Fuckism is pessimistic.

The World is Fucked. We acknowledge that those who have subscribed to the toxic platitudes fed to them by an ambivalent and grey society, crafted by the preposterous, have sacrificed themselves wilfully. Their sordid conventions of hematite weigh them down from head to toe until all that remains of them are condensed blobs on the pavement. We Fuckists must learn to tread carefully and make sure we don’t acquire the same blobby feet and aura of pedestrian NOTHINGNESS.

Fuckism is our escape from these abhorrent pavements, you will see…

Our style is extravagant because life is also extravagant (unless it is not worth living). Our poetry is honest, but also delusive and MEANINGLESS. Whilst lying in art is compulsory, pretence is an abomination. We do not pretend. Art is the one thing that can both echo our despair and deliver us from it; it cannot be debased with pretence. Fuckism is laced with FARCICAL DESPAIR.

Fuckism isn’t premeditated. It just happened at some point.

Fuckist poetry will never be therapy. It will never be self-indulgence. It will never be self-gratifying. Fuckism is new rays of light falling ironically onto newly found corners of the ABYSS of obscurity. Fuckism is the noble sigh.

Fuckism does not care about literary theory. Though our poems oftentimes be chaste and beautiful in form, like the souls who crafted them.

Fuckism is a lurid torch shining ASPEROUS FUCKISM everywhere; projecting reality to those who are in need of a Fuckist approach to shatter their anxieties and lack of clarity in the broken world of mediocrity and suffering in which they hopelessly exist.

Our poetry is a JOKE.

We are British but that is not our fault. Fuckism is British. Fuckism loves comedy. Fuckism loves poetry. Fuckism loves what is right and obscure.

We share our misery, inject it with Fuckist passion and tranquilize the present.

Fuckism is optimistic.