Nature’s force blows, behind a wall of blather, and changes people’s minds
it seems. Like a mule kicks a hole out, and passion flushes itself down
the toilet full of outcast opinions. A “retarded” referendum, in our parlance
and his one would assume, when he speaks straight, his glory shines through
with blood and menace, as arena becomes the law. He bids you gig awesome
in the spirit pit, which is where the magic happens, fortunes are won and lost
life is the prize of the fortunate, they get to wake up. To wonder to what we wake
is called atheism and roasted, mercilessly stuck with sneers and smirking
assholes who think they know anything. And he is their king, or would be
eaten in a night of drunken rage, for steering to catastrophe, or it could be.
Destiny shadows itself, dons a tragedy cape, tipping his cap and winking
plunging us to the artificial end times, because Jehovah’s not coming after
all we need is the impetus and it will be epic. Humanity is endless genius
endlessly twisted and sadistic, mass producing pimps and protestors
and poets and politicians, and every time you find the exit, and you climb
to the top of an even bigger box, you find a new ceiling. But maybe not
today Mr. Hotshot, sweeping away on angel wings, opening the kingdom
of hell and knowledge, it’s for our own good. The name will become a symbol
of power and evil, but seductive and hilarious, making memories a million.
The tarp will ignite, crafting of its flame nothing, and the faithful are alone
with wildfire revolt, terror twisting in on itself. I pray my predictions fall flat
farcical and grim, such as to recall starry eyed, refiling hope as a thing
in itself that must be protected. Hope is like a goat in a thresher, dead
permanently over and over, for whoever is never the one, and the cycle
spawns a rote manifesto. See that the sky is falling, give up everything
you ever believed and the world is yours, because it will no longer be
theirs, it will finally all be all mine, and don’t worry I’ll totally share.
