The Fentanyl of Love

By Nathan Payne | pablosmoglives | 20 Jan 2024

“And because iniquity shall abound,
the love of many shall wax cold.”
Matthew 24:12


Lust is the Fentanyl of love.  A synthetic byproduct of magnetic attraction, and physical desire.  Lust is the ersatz emotion that feels like love, but which is not.  It's not unlike how cocaine replicates happiness, or heroin peace.  It isn't really happiness.  It's obviously not peace. 

It isn't really love.

The lust cartels have taken control of Western culture.  They smuggle their deadly opiate into the hearts and minds of millions of people, including children.  Like mules for the Sinaloa drug trade, the lust cartels build tunnels under the border of our souls so that they may smuggle their toxic, hateful ideology into our lives.  Because the flood is overwhelming, it is a daunting task to defend yourself and your children from it.  But it is necessary.  Fentanyl isn't heroin, heroin isn't a vitamin, and lust isn't love.

It isn't love.  How do I know it isn't love?

Let's ask Robin Williams.

It's not a mystery, but the reason people miss Robin Williams was because his heart was full of love.  When you think of Marlon Brando, do you feel LOVE for anyone he portrayed onscreen?  Any actor, really.  Do you feel LOVE for them?  Do you feel loved... By them?  Nothing to do with "appreciating the performance," or the artful, charismatic craftsmanship on display.  I'm talking about love.  Love is not a craft.  As the song states, love is "a fierce, perfect art no one can master."  Nevermind craft.  Does Brando (or any actor) make you feel loved personally, by a character on a screen?

Such a quality is rare.  Extremely, exceedingly rare.  But scenes like this scene from Good Morning, Vietnam exude so much love, that I actually feel like I'm in Vietnam, and that I might die tomorrow in a firefight.  I am made to feel grateful for the gift of love proffered to me by the actor onscreen.  That is very, very special.  Watching this scene, my laughter and sadness overlap seamlessly, so that I can barely discern one from the other.  I don't believe it's possible to "portray" anything happening in this scene.  It can't be acted.  It must be real.  If it isn't real, it can't be done.  There's no way to fake it.

It is perhaps the most beautiful thing in the world,

And it has been completely lost from Western culture.



"Is violence your answer to everything?
Yes it is."


I have been soliciting the attention of the publishing industry, and while it's not quite disheartening, the amount of hateful, narrow-minded muck you need to wade through is enough to drive you into the arms of the antagonist in a Robin Williams film, whether it's the control freak superiors in Good Morning, Vietnam, the control freak superiors in Dead Poets Society, or the egomaniacal, mathematical dick in Good Will Hunting.  It's really disgusting.  I hate to use that word.  But it is.  The antagonism on display in the publishing industry is such that it tempts you to turn into an antagonist yourself.  Whether to defend yourself, or oppose it, doesn't matter.  Just become an antagonist.  An anti-antagonist, if you have to.  A gon-ist, I suppose, if the antis cancel each other out.  Get gone, and become a gone-ist.  Be anti-anti, and be gone. 

But, whatever you do, become a loveless antagonist.

Join the lust cartel today.

What antagonism am I talking about, that is tempting me to become an antagonist myself?

The antagonism of identity-based anti-art, of course.


Ask yourself a question.  What's the difference in a "gay novel," and a novel written by a gay writer?  What's the difference in "queer theory," and a theory presented by a professing queer?  What's the difference in a feminist, and a woman who believes in equal rights for all people, men and women alike?

The difference is that what's important to the "gay novel" is that it's gay.  The fact that it's a novel is secondary.  What's important to the theory is that it's queer, not that it's a theory.  What's important to the feminist is that she belongs to an ideology, not that she's a human being who wants equal rights for all.  What's important is the ideology, the tightly-collated subgenre of prescribed, conformist thought, not the person holding it.

There are at least 2 valid, lifesaving reasons to avoid any piece of ideological propaganda presuming to be literature.


1.  It isn't art, and since it presumes to be art, it is at least twice as worthless as any piece of shameless propaganda, and

2.  The person (or people) producing it have denied their humanity and do not believe themselves to be valid as individuals, and therefore can't possibly have anything worthwhile or interesting to say.


What do I care if the artist is gay?  Why should the artist's sexual predilections affect my appreciation or understanding of his or her work in any way whatsoever?  Who cares if the artists are Swedish, Hispanic, or black?  Who cares if they're girls?  Who has a problem with girls?  What, don't you like girls?  Or, what.  You like them exclusively, to the exclusion of all else?  I only read female writers.  This is a "feminist" bookstore, an intellectual outhouse.  I only read BIPOC social-engineering projects, who are so interesting they don't have anything to talk about except their race, or sex lives.  If the book isn't about gay lifestyles, and people who think strength is defined by indulging every appetite as immediately as possible, I'm not interested.  I don't read cis-hetero-normative geniuses like Shakespeare.  Not because they're white, but because I can't.  I am incapable of seeing genius beneath the surface appearance.  I'm also a LITERARY PUBLISHER FROM LONDON.

