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all of our wonders, fortified strongholds
steles, and pillars, and temples of the earth;
everything will crumble; all empires fall;
every gene, every cell, every synapse
every last helix of the human DNA
will surely be cleansed with death ---
kingdom after kingdom after kingdom perish;
martyrs of gluttony, apostate emperors, usurpers of the ruby crown
will quiver in the quagmires of the sludgy vagina
out of which we have crawled as a family,
with the filth of birth as our only common denominator,
but with every fucking choice we make
and every fucking thought we think
as the differentiator that rips open an abyss between us
that separates us; isolates us
in the complete solicitude and loneliness
of existence, the horror, the curse of life...
the massive conspiracy against all that breathed
and will ever breathe;
so, choose your death! for it is all that we do...
choose your death, destroy yourself;
can you really do anything else?
no excuses, no solace, no fucking circumstances
just a harrowing angst of responsibility.
hypnotized ad nauseam by the pendulum of doubt
that oscillates between nothing and something
we are 'til death, and sunburnt to crisps of cancer
proliferating existential melanoma under the raving nihil sun
we feel sick; weak; shivering, and we perspire cold sweat;
and we throw up from the whiffs of the effluvia of fear and trembling
belched from the pharynx of life
we have felt increasing like lyme disease
since our inception now, many years ago;
we throw our nets from towed boats
and watch them sink deep in oceans of questions
and we carve ourselves a totem in situ
out of the megalith of an absurd existence;
however, life is merely the parable of truth,
and many plankton escape the fishers' net;
many meshes are sawn asunder
by the ferocious teeth of viperfish,
and to this day, no one knows what really is down there,
we just know there is something,
deep, deep in the deep sea graves of life, life,
life - the horrible disease, the bitter prognosis...
...what the fuck will happen when all spiritual antibiotics fail,
and the sickness will carress our embarrassed shoulders
in tasteless mockery? welcome it, or walk forever in circles:
the complete dissolution of the human emotional-intellectual immune system;
reason, logic, laws - fuck off - the cunt devours mercilessly-
so, choose your death! for it is all that we do...
choose your death, destroy yourself;
can you really do anything else?
no excuses, no solace, no fucking circumstances
just this harrowing angst of responsibility.
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goddess of contradiction and paradox
absconds like mustard gas
over trenches and barbed wire
and plucks the roses of beauty and war;
her cock shone with blinding radiance
through the prism of a hundred ravaged vaginas;
she leashed her men in collars, sold her women as whores,
strangled the children in acts of love
and buried them deep in the graves of tradition
they had dug fiercly with their own hands...
they walked in chains, in lines,
psychotic, babbling, like madmen, like lepers,
or like amputees in field hospitals amidst the chaos of war
or novices of alchemy entrenched in mudpits of debt and misery
eager as fuck to find a way out, at last,
of the maze they have brick-built around themselves
and while the children wept tears of semen,
the men sought prosperity through means of spellcraft,
the women gave themselves away,
and the dogs were eager to mount them;
nothing but the bitter recollection of abortion -
the motherly despair of hugging farewell a miscarriage -
withstood the erosion of memory,
and she carved its memoir deep
on the steles of existential dementia and abandon
they subsequently rose
on the graves and on the tombs
of their beloved, remembered dead...
she fingered the harps whose strings snapped
and begot worlds which morphed
around the axis of madness and spiritual intifada;
her hands fingered the chaos vulva,
abyss of endless possibilites;
she, the bearer of iron, withstood it all
and declared war on the morality of society.
goddess of weirdness and ambiguity
whom casts her leather noose
and strikes with her thunders and weathers;
through that weird, disturbing static; existential white noise;
we float like spirits whose tempers been challenged
by obnoxious mediums, faux soothsayers,
so-called "psychics" pushing the borders
to something they do not at all understand;
we invite these people to swim
in the shark-infested waters
they falsely call turf;
at the behest of our own compass
we tremble within our very atomic structure
and we share the starlit sleep, the satin bed,
with Inanna,
the beautiful, the warring, and we wake up to the sound
and the smell
of her fingering her luscious vulva.
she raises her wet hand to the sea, dripping -
Tiamat yawns awake.
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