False Prophet

False Prophet, Chapter 0: False Thoughts

Grasping the existence of individuals. Irony in ultimately ending one’s own life. One must only know with compassion in order to defend one’s own species. Words write themselves on a page inexplicably- “Justify the worth of your brethren, or they will be disintegrated.”

Represent an arbitrary experience in human history. A schizo hears judgement. One is given words from unknown beings. Answer these aliens. Spend hours justifying. Do not justify human existence on a whole, but through each individual experience. That is where the falseness sets in, where discouragement lingers. The only egalitarians now are no one. Do not reference abstract mimes or disciples, but read between the circles.

Little future boy will be raped by nothing in particular. One roots out the molten sap in skeletal remains. Two beings shoving tongues down each others throats and no end is in sight. A doll riding a man. Bearded skulls flickering while people don’t take death seriously. Repetitive dreams opening up with the smoke rising sideways. Lips start moving while extinction is looming.

False Prophet

False Prophet, Chapter 9: The Helium Road

The incomplete world where gravel and glass are in distance from further than forever ago. I’ve been in the dry heat for hours… too many chemicals pulsing through my body. I’m sinking under the lines. Striking the first thing seen. Diluting the water within. Put coal in my bowels and cook my brain. The infinite shards of glass cut my soles and then melt into my skin like the asteroids that came before. The rings of blood around my ankles.

The smell of dust and salt without water. The incomplete messages on the chalk board that won’t exist in front of me. How I will have my periods of nothingness done in a timely manner. A wasteland of suburbs where the dirt should be. I see old men waiting alone in the wilderness and wonder if they’re evil. I have pity for the rapists and life-takers. Then my love for humans mysteriously sprouts up once again. Then I free myself from my own self.

The planet wobbles on its axis while men in suits race by us. Everything is shaking with a constant hunger for completeness. The ship on a maiden voyage rocking back and forth will know how to stay afloat. Until it sinks. When I was young I yearned for penitence. I went to confession and he told me it was okay. He asked if I could trust that the church would not fall on top of me. I figured I could trust the stones and wood. He said faith in God is like having faith in the building not crushing you. I can put faith in trees and the Earth for most of the time, but God is made up of men and violent water, which I could not bear to trust for the majority of my short existence. I’m sorry, sad, lonely man but I cannot put faith in a masked shape with blood caked upon its skin and pouring from its clenched fists. I cannot have the love for little children guided by shepherds. Innocence tricked me into believing in dreadful horrors when I was a little child.

And so the pathway to the sky unfolded in my eye once the priest went behind the curtain; the road built with fragile, multicolored balloons. I will die over and over and under again on that pathway. Once I reach suborbital space I won’t be satisfied. We must keep him frozen in cryogenic sleep. Dreaming of mice made of metal, and knowing there is no praying in the vacuum of nothingness.

False Prophet

False Prophet, Chapter 7: These Beating Wings

It’s that time of year again. That time I stuff shit down my throat. The hours spent with sliding excrement clogging the tubes. The bright red blood in my stool. The shining fluid ejected. The dull and dense glorious empire, stuck upside down, cracked into two, withering away until drunks usurp the shattered throne. Would you rather be ruled by barbarians or perverts? You have no other choice. Rip out your hairs one by one, until your shoulder blades lament from forcing those imaginary feathers which were once all pieced together. Your liver is plucked from your gullet, and you can hardly choke. You reference that which you have learned time and time again. You repeat the process, you mimic others words. Then you do nothing, and you exist again. The same rhythmic sound turns itself over and over and you molest him from above. You control it from behind. You discover the power that inhabits within, you crave it just so you can abandon the pain. Your soul is damned.

False Prophet

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

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.