False Prophet, Chapters 5 and 6: When We End/In Silence I Will Speak

How the waves crash in variables that nearly no one hears.

How the absence of light might seem like blackness.

How distraught the choice between pity and piety makes me.

How the earth slips between fingers no matter how tightly grasped.

How the only one who knows the future does not exist.

How deception is the most common form of perception.

How endless nights relapse.

How complacency is satisfying in that it lets you enjoy decay.

How a chisel marks the bones of the slowest animal.

How ears torn off may be sewn back on in passing.

How the claws of a sloth may scratch the bark forever until the sap sinks into a pool of lust for finishing eternity.

How the white is dying.

How the centrifuge is leaking acrid waste.

Smoke rings sliding from a serpent’s lips. Waiting to say another unloaded lie. What is the point, if it is all fake? Is it a game we play? Who among you is not fooled by wisdom? Appease us please. Sustain a welfare state. Watch the semen trickle down Ronald Reagan’s wrinkled chin. Pump more juices into senility. Masturbate in the oval office. Remove the soft, expensive suit and run your fingers along the bumpy, frail spine that has glued together this confused nation.

Lick behind his ears. Taste the veins popping out, revealing the money beneath the skin. The sickish green linen overcomes his body. He becomes those symbols. He tricks masses into idolatry. He has changed from human into a symbol of silently devolving sludge. Is it right to kill him? Is it right to do anything? This is not about right it’s about wrong. If he can self-justify his indirect slaughter of countless innocents, there is no question, then, whether he should be made nonexistent.

This death is freedom. Although taking his life does not change order. It strengthens the minority in power who implement the actual mainstream. If you can be proactive and accomplish this feat, then do it, but do not become a martyr for anything. He will only twist your words. Hundreds of years will pass before justice can run its course, perhaps, yet immediate liberation is desirable, and we are not a species capable of quenching wants. Outlive the diseased and escape this planet. There are other beings more cautious than you or I. Wait for them. You will be indulged.

However, the choice may rise up in you.

False Prophet, Chapter 4: The Gangrene Has Spread

I’ve seen all of my lives. I can feel it on me and then I shut my eyes again and then I could feel them inside and I could feel it on top of me and then let it out and then I can feel them again. The sun is in his eyes. We will do what we want because it’s the only thing we can possibly do to alleviate the prideful loneliness we feel. This is something I want to forget but I can’t. You don’t have anything to worry about with me if you don’t worry about anything. I’m flowing through entirely floating through eternity. Sit around and complain or think that this is no good now when in the future we’ll look back and love thinking we were something else; I have rocks in my throat using newspaper as toilet paper.

Keep on speaking without sowing and I’ll show you what it’s really like how the world is absolutely overwhelming keep pushing you’ll find out what it means when every chord is cut and each tendon lies detached- heaps of flesh on burning pavement. You never fail to frustrate me. A crippled lamb waiting for care. You are waiting for nothing. Who is this little man with gilded golden hair? If the leviathan yelled he would demolish the marketplace. The capitalists are too malleable.

I might as well ingest chemicals behind a dumpster. The pangs never go away. They need the weak. The old religion was a conspiracy, it was meant to indoctrinate meekness into the sheep. When the sheep dove off the cliff the rules changed.

I’d set my life on fire, but you would enjoy it.

False Prophet, Chapter 3: 0%

October 22, 2008: I don’t want to go to pizza class anymore. No matter how hard I try I can’t flip the dough. It’s too malleable.

January 8, 2009: I’m still behind the dumpster in the back of Papa John’s smoking angel dust.

March 12, 2009: I jumped off the roof of Taco Bell. I thought I was Superman.

March 13, 2009: I tried to rob the Taco Bell drive-thru. They only had 13 dollars in the register.

April 10, 2009: I took the purp and had stomach pains all day.

April 13, 2009: The pangs never went away.

April 14, 2009: I took too many. No, just enough. The pangs turned into sweet bliss.

False Prophet, Chapter 2: Everything In Between

Sanity is subjective, fine, but what about society? That is objective. We have built it. We have sucked on the rotting breasts of it. We use it for pleasure and wealth, nothing else. Wealth is the most disgusting thing in the universe, and it didn’t exist before us. Creators of the despicable. Slaves to our own inventions, tarry over coins, kill over them. We were lied to, society is for survival. Individuals should survive together, but groups need to die. The good of others is a holy sin.

False Prophet, Chapter 1: Blood and Water

What happens when a being is forced into the light? The very first time an infant cries, they are choking on red and clear and shades of life. The mother is mad with emotionlessness. She could care for the pain, and love the lacerations, but all that would accomplish is feeble. She keeps fighting and working, sometimes, more often than not; it is accepted that there is nothing that could be done. The variables are endless, but the outcome is always different most of the time. It almost seems like fate exists. Cruel destiny holds onto the grimy reins of life no matter what. Do not go on what others say. Find out yourself. However, become spontaneous like a chicken. Disregard that simile, it was meaningless in the grand scheme of things- let us rather say “like a non-sentient being.” I beg your pardon for the Earth-exclusive references. Penetration is most often practiced here (which is strange when rubbing should be preferable). Big Brother banned orgasms while Little Sister created a pleasure machine. Hell is not the only non-existent place where moaning is constant. Doing something, for no reason immediately, instantly, is the most beautiful thing we can possibly do. Do anything. You will prove fate wrong. Bleed on an infant. It will do the child good. Spit on it also, the child needs something other than familial fluids. When tears fall all you can do is let tears fall. Continue on with the senselessness.

Image