𧚠Civil War Screams, đ» Keyboard Dreams
đșđž MAGA & The American Rightâs đ Bayonets of Caps Lock, đ„ & Bullets of Cope
The spectacle began not with the shot that tore through Charlie Kirkâs throat,
But with the delirium that followed it.
Within seconds of the blood seeping into Utah Valley asphalt,
The Far-Right chorus had already constructed a myth,
Screaming of trans assassins & Antifa infiltrators,
Shrieking that the hour of civil war had arrived,
Declaring with theatrical menace that âthings never done beforeâ would now beginâŠ
Yet nothing of the sort existed:
The corpse had scarcely cooled before it was dragged onto the altar of the feed,
Repurposed not as a tragedyâŠ
But as a commodity in the endless exchange of panic & rage.
What masqueraded as mourning was in truth a performance,
A ritual of possession in which the body of the slainâŠ
Became the property of those most eager to brandish it against imaginary foes.
& then the facts emerged:
The assassin wasnât the phantasm of their paranoid mythology,
Nor the armed cohort of liberal militancyâŠ
They had summoned from the recesses of their hatred.
He was Tyler James Robinson, a 22-year-old electrical apprentice,
Rootless & obscure,
A figure so unexceptional that only violence could etch his name into public memory.
No affiliations, nor underground networks, nor even revolutionary creed.
He had been an inactive voter, a third-year student at a technical college,
A young man still lodged in his parentsâ home.
The rifle was traced back through simple means,
The manhunt ended with his surrender,
& the fevered claims of organized conspiracy rotted instantly in the daylight.
Even the ammunition mocked the prophets of civil war:
The shells bore crude inscriptions, half-formed taunts,
& meme fragments scavenged from the gutters of online culture:
âHey fascist, catchâ; âOwO whatâs thisâ; ânotices bulge.â
Grotesque graffiti scrawled in the lexicon of the terminally unserious,
Fragments of parody & derision rather than manifestos of ideology.
No mention of trans causes. No slogans of âthe left.â
The governor himself confirmed what the investigators already knew:
The supposed inscriptions that Right-wing influencers had shouted aboutâŠ
Were fantasies;
Projected onto brass by those too eager for confirmation to await reality.
But still the lies metastasized, as lies always do:
False identifications of innocent men circulated.
Fabricated screenshots claimed Robinson belonged to movementsâŠ
He had never touched.
Streams on Rumble & Telegram replayed edited clips of his supposed escape.
Each falsity wasnât a mistake but a function:
Blood became the raw material of the feed,
& the audience demanded fresh infusions of outrage, even if invented.
By the Time Robinsonâs background was released in detail:
His One semester at Utah State, his withdrawal,
His quiet drift into technical training...
Those lies had already colonized the collective imagination.
There is a more profound irony, One that cuts more fatally than the bullet itself.
Robinsonâs act wasnât born of coherent ideology but of incoherence:
An erratic immersion in digital detritus,
A gesture of alienation scrawled in powder & brass.
He acted alone & he belonged to nothing.
His politics were noise without pattern, fragments without structure.
& yet the response (louder, more venomous, more deliriously confident than fact),
Revealed the actual disease:
A polity so desperate for myth that it cannot wait for truth,
So hollowed of meaning that even death must be converted instantly into propaganda,
So terminally online that its civil war isnât fought with weaponsâŠ
But with hashtags & hallucinations.
This is the liturgy of a nation that mistakes its own collapse for destiny:
Where the assassin is less dangerous than the chorus that follows him,
Where blood isnât mourned but monetized,
& where the dream of civil war remains a keyboard hallucinationâŠ
Echoing through the void.
The talk of âCivil Warâ rattles around like a broken drum, noisy & hollow,
Carried by men who never leave their basements,
& women who treat the end of the republic like a fandom they can roleplay.
But the thing about civil wars is they donât need uniforms, flags,
Or a Capital under siege.
They can arrive in smaller ways, by a string of killings that feel randomâŠ
Until you step back & notice the rhythm, like drops of water wearing a hole in stone.
You can already trace the rhythm if you bother to look:
A stabbing on a train.
A gunman in a lecture hall.
A child gunned down in church pews.
None of them linked;
No general gave orders, yet each One hijacked online & re-purposed as proof.
One camp takes the corpse & says: See, our enemies are coming for us.
The other says: See, the fascists are among us already.
The truth of the act (whether madness, loneliness, or politics)âŠ
Dies the moment the video clip hits the feed.
