaf tears

And perhaps most poignantly, Sleeping furbies barbeque in backyard children’s parties They say, “Burgers are ready!” Or in their language, “Meeehhh… ocheka, orborkacoota”

And the oompa loompa sandwiches come running “Mmmm… Man flesh!” And skittles rained from the star dome scaffolding “Man flesh! Man flesh! Man flesh! Man flesh!” - The Artist Formerly Known as Loverly

[Note from publicist: The Artist requested that from this date forth, May 27th, 2026, he shall be known solely as Ο Λαχταριστός Σαβαγιάρ™, and that he will not respond to any other requests for interview, unless they call him "by his real name." Unfortunately this was not possible due to copyright and trademark issues.]

Red Hourglass

Kali Yuga Futures

Nightmare moksha I chose the horror story And wore all the wrong clothes

Death hangs like a dagger over every thought I see in the marketplace and at the bus stop The townspeople discuss prison oil hanta-future-war timelines Itching for the day they can see me hang What was my crime, I still do not know And if I asked them, they wouldn't be able to tell me anyways

There was no crime, only one man set free And they cannot abide it In every movement they see trespass In every glance, barely contained lust And stalking in every step And panic in every hurry And desperation to appease in every word uttered

They smile at the lamb about to be slaughtered “Oh, sweetie…” Barely containing their sadistic delight They think if the weirdo is punished, their sins will be expiated If they can cross out the one who does not belong, then they can rest easy and find peace

They are the ones who did not belong and conformed to a system in which no one belongs Seeing themselves in peaceful defiance, and in effortless belonging, Seeing the one who calls them to that same belonging they forfeited for no good reason, convinced by charlatans and cowardly thieves, They nail themselves to the cross Unable to endure what they gave up in living form before them

Everywhere I see my own thoughts manifest and reflected back to me I put myself on trial and hold myself to the false standards of idiots I castigate myself from the position of Perfect Prosecutor But the prosecutor is false and has all the same human weakness which he persecutes in me The only difference is that he’s cunning and dishonest There’s only one skeleton in his closet and it’s his own forsaken, forgotten self

Nightmare liberation I chose the fast track express lane

If you want a straight line to heaven Then best to start from the darkest depths of hell and horror The fire will leave you no illusions and burn away any false appearance Life is a dirty trick and it’s best to learn that early so you don’t waste your time on vanity

Then you can become life itself, indifferent to itself Everything else is the shell games of walking and talking corpses, thinking that they will achieve immortality by killing God, that they will become omniscient by placing cameras everywhere, that they will manifest divine justice by wearing clown robes and holding a gavel, that they will become omnipresent by infecting the mind with false idols and seductive icons, that by following you around and cataloguing everything you do with forced ID checks and facial scanners and background tracking applications they will somehow achieve something or protect themselves from death. These are the past times of future worm food: walking, talking, surveiling, investigating, arbitrating, adjudicating worm food.

And likewise the worm food writes poetry and sings songs The difference is that this worm food has no illusions about itself or pretentions to knowledge, authority, perfection or power.

Untitled #8

Cold spring full moon Werewolf clouds Passing phantoms shine On kristallnacht waters

Black rose heart embered In flaking ash and soot to the wind A soft wind that sounds like my breaths Thought waves going out and breaking shoreline in my cloakhood My ball cap hoodie I am neon smoke resting in oblivion

There's a woman who walks to the sea wall every night And she touches the concrete with the tips of her fingers, and she smiles to herself, and she walks back And she can't walk back unless she touches the sea wall Otherwise she's not complete But she walks back now, smiling and complete

Then crisp morning light Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow It's a late spring, and her blossoms froze asleep She found no welcome here

A new child was born in the absence of her vision Masculine and simple Free from worry and careless anxiety Free from her feminine oversight and civilizing constraints, which force the seer into the crowd, to be picked apart by watchful vultures and shy-flayed alive by the laughing hyenas

Non-existence

Dirty dishes and bad breath Floss the sporks n' toothbrush yer head Charge your TV and braid your mustache I gotta get outta here

Baby mama's callin' She wants to come home Pick up the banana n' hum a dial tone Peel off the voicemail And eat the phone I gotta get outta here

The day is long And I missed it by a mile Sleepin' in And losin' style

Put that beanie on yer head n' sock your 'stocks Sew your armpits And shave your clocks Vacuum your stereo And haircut your rug

Caulk your light bulbs!

Wash yer plugs!

Dust off them outlets And launder your shoes Soak your clothespins And dry the cashews Shampoo your cat And rinse its sunglasses We're goin' to Vegas, baby!

There's blood in my satsang And angst in my tea Ten births in my loins And made just for me

A Portrait of a Woman In the curves of your body Your self-conscious strut In that girlish insecurity When you see the one you want I see a woman

In your nervous stutter The slight lisp in your account When your heartbeat races And you casually look away I see your pride So adorably reasserting

The man you love will be a bad man Who will take that joyous and innocent life Discarding it blind to your beauty

Ο Τσαγκαράκης ο Που 🎵 Στη βάση παλιού φωταγωγού Κάπου ζει 'να μικρό τσαγκαράκι Που φτιάχνει παπούτσια που και που Μα κυρίως ο Που τεμπελιάζει! 🎶

🎵 Στον Που καταλήγει το φως Του πετάνε κομμάτια βροχής Ο Που τα μαζεύει πως και πως Βλαστημάει και ποτίζει τη γη 🎶

🎵 Άμα δεις το φωτάκι του κλειστό Ο κυρ' Που κατά βάση κοιμάται Κι αν τον πετύχεις ανοιχτό Ο κυρ' Που δεν ανοίγει… φοβάται! 🎶

🎵 Στον ύπνο του βλέπει γνωστούς Που του τάζουν δουλειά το χειμώνα Στριγκλιά ξαφνικά τον ξυπνά Που του ίδιου ο κρύος ιδρώτας! 🎶

🎵 Άμα πας στον βυθό της σιωπής Και σαν δεις μια παράγκα στημένη Εκεί θα τον βρεις και τον Που Μη θαρρείς πως εσένα περιμένει 🎶

🎵 Στο σαλόνι του στήνει χορούς Με τα σύμβολα που τον περιβάλλουνε Σημάδια παντού για τον Που Και τον Που μοναχά εκθειάζουνε 🎶

🎵 Το καράβι του Που στο βουνό Έρημο πια ‘τά τη λεηλασία Ναυάγιο το κάναν' θερινό Οι ληστές μάθανε ορειβασία! 🎶