Sycophants of anarchy

“Poor caveman, so scared of the outside,
So afeared of its power and beauty,
Created a limit, and called that limit god…”
Gregory Corso, Man

“Satan, you fraud, you would dissolve me with your charms.”
Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

i.

Some men pick their kings with lust
to liquidate & lynch his foes
savour the poisonous idea
the hubris & power inherent
in authority amoral.

The sycophants of anarchy
live in a tendency fiction.

Truth limits man
but malleable truth
creates infinitudes
with the gloss of glamour
& the lustre of frivolous flattery.

The false accuser
revealer of figs
in the absolute absence
of opprobrium
the fatal fruit in the apple tree
of the sycophant.

Blackmail & bribe
in the hands of vexatious litigants
parasitic worm-tongue
without regard for justice or truth
groomed in blind conviction
to meatride in subservience
to the crumbling throne
& the protection that comes
from under the lash
of the lecherous & lascivious.

—Boastful
weak-willed toadies
playing stooge
eating shit—

the embodiment of the culture
that spawns the anarchic sycophant.

ii.

Moulded from clay
& divinity fractured
the golem is a fragile form
shapeless husk inanimate
string-pulled
in lethargic stupor
born from ecstatic experience
by those with the gloss & shadow
of the emperor’s
vindictive glee.

Truth becomes death
with the theft of aleph
Eleazar of Worms
& the rabbi of Prague
the sages that claim
that orders…

—words of a cryptic nature
meaning sealed & hidden
indecipherable even—

placed in the mouths
of suggestible beasts
create actions untethered
for those unable
to speak for themselves
misdirected & moulded
victim or villain
crude & helpless pupa
without thought or will
inherently obedient
to serve & thrive in hostility
aroused by slogans
incantations
fired by rallies
rallied by fires
& driven with a thirst
for the pogrom.

Remove the holy name
from the forehead of the golem
pull the shem from its mouth
& see the sycophant
fall to dust.

iii.

Square the circle of psychosis
& stem the crimson tide
that from the Ellipse
rose to crash
in anarchy.

The uniform a poorly fit
enveloping the criminal
arousal & esprit-de-corps
anarchic, proud
with dubious & flaccid oath.

Lithe & lusty lads
hostages & martyrs
licked into shape
by the boots they long to lick.

Scandals luscious & ludicrous
revisionist conspiracies
that blossom in the defensive might
of the vigilant sycophant
comical rhetoric
with the ham-fisted subtleties 
of the aging pugilist
revelling in smears with shameless audacity.

"Have you no sense of decency, sir?”

The entomologist explores
the oddities of
the hive-mind of the insect
yet we shrink from the group-think
of the sycophants’
blind groping for pre-ordained truth.

Ideological golems unleashed
their missions veined
& tattooed on their crumbling flesh. 

“We’ll demonise the expedient
storm the ramparts
build the camps
& fill the trains.”

iv.

Santayana was a fool
& so I suppose are we…
naively optimistic &
aroused by the myth of progress.

Yet some men yearn
to reanimate
reinvigorate
the slurry of history
to tower on the mound
of the filth-fed golem
to grovel at the feet
of a seedy king.

6 of 1…
you know the rest.

(In)celebration

“... all because the females of the
human species were incapable of seeing the value in me.”
[name redacted], My Twisted World

Oh delicate flower
swollen anther & stamen
fragile seed-head dandelion
that quivers in the changing breeze.
Why do not the flowers rage
against the winds dispersing
their flustered dusty seed?
What hope for the bloom
when the black-pilled stamen
resents the innocent pistil?

The chill of self-exposure
that transmutes grievance
into violence & victimhood deplorable.
We’re told a tale of magnificence
& masculine malfeasance,
we’re seen as lice & rats,
our gentle supremacy ignored
our cannibalism sacred
our vigorous godhead disdained
so we fashion a private lexology,
a rigidly gendered mythos
of amplified toxicity
& predestined personal failures.

MRAs & PUAs gone ghost
woeful NEETs
mogging chads & foids,
the simple moral calculus that lives
in the mythical past of the aggrieved.
The ideological eunuchs of fragility
whinge their hymns in the halls
of the subhuman death cult of entitlement.

Unwilling martyrs we are,
turgid with renunciation
& sanctimonious monasticism,
we preach the conduct of Brahman,
forge our personal sacraments
to elevate the desert fathers
who live outside the flesh &
reluctantly trudge the moksha path.

We are victims most woeful
beyond the cycle
outside the moral quandary
—We are the end of the circle.

Someone pray for the feeble,
praise the lonely
& weep for us.

Anyone…

So be it.

The Impotent Fanatic

Men are afraid
to forget their minds
needing the latch & leash
to lead them beyond
their flaccid corruption
to the bloated heart
that lies beyond
their decomposing image.

“This statement is false”
evoking the spectre of faith
& vociferous anxiety
like the eye that sees
but cannot see itself,
the mind that fumbles
to grasp itself,
like washing off blood with blood
in the wilted garden
of authoritarian action.

Wisteria vines
cunning barriers
& self-imposed
entanglements
lead us to religious shackles
& mass stultification
welcomed by the radical stalwarts,
the individualist impugned
blessedly neutered,
atomized under
formidable blessings
of dubious efficacy
—The chaos of cognizance is tamed
by the solemn rites of entry.

The fanatic overcompensates
distorts his failed deity
& glories in dance
to the euthanised
a celebration of the state
& sacrifice to liberty.
He writhes in his delusion
& shirks the weights
of thought & action
& other moral blandishments
to thrill & genuflect
at the altar of the slave.

With staggering rapidity
the lie becomes the operative principle
& we gleefully outsource our gray decisions.
Our adamant fortitude is lost
in the bloviating winds of opiate narcosis
& we gorge the alexipharmics of failure,
tossed by the forces of a crumbling zeitgeist
morphing frail autonomy
into righteous absurdity
—Any lingering dignity
is cynically stamped as worthless
& metanoia reduced to guilt,
a mouldering & withered dream.

We don’t need keys
but still we pound
at the doors to the void,
caress our illusions of potency
mock our stunted progeny
& cling
to the apron strings of authority,
the erotics of the purist
& Oedipal distress
disguised as visions
of vigorous power
—Megalomanics brush off tears
& shelve their feeble denials
in pursuit of goals
that don’t exist.

Julian is a poet from Melbourne, Australia. He studied literature and professional writing and now works as a corporate shill, selling his corrupted pen to the highest bidder. His work has been published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Journal de Folie, The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Spillwords, Blood+Honey, and Fixator Press. His debut chapbook, Gutter Stew, is available through Alien Buddha Press. His latest collection, Sloughing the Shroud, was published by Anxiety Press in late 2025.
IG: @jay.the.nerd