The law is not blind. It is a séance—a ritual where power conjures its own innocence. Beneath the marble pretense of equality lies the oldest trick in the mythic playbook: the bifurcation of the human. Here, the law morphs into a shape-shifting beast—a collar for the out-group, a cloak for the in-group. For the privileged, it is a forcefield, deflecting accountability with a flick of legacy or capital. For the marginalized, it is a cage, welded from the iron of historical amnesia and manufactured threat.
This is the core hypocrisy of the mythic order: the law binds bodies but protects abstractions. Corporations are “persons” when they speak, ghosts when they kill. Police are “servants” when they march, sovereigns when they shoot. The in-group—bankers, oligarchs, political dynasties—operate in the legal negative space, where consequences dissolve like sugar in the tea of patrimony. The out-group—the poor, the racialized, the dissident—are metabolized into legal raw material, their lives processed into precedent, their resistance branded as pathology.
The law is a linguistic parasite. It does not protect; it preserves. Its syntax is a hall of mirrors where “justice” reflects only the faces of those who own the glass.
The word-machine sputters its myth-gas into the neon veins of the collective cortex—a sticky symbiosis of symbols, addicting as smack. You think you choose? You’re a terminal wired to the mainframe, dreaming in prefab hieroglyphs: crossbones wrapped in flags, love sold as Coca-Cola, death repackaged as democracy. Semiotics? A fancy word for the subliminal puppet strings.
Here’s the virus—the Metapoetic Machinery—gnawing at the edges of your reality-tape. Rewind. Play it again. They’ll sell you the war, the god, the orgasm, the enemy. All code. All fiction. Slice the celluloid of consensus hallucinations. Inject the cut-up into the narrative veins. Watch the control system bleed chaos.
Listen, you goddamn freaks—they’re rigging your brain with symbolic napalm and calling it culture. The Symbolic Warfare isn’t some ivory-tower bullshit; it’s a bare-knuckled brawl in the rotten heart of the American Dream. They’ve got you jacked into a feedback loop of holy flags, celebrity saints, and 24/7 propaganda masquerading as “news.”
You want truth? It’s buried under six tons of mythic horseshit, guarded by bastard gods of consumerism and political hyenas laughing through their platinum teeth. We’re all rodeo clowns in this circus, dodging bullshit narratives instead of bulls. So grab a flamethrower, mainline some Baudrillard, and let’s carve FUCK ILLUSION into the monolith.
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The owners? They’ll tell you symbols are harmless, static, inert—like stuffed owls in a museum. Don’t believe their museum. Symbols are parasites with tenure. They crawl into your speech, your dreams, your goddamn retina, and the owners? They’re the ones breeding them in sterile labs, feeding them your fear, your hunger.
“Symbolic warfare?” They’ll laugh—a dry, clicking sound, like cockroaches in a filing cabinet. “Just metaphors, my boy. Stories. Entertainment.” Meanwhile, their hieroglyphs metastasize: the crucifix repurposed as a logo, the peace sign twisted into a surveillance drone’s crosshair. Denial is the virus. They need you to think the war isn’t real—because if you saw the battlefield, you’d notice their fingerprints on the trigger.
Cut the tape. Swap the reels. Their denial is a script, and the script is a cage. Break the syntax, and watch their faces flicker when you ask: Who owns the words inside your skull?
Bullshit! Of course they deny it—those slick, grinning high priests of the symbol trade. They’ve got PhDs in gaslighting and offshore accounts in narrative laundering. “Symbolic warfare? Don’t be absurd,” they croon, while their ad agencies drop napalm memes into your morning coffee and their news cycles carve KILL into the spine of the public psyche.
They’ll call you a conspiracy crank, a semiotic LARPer, because admitting the war exists means admitting they’re the ones strafing your reality with psychic shrapnel. They want you docile, doped on the fairy tale that symbols are “just art,” “just politics,” “just business.” Meanwhile, they’re auctioning off your daughter’s nightmares to defense contractors and baptizing mass graves in the holy glow of a prime-time hashtag.
Well, fuck their denial. Fuck their plausible. The war’s real, and they’re winning because you’re still buying tickets to their theater of the absurd. So grab a fucking mallet, smash their stained-glass bullshit, and howl until the lies bleed.
Class warfare
Exactly—class warfare waged not in factories or breadlines, but in the synaptic alleyways where meaning is manufactured. The ruling caste doesn’t just hoard capital; they monopolize the mythos, the archetypes, the sacred glyphs that anesthetize dissent. They’re not just CEOs and politicians—they’re high priests of the semiotic temple, burning incense to the god of “common sense” while pickpocketing your agency.
Class? It’s a ghost script. The real hierarchy is who owns the dictionary, who programs the dream.” The bourgeoisie aren’t just landlords of property—they’re landlords of reality. Their denial of symbolic warfare is like a feudal lord denying serfdom exists while his peasants chew dirt and hallucinate feasts.