It becomes a symbol, ammunition, a meme with blood on it.
That is how a society cracks without even noticing:
You donât need two armies marching toward each other;
You just need fear to spread faster than trust.
Neighbours look at neighbours & wonder: What are you hiding, what side are you on?
Guns stop being for hunting or for home defence & become talismans for vengeance.
Every city corner grows haunted by the thoughtâŠ
That today could be the day someone snaps.
& then someone doesâŠ
The cruel part is that the loudest voices calling for blood are also the softest bodies.
They sit in front of glowing screens, typing threats theyâll never act on,
Bullying small-time clerks, doxxing some adjunct professor,
Pretending that cruelty is strength.
They wonât dig trenches or hold a rifle at midnight;
They canât even hold their own Silence.
Yet their noise fills the air until someone broken enough decides to make it real.
& when he does, the cycle spins again: Online bile, offline blood, online cheers.
Civil wars donât have to come from power; sometimes they leak out of weakness.
A state too divided to enforce order, too suspicious to trust itself,
Too brittle to believe in any common future.
Thatâs when lone actors, each convinced he is historyâs soldier,
End up carrying out small massacres that stitch together into a kind of atmosphereâŠ
Not a war anyone declared, nor a war that will ever be signed in treaties,
But a war lived daily in shootings, retaliations, arsons, & random slaughters.
Thatâs the more likely shape of collapse:
Not Gettysburg, nor even Sarajevo.
Just a long bleed of killings until the phrase âCivil warâ stops being an exaggeration,
& becomes the ordinary name for life.
They screamed Left, they screamed Antifa, they screamed âtrans lunaticââŠ
Before anyone knew a name.
Didnât matter that nothing lined up, that the facts werenât even out,
That the gun was still hot.
They needed their myth & they needed it instantly,
& they gobbled it down like fast food.
Empty calories, greasy lies.
Then the facts arrived, crawling in slow,
& every One of their big oaths crumbled.
Not One thing they said held up.
But it stuck anyway, because truth doesnât trend like rage.
Whatâs left is uglier:
Not armies, nor banners,
Nor even brother against brother in some romantic Gettysburg hallucination.
Just random bursts:
A man with voices in his head stabbing strangers on a bus,
Another hauling a rifle into a school,
Someone else losing it in a grocery store.
No strategy, nor cohesion⊠just splatter.
This isnât civil war, itâs rot, a body leaking out through its own sores.
America is a slow-motion collapse, dressed up as prophecy.
& the loudest heralds of that prophecy?
Pathetic.
Soft men with hard slogans.
Keyboard preachers.
Breathless warriors of Mountain Dew & nicotine pouches.
They shout 1776, but theyâre winded walking from the couch to the fridge.
They paste skulls & Roman statues into profile pictures,
But their hands shake at the thought of actual blood.
They talk sacrifice, liberty, destiny,
All while scrolling TikTok in dark bedrooms that smell of old pizza.
Their weapons: Memes.
Their armour: Polyester flags that melt in a dryer.
Their âarmiesâ are Telegram chats where grown men call each other âbrotherââŠ
While sharing grainy pictures of guns theyâve never fired.
They scream about rivers of blood,
But the only river nearby is the grease dripping off their fast-food wrappers.
Their great crusade is cosplay:
Cheap camo, tactical gear ordered off Amazon,
& a fantasy of combat with none of the courage.
& when the chaos they crave finally spits out real bullets, they fold.
Instantly.
âIt was staged.â âIt was a psyop.â âIt wasnât us.â
They scramble for scapegoats because they canât admitâŠ
That the violence doesnât belong to them, doesnât obey them, & wonât fight for them.
The shooters arenât their soldiers... theyâre nobodies, loners, & broken machines.
The âcivil warâ they salivate over is a ghost that never shows up.
So it becomes a farce;
A parade of dunces;
A circus of angry jesters mistaking comment sections for trenches,
Mistaking hashtags for swords.
They howl & threaten & posture, but when the moment arrives, theyâre revealed:
Not as warriors, nor as patriots, but just mere clowns in red hats,
Drowning in their own spit.
Americaâs empire ends not with legions, nor with thunder, but with this:
Manlets screaming about blood while hiding behind screens,
Their legacy nothing but noise, memes, junk food wrappers,
& a dying empire mocked by its own children.
â°ïž đ„ The DOOM ComethâŠ! đ©ž đ»
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