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.

Introduction: Thought Process of the Prophet-less

Walt Whitman wouldn’t deal with these people. I want to be egalitarian but it’s too hard when humans are hard to come by, proxy by proxy pass by, physical representations of digital images all around. How can you treat culturally subjugated drones with dignity? Stalin was justified in deleting millions of Facebook profiles. Plutocracy is everywhere. Everyone is Minos at the gates of hell judging what they can from what they cannot tell. Ernest Hemingway is now a tortured tree. The devil is beating his wife for burning up the rice. The old lady gave me the same gift as Prometheus and she suffers the same fate. As do we. Walt lived with his mother in Camden. His only friend was a butterfly.

Howard Unruh lived with his mother in Camden. His only friend was a Luger.

They were both homosexuals. Time is relative.

The blackness that came before is still here. How can I possibly justify anything? Anyone else is off judging and being judged. We must create a being in order to make enforcement of anything seem decent. We must use pronouns and vague generalities in order to express ourselves. We must invent noises in order to communicate. Worthlessness envelopes the world, and all we can do is stand by and watch ourselves pretend to do something. I’ll enjoy the aesthetics for the time being- right now, which is always simultaneously happening. At once it must remain stagnant immediately. Reaction is a mainstay.

“Do not act.”

“Respond to others.”

“Act it out in yourself.”

“Do not believe any words written by anything.”

Soak them deep inside. Wallow in words.

“Do not believe anything. Ever.”

Screaming at one another for what might as well be no reason- it’s healthy for you. This is humanity. This is the almanac of every being. Seemingly meaningful contradictions writhing on a page. Understand nothing.Image