3 min readMar 20


Let every fat, bloated, useless cigar-puffing capitalist who trespass upon humanity know the terror of the indignance of the poor. Were I to celebrate my birthday, then my wish would be that every landlord, every corporate banker, every hedge fund manager and every politician were to be ripped apart by a hail of bullets from the very ghettos that they built with their usury and greed.

I should wish that each and every one of them caught a bullet, along with every police officer dumb enough to defend them.

I should wish that all their wicked things, their mansions, their limosines, their yachts and their private jets turn to ashes, so that such ashes may fertilise the world and grow something beautiful in its place.

May their blood billow into a thousand roses upon the pavement, as the poor and the downtrodden inherit the Earth. Let such a righteous violence sweep across the world, and leave prosperity, democracy, freedom and republicanism in its wake.

Now obviously I would never actually write that. Because I’d get in trouble. That’s an inner monologue, and it’s not a good idea to share those thoughts with the world.

But it doesn’t change the fact that there’s two kinds of ways in which to hate something. Hate can be a beautiful emotion when it is directed towards the enemies of those you love. I think it is impossible to love humanity without feeling a sense of emergent hate towards the enemies of such a humanity.

Towards the polluting, sweatshop operating, housing foreclosing, sex tourist, Al Qaeda funding petrochemical military-industrial complex rentiers who build the dystopia of the many to build a paradise for the few.

Often we are taught to feel ashamed of our hatred, and our anger, and our indignance. And it is making us weak. There is a perfectly reasonable balance to be had between moments of outrage and moments of harmony. It is true that hatred should not consume you, but I find it good to let it stoke the flames of your passions. It is a source of courage, resolution and moral fortitude. To hate what is evil is a good way to balance one’s love for what is righteous.

The difference between a Marxist and a Hippie is that the Marxist is not passive in the face of violence towards the poor. The hippie will sing Kumbayas and preach love to drown out the screams of the suffering, but a Marxist will run towards those screams, and upon arriving, have few reservations about putting the perpetrators of such suffering into the dirt where they belong.

If you’re like me, and you see the naked face of tyranny without looking away. Without resigning yourself to the liberal excuses and slave morality that perpetuates such cruelty. If you see homelessness, poverty, want and third world exploitation and slavery as the conscious and active infliction of violence upon those who are unable to fight back, and you are irked by what you see, then do not be afraid of such an heroic hatred.

Hatred in a vacuum of course is a burden, it is a poison, it requires an outlet. Towards the betterment of the self, such an outlet would be spite. Capitalism wants us to be fat, morally derelict, passive and lazy consumers who fill our bodies with poison and garbage. Capitalism compells us to be irresponsible, hedonistic, useless and self-centered. To buy, buy, buy. To get hooked on every pill, to drink every bottle, to own every parcel and to possess people and items alike, to hoard until the rest of the world starves.

To spite such a system by being healthy, responsible, kind and compassionate, by educating yourself and improving your spiritual status instead of your financial one, is to find a useful outlet for such a hate.

To become wise, and just, and capable, to do what is right in an order that rewards the profligacy of leeches and usurers, is to find a balance in one’s life.

And if enough of us do it, then we will have regimented ourselves into an army. Into the army of the people. Such an army cannot be stopped. Such a people cannot be stopped. When the worker is sober and educated, the capitalist trembles in his boots.




International man of mystery.