O' Shaman of Brutality, I invoke your endless wisdom once again. You have never been shy about offering a firm constructive critique of art before, so I pose this to you: What do you see when you lay your eyes upon these stark images?

In Brotherhood,

Adam

Thanks for the uplifting art work, Adam.

I think Steve Cutts paints creatures of the Night—a Night un-pictured but inferred in his work.

I look at Steve Cutts as the guy that should be decorating the sides of skyscrapers and government buildings. I liked the rats in suits in the subway and Roger Rabbit and his bloated bombshell wife the best—what else could Roger have expected of his dotage?

Seriously, I find these images uplifting. Most of humanity’s bloated corpse is sloughing off into its assigned media vectors.

I have always contended that most humans are soulless automatons, mere spackling compound for tyrants, paint for war mongers, and pointlessly contrasting backdrops for the few of us who dare to be human despite the threat to our insanity posed by embracing Truth.

Humanity is nothing but the faceless people and doubting elders that see Gilgamesh and Enkidu on their way, not understanding any facet of their quest other than its material danger.

Ideology, of any kind, even such as I might concoct in my bid for world domination, is nothing but a tit, a virtual tit, Jessica Rabbit’s virtual tit, which eventually smothers you at the suckling point.

Beliefs that go beyond warrior honor, beyond the respect of the hunter for his prey and of the fighter for his opponent and his responsibility to his tribe, these are tits for the masses of titty babies out there.

Marx offered a tit.

FDR offered a tit.

Hitler offered a tit.

JFK offered a tit.

They all taste good to those who suck and all prevent the sucker from becoming human, which is the point. The feminine need to belong, to be at the base of a pecking order or somewhere on the ascent, has infected the male half of our species, ever since that sham Democracy in Athens that let fools think that they were making real choices.

All politics, all civics, amounts to emasculation….

So, what I see in these pieces of art are representations that the vast majority of my competition in the human spectrum has joined the hive mind, the vast feminist construct that takes over like Eve’s ivy in any garden society where men are seduced into believing that casting a vote is a real equivalent to casting a bolt, the false society of artifice in which owning a scalp is the same as taking it—the society of Agamemnon, not the society of Achilles.

In the West we have added to this tumbledown frame of mind be believing that we can arrive at solutions to social ills through reason, solutions which must then be administered by force from above, making ourselves children of a mother organism.

The real masculine way is to negotiate the situation as it is, find its weakness, kill it, and then see what takes its place and do that critter the same as the one before, and then pass that knowledge down to the younger members of the tribe, so that problem critters, problem people and faceless social systems encountered in the future may be dealt with tactically like the dangerous beasts they are, not squabbled over by so-called men behaving like a clutch of mammas arguing over who deserves the tastiest nuts gathered on a given day.

What these illustrations remind me of, is that whatever men believe is the political ideology that offers a cure to their angst, is really just the bitch in them yearning to suck away the day until oblivion takes them in their frantic half-sleep.

Any belief in a social mechanism—and these illustrations all address social mechanisms—that comforts the mind of a man, is the duplicitous hand of Delilah stroking the warrior Samson’s hair while he drifts off to sleep even as enemies come for him in the Night.

I’m as fond of Delilah as the next meathead, but let’s recall that she’s the chain, her bed is your materialism, the Night symbolizes the State—the System—and the Philistines are merely its duped servants.

So, to take Mister Cutt’s art as instructive, I think we could stick with the metaphor:

"Yes, I'm fine, Babe."

"Mwa, mwa maw mwa."

"Look, my fever's down to one-o-two—I'm writing!"

"Mwa, mwa, mwa..."

I'd like to thank the ghosts of Enkidu and Robert E. Howard for coming to me in my delirium as I drooled on the keyboard—clarifying the finer points.