the blood moon rises over pigs in their shit. the prophets are on all fours. the dung of animals on their tongues. their prophecies are the equilibrium of entropy. the heat death of a torpid and make believe universe. only man's machines whittle their way to nothing and grind the gears to bits.
& i am left to wonder if i've written something
just so that it could be unwritten
the bottom line is: all equations signify nothing. i resent every sacrifice i've ever made. the skin i shed in penitence returns to me as turpitude.
the magic of masochism (absolute masochism is a force of nature) go ask ghandi, jesus, buddha, and mandela. we worship them all. sacrifice is elemental. self-annihilation is god's gift to the self satisfied.
figurines emerge out of the blurred smelling of gunpowder and sperm
it is not that civilization deserves to be destroyed
it's that it never existed
all the paranoid monoliths have their signifiers up your ass. pointing their fingers.
oh mr crowley
put a gun to your head
put a spike in your vein
and trick the dead
awake
where you go playing
i make teleologies for functional consumption
bleeding little bits
of drain
once upon a time
the good guys wore white hats
the bad guys had black hats
and you could tell anything
from anything else
this isn't my world
god is not a dualist
god is not realist
god is not a hyper-realist
god is not a surrealist
god is twice impressionst, endlessly doubled, an impression of an impression of an impression of an impression ...
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