Puke me a river.  Please.  Puke me a river of fire, in which I can cool my cis-disinterested nerves.  

Smart people appreciate good work, regardless of the lifestyle of the person who made it.  Stupid people need to align with the religion of the person making it, before they can even glance sideways at the finished product.

Thanks to Robin Williams, again, I am reminded of that fact.

I tried to watch Boulevard several years ago, but didn't get through it.  The time wasn't right.  I wasn't in the mood for it.  When it popped up in my YouTube feed tonight, I dismissed it at first, for gone-ist reasons.  "Queer" subject matter has been tired for a long, long time (the premise is obsolete on arrival), and since "gay stories" tend to be about shallow, dogmatic caricatures that flaunt their wannabe oppression in your face and not individual human beings, I had even less interest in the film than I did when I first tried to watch it.  But it wouldn't go away, and so I clicked on it.  I skipped forward, about halfway through the film.

And, to my own surprise, it kept me engaged.  Boulevard kept my attention, and treated most of the characters with genuine compassion.  It didn't patronize anybody.  Even the white-trash ghetto agitator, the Fentanyl lust activist who answers everything with violence, and gives Robin Williams a shiner, only does it because Robin Williams asks him a painful, impossible question.  The Fentanyl lust activist doesn't knock Robin's character around because he's gay.  He knocks him around because he asked him a question:  "Is violence your answer to everything?"  In modern terminology, "is identity your answer to everything?"  "Is everything rape?"  "Is speech violence?"  "Is whiteness violence?"  "Is manliness violence?"  "Are you violence?"

And because the liberal Fentanyl lust activist doesn't respect Robin, he gives the only truthful answer an ideologue can ever give.  When asked if violence is his answer to everything, he says, "yes.  Yes it is."


This member of the lust cartel certainly has an ideological view of the world, and probably actually believes people are out to assault him.  God knows he's not arming himself against a tyrannical government.  He's arming himself for an offensive war against people who don't share his ideology.

An offensive war that is already raging, but which hasn't devolved to the point that there are firefights in the street about it.  At least, not yet.  The "Queer Armorer" knows that people are going to defend themselves against the lust cartel at some point, and is taking the necessary steps beforehand.

He even feels the need to tell his followers to "stay dangerous."  Dangerous.  Not loving.  Dangerous. 

"Love is love," my foot.  And war is peace, and slavery is freedom, and heroin is a vitamin.

It isn't love.  It's the Fentanyl of love.

It's lust.


Nevermind that there once was a time, not long ago, when obviously-straight men wore dresses in public.  It shouldn't be necessary to explain that this kind of thing, which was fairly commonplace in the 90s among people like Kurt Cobain, Perry Farrell, and Billy Corgan, was done for obvious shock value, and surely no small amount of rebellious, personal amusement.  It also shouldn't be necessary to explain that guys who put on a dress in the 90s were in NO DANGER WHATSOEVER, and that, with the possible exception of Courtney Love, literally NOBODY tried to kill them.  They did not need to "stay dangerous" to "keep each other safe" from an imaginary event that was never going to happen.  The most aggressive response to a photo like this would be mildly amused indifference.  At worst.  Maybe.  Probably not even.  It was the 90s.  Nobody cared if anybody was gay.  And nobody thought a straight guy in a dress was Transsexual.





I've been saying for decades, "I'm not homophobic, I'm homover it.  Didn't care in the 80s, didn't care in the 90s, don't care now.  Never have, never will."  And if the work of the individual is solid, I still don't.  But even though I come from an era in which it was almost impossible to even NOTICE somebody's skin color or sexual predilections (as hard as that is for today's social-engineering projects to imagine), these days, you have no choice but to notice.  Individual freedom is no longer an option, including the freedom to be weird.  The lust cartels have smuggled their synthetic emotions into the heart and soul of Western civilization itself.  It is no longer wise to believe that the rest of the world holds the same "live and let live" attitude you do.

