(no subject)
Father of lights, your Holy name gives me visions-a ghostly blur of howling electricity, wherein the hum of great machinery makes me shudder. You are a solitary bulb, swinging from a thick, black cord, in a darkened basement.
For me, I read the book of wisdom, for to be to you, and to do for you, what you have been and done for me. Because of you I understand the book of wisdom-the threat of empty text is made defunct, in this state of enduring grace which you have put me in. I am in bondage, like Paul, your slave unto death.
Father of lights, a chill wind rises-and there you are, risen from your sepulcher, with your nails and your wounds-you undermine Golgotha. The sun is ablaze with hellfire, and you have conquered death. Ezekiel’s wheel is falling from the sky, and the heathen are taking snapshots, hoping to sell the proof of aliens to skeptics, and any publication willing to pay in, good, old-fashioned sex-exchange. (Blowjobs are worth money, but money isn’t worth a blowjob.)
The new Judas Iscariot, painted with the thoughts of Nietzsche, is busy with one hand in his pants, his mouth around a Priest, and his free hand digging through the public pool of blood money. John the Baptist is preaching repentance, while school children seek him out, in hopes of filling him full of buckshot.
Father of lights, you should have spared Darwin from the atheists. He was good man, before Huxley got to him-and likewise with Huxley. They knew their science-but Darwin stole oranges as a child, ate Beetles, and had sex with two slave-girls in a dream that I’ve not forgotten. I can not tell you the number of make-believe things that I have seen, heard, and dreamt of Huxley doing.
It’s becoming increasingly hard to know who to trust these days.
I myself have begun to speak with the aim of telling great lies...
For me, I read the book of wisdom, for to be to you, and to do for you, what you have been and done for me. Because of you I understand the book of wisdom-the threat of empty text is made defunct, in this state of enduring grace which you have put me in. I am in bondage, like Paul, your slave unto death.
Father of lights, a chill wind rises-and there you are, risen from your sepulcher, with your nails and your wounds-you undermine Golgotha. The sun is ablaze with hellfire, and you have conquered death. Ezekiel’s wheel is falling from the sky, and the heathen are taking snapshots, hoping to sell the proof of aliens to skeptics, and any publication willing to pay in, good, old-fashioned sex-exchange. (Blowjobs are worth money, but money isn’t worth a blowjob.)
The new Judas Iscariot, painted with the thoughts of Nietzsche, is busy with one hand in his pants, his mouth around a Priest, and his free hand digging through the public pool of blood money. John the Baptist is preaching repentance, while school children seek him out, in hopes of filling him full of buckshot.
Father of lights, you should have spared Darwin from the atheists. He was good man, before Huxley got to him-and likewise with Huxley. They knew their science-but Darwin stole oranges as a child, ate Beetles, and had sex with two slave-girls in a dream that I’ve not forgotten. I can not tell you the number of make-believe things that I have seen, heard, and dreamt of Huxley doing.
It’s becoming increasingly hard to know who to trust these days.
I myself have begun to speak with the aim of telling great lies...