Long live who?

I hate the bastards. Tongues like extensile lassos roping in other ning­nongs to maintain the status flow. Their greasy machinations ensure they continue to exist comfortably on the downswing, happy viruses constantly in take-over mode.

God stuff me but they're a punnet of pussy-footers. They belong in the Athenaeum set aside for defaulting bookies' pencillers and the receptionists of shonky pox-doctors.

You should see them with a new idea, putting it on over their moot­minds like a well-worn Wellington boot, fitting nowhere. Worse than politicians and their wegotism.

It was easy to decide and with even a rapture of sorts to cordially and comprehensively hate them: they give me the complexschists.

May they embark on long sentences, dressed in an outworn haute couture of the mind, that founder and sink with all hands. If they knew what they were talking about, it would be different, but they've never put together two thoughts worth a shpit; their ploys creak; they're out of their psychotrees. They are as significant as the preaching mantis. I wish on them the sudden defenestration associated with their bumpf and bumfodder brawls on paper and in the corridors of the selected ear.

May they jog, and enjoy the red hot sweatband of manganese steel I have imagined tightening round their tiny brows; first the diesel headache, then the scrimjing, screaming bones of the skull breaking inwards. I could smash them, puree them in their own juices.

Such violence in me. I think of Damascus steel, of samurai blades, and could cut and throw them away. Then walk back to fix their heads over their own doorways.

God, they're only particles; why do they enrage me? They fall, daily deciduous-they are so many-like dandruff to the floor their feet foul.

Not so much hating their bodies as their faces.

Faces grin, they smile and deceive, they patronise like pompous bellies prodding you backwards.

Faces contain wheels, turbines passively waiting for that boot of power to drive their deals, their eager franchisers of the efforts of others.

Faces should suffer for the evil deeds of the weasels who hide behind them.

Come the psychorevolution, let's kill all the false faces. Join with me, you others to whom the invisible speaks, who yearn for honesty and directness, you who with me love humble rocks and breathing plants, every serviceable object, and the great sea-billows of land we name hills; you for whom life is stronger than death.

But Jesus mother of God, sister of Oedipussy, after all I've done for them: not a word. Of thanks.

God gobble this bunch of suckwits – all but the brains, which carry disease – and when you've spat out their gristly bits and vomited their vile effluents, leave the brains by the wayside with scarlet signs digging deep into their grey and secret passages, notifying others who've lost their way that this is what happens. I say to them all, simply, calmly and quietly: Stick it.