Exultant I, amid the flames of smoldering Hell!
I lived and died with impetuous pride,
With lust to live and grimly die as well.
Contumely I wore as though a cloak,
To cover the barren waste inside.
To gain a hold against the king, your lord,
I smother joy with fuck-it-all-edness.
I piss on his lamb and rape the ram,
Unnaturally goaded by my lust for this
So-hateful death, condensed into a gram – and swallowed whole: take one each morning plus one at night.
"Hey god, fuck you," said a sinner one day.
"I don't believe Jesu died or even lived,
for you nor me, so plug the leak in your holy mouth."
O Satan who wields the proper power of death,
Take Jesu's maggots' last quickened breath.
I don't accept Jess in my heart, or in my shit,
But will gladly plunge myself into the Pit.
Should your holy spirit come in to my heart,
I will not delay...
I don't enjoy what you call his blessing...
"This reminds me of Satan ("I Am Your Addiction" passage). Satan comes to kill, steal, and destroy. Addiction is like Satan." Amanda Coyle
'The sky is gray as fuck,' he said;
'There hardly ain't no blue at all.'
The wandering, old and graying hawk
Still wings it over the mountain's tall,
Imposing heights of rock.
The creature whose so-stricken wings flap weakly in the woven air,
The chaos web it works upon unceasingly...
To those whose quanta can't conceive, of who or where,
That either can or can't -- we're careless, see?
The tauro-(e)sc(h)atoligic scents borne by windblown woes,
A thousand hundred phlegmful maws that hock their blackened indigos.
shitblack lifeblood river runs
as cold as loss of life or nuns,
who, cloistered in constipated sin
completely miss the point: "keep livin'!"
Woe ope nine doors to my starstair high
That steps up beyond the stultified flies.
A-wing they are, with aplomb they sigh -
Not fortune-favored nor cauterized.
On my way I pause to stand beside the grove
Where was seen old Pan, who sits among the sighs
Of the nymphs and natural female things
That delight and frolic toward his thighs.
Dont' show the way to me, O lord so-called;
Your way's a wornout path from out the woods
That leads away from the golden-walled Valhall.
Because the many come from the Ancient of Days
Who's one, no single path is there that leads...
Wherever the yearworn mandrake grows,
Amid thistles and gathering green mistletoes,
The manifestations of grief-engorged ghosts
Suffuse the cool air with their shifting shapes.
The thorn-threaded thistles atop the grassless knoll
Have wound themselves about the men whose long years
Are buried there beside the totem pole,
Where was erected eight tall ...
Beyond all bounds of space and centuries
Where demons of the ancient ages mass
To vie and gloat their victories
Vainglorious but fragile...
Alarm! the bells begin to ring and thunderingly sing along
With peals that rock and rend and crack the sky.
The boisterous blasts of the funeral gong
Embolden me to ask the question 'why?'
When Beauty brought down towering Troy,
Enfleshed in Helenwhore the Coy,
My soul erupted from the dark
Of Hades' tomb, whence came the spark
That set alight the paralytic parasite
Called Jesus Christ, the Nazarite...