Back in the day, you could.  But these days, you can no longer give other people the benefit of the doubt.  Of course, it's a bad thing.  But you can't give the benefit of the doubt to people who have no doubt about a lie they are engaged in.  There's no reason to pretend that the Fentanyl of love hasn't been smuggled into our society, or that it isn't destructive.  If the members of the lust cartels allowed you to live your own lives, that would be one thing.  But they don't.  They promote their hateful, religious narrative everywhere they go.  They have declared war on reality, and if you are a member of reality, then you are their enemy.  Especially if you have love in your heart.  The lust cartels hate that.  They despise love in all its forms.  They are the stuffy administrators in Dead Poets Society, demanding everybody step down from their desks, and stop seeing things from unusual angles.  They are the presidents of universities, shoving mandatory compliance to the degenerate tenets of their tired, queer religion down everyone's throats.  They are the unqualified, loveless comedians in Good Morning, Vietnam, barking orders at anyone who still has love in their heart, in an attempt to turn the world into its own antagonist, so that it can be destroyed.


Fortunately, theirs is a softball position.  They've trademarked the edge right out of their souls.  Because the lust cartels have gone mainstream, they've set up a duty free shop in the border tunnels of our souls.  Or at least, they've tried.  Because the lust cartels are enabled by the passive compliance of the general population, they have an entitled, duty-free attitude.  They bought their identity at the duty free shop in the Airport of Reason, and strolled right through customs without paying a dime.  They are the great uninformed, uniformed administrators.  They are the obsolete, flouncing decree.  They mandate their students to get down from their desks.  Get down from your desks.  This is not an institution of higher education; it is a re-education camp of gone-ist indoctrination.  We don't tolerate individuals here.  Open minds are for smart people.  These are the rules.  I am a lesbian.  A BIPOC cipher with a styrofoam soul.  I publish oxymoronic "gay literature" from a cult-room in "Brooklyn."  You don't get to decide what you think of me.

Your opinion has been mandated.

Now get down off your desks!!!


I miss Robin Williams.  He had love in his soul.  Love for the soldiers, love for the students, love for the hustlers.  Love, even, for the members of the lust cartel.  You can see it in his eyes when he asks the Fentanyl lust activist in Boulevard if violence is his answer to everything.  Robin knows the sentiment is probably wasted, but it's the only loving thing he can say to such a lost cause.  Is violence your answer to everything?

I'm asking.  The lust cartel publishers.  The pushers of emotional Fentanyl, of synthetic affection.  The queer, absurd armorers.  The anti-talent scouts for the selective hipster service.  I'm asking.

Is violence your answer, to....  Everything?

Do you compartmentalize the entire relationship with your soul into a pre-approved story in which you wind up abandoned?  Do you make excuses to the muse in the safety-pinned suit?  Wouldn't it be better to at least try to put down the lust-pipe, to stand on your desk, to wall off the tunnels through which the lust cartels have smuggled the raw materials of your own eternal destruction?  I mean... What.

Do you have something to lose, that you haven't already lost?

Something to think about.

Thank you for listening.



I had an English teacher in High School who actually invited her students over to her house to watch Dead Poets Society, which was a big deal since the movie was either new or fairly new at the time.  It must have just come out as a rental on VHS.  I remember the one bookish girl was transfixed to the screen.  She always knew all the answers, but since the educational standards of the day resembled those of Ancient Greece in comparison to today, nobody maligned her for it.  We had the answers, too.  The bookish girl just had more of them.  She wasn't unpopular for it.  Maybe in the hallway, with the cretins and white-trash physicists and criminals, but nobody had a lower opinion of her in our class.  If anything, the more talking she did, the less talking we had to do.  But sometimes, if the subject is interesting, talking in class is fun.  Remember being interested in a subject to the point that you actually raised your hand because you wanted to speak your mind and give the answer?  It was an English Literature phenomenon for me.  I never had anything to say in Algebra, or Physics.  Physics is the pure poetry of the inner workings of artless disorder, which is why there are no stars named "Menagerie," or "Sarah."

Or maybe there are.  I most admit I donut know.


“He telleth the number of the stars;
he calleth them all by their names.”
Psalm 147:4


Of course, if you're a poet of numbers, or a physicist of words, you take Sarah the star to a restaurant in the 44th power, like a carnival with 44 zeroes, somewhere in the sky, and divide your relationship by the hypotenuse of why.  You can take your souls to the Large Compatibility Collider, where they will be reduced to their most basic, nucleoid form before being slammed together at a high rate of speed, like 2 drunken lovers in a sports car playing chicken with a brick wall.  The scattered remains of this collision, the sub-emotional particles spinning and spiraling out of control like so many dramatic, distraught fireworks, will give the poet/scientist a reading, data which can be converted into laughter, tears, and "love."

Which is what I miss about Robin Williams, and what is missing in the world today.


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Nathan Payne
Nathan Payne

I am a songwriter and bandleader who travels the world in search of the golden ticket.


Replacing my blog at

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