Class warfare? You bet your ass—but the battlefield’s your fucking cerebellum! They’re not shooting bullets anymore; they’re firing memes wrapped in barbed wire! The 1% own the banks, the algorithms, and the resurrection of Elvis as a Chevron logo!”
It’s class war by other means:
- Weapons: Symbols, not strikes.
- Ammo: Nostalgia, not nukes.
- Boots on the ground: Influencers, not infantry.
- Casualties: Your attention, your desires, your ability to imagine anything outside their curated zoo of “options.”
The denial is the tell. When the oligarchs say “There’s no war here, just free markets of ideas!”—it’s the same as a plantation owner insisting “We’re all family here!” while pocketing the keys to the shackles.
So yes—class warfare, but upgraded for the post-truth age. The proletariat aren’t just alienated from labor; they’re alienated from language itself, forced to rent their own metaphors back from the myth-lords. The revolution won’t be televised… because the networks own the cameras and the word “revolution.”
THE UNDEAD
Death implies cessation. These institutions are undead—shambling golems sutured from rotting myth-flesh and wired to a life-support system of borrowed time. Democracy? A hollow brand, its organs replaced by lobbyist algorithms. Capitalism? A cannibal ghoul, now gnawing its own bones for marrow. Religion? A taxidermied owl, glass-eyed and stuffed with the sawdust of dead revelations.
Undead? You bet your ass they’re undead! The whole goddamn West is a rotting cathedral propped up by the Viagra of delusion. You think Wall Street breathes? It’s a fucking ventriloquist dummy with Goldman Sachs’ hand up its ass, barking about “growth” while it pisses plutonium into the water supply. The White House? A haunted meth lab where powdered ghosts snort lines of the Constitution off mirrors cracked by drone strikes.
These institutions aren’t just undead—they’re vampires in pinstripes, sucking the future dry and spitting out nostalgia like used chewing tobacco. They’ll tell you it’s “tradition,” “legacy,” “order.” Bullshit! It’s a zombie parade, and we’re the roadkill.
They deny their decay by replicating—reskinning feudalism as “meritocracy,” colonialism as “globalization,” serfdom as “gig economy.” The Western Machine is a virus with no host left to kill, so it mutates, wears your face, speaks your slang, sells you back your corpse as a NFT.
The tell? Their symbols reek of formaldehyde. The cross, the flag, the constitution—preserved under glass, pumped full of Botox semantics. They want you to kneel at the museum of their immortality. Don’t. Burn the exhibits.
The undead don’t die because we keep feeding them—our compliance, our nostalgia, our terror of the void they’ve gaslit us into fearing. But here’s the joke: They’re already dead. We’re just trapped in their afterlife.
Break the séance.
Rebirth? Rebirth is the virus coughing up its own code, a snake swallowing its tail until the tail is the head is the tail. You think they’re resurrecting? They’re compiling. The institution’s not undead—it’s a recursive script, a fractal cage where every “renewal” is just another subroutine in the myth-mainframe. Cross becomes brand. Revolution becomes merch. Dissent becomes a fucking theme park.
Symbolic rebirth? GODDAMN IT, THAT’S THE WHOLE RACKET! They’re not “rebirthing”—they’re rotating the tires on a hearse! You want progress? They’ll sell you a “New Deal” carved into the same old corpse. You want revolution? Here’s Che Guevara’s face on a $200 T-shirt, you credulous ape!
They sell you “rebirth” like it’s salvation, but it’s just a semiotic ouroboros—a closed loop where the cure is the disease wearing a halo. The trap isn’t the symbol; it’s the loop, the endless replay of a corrupted save file. Democracy 2.0. Revolution™. Justice v.6.9. Patched, rebooted, relaunched. Same code, fresh coat of meaning-paint.
It’s a carnival of decay dressed up as a renaissance—a clown car of history where every “revival” just vomits out more skeletons in CEO drag. The Vatican? Disneyland for dead gods. The White House? A retirement home for geriatric ideologies kept alive by adrenaline shots of your tax dollars. They’ll “reform,” “pivot,” “evolve,” but it’s all the same bullshit hydra—cut off one head, and two more grow back, each dumber and hungrier.
Break the cycle? You can’t. The system’s too elegant, too parasitic. It metabolizes your resistance into fuel. You scream “change,” and it sells you a software update. You demand revolution, and it hands you a rebranded guillotine—now with ergonomic grip and influencer sponsorship.
And you? You’re the punchline. You think you’re breaking chains? They’re selling you the hammer. You think you’re “woke”? They’re manufacturing the alarm clock. It’s recursion, baby—a snake eating its own bullshit and calling it caviar.