To the non-existing god who condones child sacrifice in his non-existing name
It’s all borne from the mind
A watery winter’s sun kisses the eyelids shut
Who’s the predator this time?
Every man I see on the street scares me
But the man who screamed “whore whore whore” at his girlfriend late last night
Kicking the door so violently I had to call the cops
Turned out to be a woman
And the women who offered their fragile friends to sex offenders turned their backs
For a sliver of false fame
Maybe if I were hotter I would have done the same
We are all predatorial dumpster fires in denial
We are all solitary confinement in our aching bodies
We are all on the brink of psychosis as we offer our last shred of sanity to the dark entities of an anti-social media feed post-midnight
We may as well have died
And this may as well be hell
Often when a woman is bleeding
There’s a hormonal interference in the gut
That makes all the shit spray out like some primordial fountainhead of crampy gore
They told us sacrilege is a consequence of having a body
But it’s actually mental, between you and me:
“God is a construct, cute girls are real”
The uninitiated just don’t see
The joke
Come on… it’s just a joke
Some decrepit humor breaks the bones of bad faith
Some nondual nonchalance is murderous
Some of us have been meditating and medicating ourselves into agreeable shapes for decades
Here comes the communal menstrual flood
The explosive period after a long luteal sentence
A ritualistic shedding of all the unpregnant membrane
Expelled from the demonic womb of unawareness
Who births tiny gods
And then abandons them to the slimy hands of tech-bros engineering a post-apocalyptic death-cult
Suckling from screens to keep their little eyes captive for long enough not to be confronted with our own disenfranchised souls?
Who’s convincing them it’s safe out there, when it has never even been safe in our own homes?
We do
And this is the pivot point on which the door swings in either direction
Towards our own chosen fate or the fate that’s been awaiting
Blessed are the loudmouths in the hall
Refusing subjugation to our shameful ancient shadow
This is where we torch our secret dungeons
Before lighting yet another ceremonial candle in some soft spoken spiritual bypass circle jerk of feigned goodness
My goddess…
Why have you forsaken us?
I’m sprawled out on a cross
Bleeding from my hands and feet and between my legs
A river of red grief
Who doesn’t have blood on their hands?
Who doesn’t have blood on their hands?
Let those without sin among us cast the first stones
I said
Let those without sin among us cast the first stones
A pebble of remorse
Skips across the red river of life
Rippling concentric circles towards the beginning and the end of time
We were here, non-existing god,
and we cried
*** This piece was written during a rage-walk while bleeding heavily and struggling with intense cramps. I had just come across that Deepak Chopra quote from the Epstein files and couldn’t stop shaking my head in a fundamental disagreement with our shared reality.
I recommend rage-walks. Not so sure I would recommend reality at the moment…
Today marks the Lunar New Year; the year of the Fire Horse. From what I understand about this astrological signature: Best get saddled up, friends, we ride at dawn. ***
Metaphysical Mulch 