Catharsis is a vital outlet for the steam engine of thought. The whistle for the locomotive bearing down a breakneck turn. The voluptuous whore of a tunnel ready to be penetrated over and over again, where the only satisfying length is one that stretches from one orifice to the other like tentacle rape. The blood curdles like milk and is rendered entirely undrinkable.
After the emotional wringing the rind of a body is left to hang precariously on the rim of existence. That garbage pail mentality where anything of meaning, substance or having a possible effect is fore-lubed then hatefully ejected as detritus. The breakneck pace of religion ends at the loop of a noose. They have been given enough rope to hang themselves with and they're doing a hell of a job. Heaven is an eternal hardon and a tireless woman, mingled with a never-ending orgasm. Hell isn't other people, it's yourself. The only emotional substance or sustenance is that you provide but you're a sparing caretaker, aren't you? A jealous matriarch who maintains control with every bit of grit, determination, manipulation and grasping, clutching, gripping, tearing, dirty fingernail.
Emblazoned with a neon cross the paternalistic religion sits placidly next to the countless others, all filled beyond capacity with foaming rabid crazed believers, like a terrible many-fanged creampie. Fuckers are so hooked on their self-made psychotropics that a personal DMT crash precipitates a solid genocide. The release of religion in that wonderful brain of ours that can make a man think sideways. Take a hit of the real good stuff, the smoked death, your mind will slide and realities will jar and crash. Time will take a sideline to the spectator show you are the lone participant in. The audience is the molecules of the universe, laughing in synchronised harmony. You kiss against chaos and your consciousness recoils in horror while your spirit folds beyond comprehension.
This is what drives the belief of belief. That terrible insoluble problem that jagged awful perchlorate crystal in the brain stem of so many members of our sapient genera. The sheer, steep, slick granite magnitude that pierces the eye and heart with a viridian vertigo, a nauseous premonition. The unfocused facets set at impossible angles play havoc with the mindspace. Pattern recognition is simple but deceptive, the target of a coy ploy to harvest minds and hearts. Flipping the personal switches, the puppet taker has found the solution for final control. The framework for mental slavery has been established and it is unshakable and grotesquely reproductive.
Friends! You are all equally loved and despised in my eyes, won't you lift thine and bow before me? Take your slavery and set it before my feet and thine sins will be washed away before I set you free. Your gratitude will make you give your nuptial daughters and I shall take them and make them into the wanton whores I see they have the potential to become. Such glorious potential, shown to the world instead of hidden in the backs of cars and the dioceses. They shall be whores to all and they will babble in pleasure. After their gifts have been ruined and their human value has been cheapened and worn down, then I will gladly hand them back to you. I shall say that they were at the mercy of a free market and god rest their shattered souls. The shards I use as a base for an energizing libido strengthening poultice. The higher you set your sights the greater the crash after a fall. The betrayal of trust and grim naivety are just bits of rotted flesh, decrepit and morbid. Only after the maggots have crawled and slimed over every diseased tendon does the sad shining skeleton of realistic despair start protruding from the putrid, buttery flesh.
A quick cremation and a tearful disposal of the ashes into a dumpster out back proceeds during a manic liturgy. A litany remains unfinished, a bitter reminder of the real world. Please, pray to your god, I gain strength from your futility. Only then can the strength of an ideal be made into something fit for providence. After the corpse of your deity has been roped and raped by a twelve inch purple translucent dildo, the priest will take off his collar and say “By God if only I had known about this fetish before.” Set aside a little hope for yourself and humanity, it's better to save than to spend it right now. The tide will come in and it will bring dying hopeless cetaceans with it, this is already known, it is imperative that it is seen through. A pureness, a hardness, a thinking nature and intelligence are desperately needed within humanity at this juncture, so we can preserve what little we have taken into our hearts.
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