You don't have to be a genius to see this, but I'm guess you had no idea. Look around, tell me that the world doesn't tilt at your command.
You're lying to yourself much like I am.
A comma in a sentence does not help the situation,
exacerbation is the only answer because I fucking say so.
Deal with me like you do all your whores.
Laugh, chastise - which is a funny word to use
when you talk with a hooker. Chastity is not a strong suit. And you should always play to your strengths. If you do, you're screwed. Screwed as hard as the world wants to.
Screw chastity. I want chains and whips and to make you all scream with my phallus. I need chastity like you need a chair leg up your ass - the chair leg of truth.
I am the bearer of truth and mighty fornication. I fuck like I talk,
full of power and fill you with the white lie of truth. It is flavorful and smells of cooking meat in a furnace. The pills and cigarettes and angry, pissing cats say that I am your fucking god. Read my words, you filthy people. I am the only one that can see
I am the only one that understands and I am the medium between you
and the bereavement of the dark world. It is full
of angry people waiting to rape your mind and slander your body.
I am the Anne Coulter of sex. I am the truth bearing, false witness to the prophecy
of angry tirades. Fuck piety when I can spit fireballs of vodka in your eyes. My cat, the two faced angry beast of servitude can eat your damned soul before you could know truth, read truth.
Read my lips, tithing is absolution in the eyes of uncle Sam - that three eyed depressed bastard that would rather play
with himself than try to train an army. His top hat, a travesty of a flag, hides the dick head that he is - a phallus unremarkable in annals of time. He emulates the hindu gods with their hair,
powerful hair that says I'm a goddamned deity! Look at the height of my hair!
This is my power. This is my power that towers like my dick over you. It is my truth,
your truth and the power to make the room spin like it is. Make me some drugs, God, because my sight
reverting like it is to a dash of ringing and flashing lights,
it is unacceptable - forgetting discretion and a sense of touch - unless you listen to me!
I know about what I am speaking! See? A man that screams, drunkenly, with advanced grammar that people stuck in the dark ages because of the rural electrification task force cannot comprehend, is a real man - I should be respected like the filthy ape that I am. Opposable thumbs and all,
not that you could understand because it isn't abject lust or the power of my nam, my manhood, over yours.
Go find the Buddha in that, in my anger while it is still ripe and calling to you
like a mad man in a future city - replete with two faced cats and disrupted bowels because it's funny. Funny like an editor masturbating over a column because
I'm just that fucking good.
And you can never fucking understand that.
I am a man of the world, a world that worships me,
that I created because I had nothing better to do. Exposing the truth, the horrible context of reality (a stupid phrase) is what I do best. You are too fucking stupid to understand what is really going on.
You can look all you want, do it fucking now if you want,
but you won't see what I see.
It is my perspective that is the better way to do things.
that's why you are here, because I told you what's what. Because I tell you what to think, what to do.
So go do it, stop thinking you know what is happening and fucking figure it out. Before I kill you until you die from it.
again and again and again,
because I'll make you do it, I'll kill you again and again until you recognize what I'm saying, that I'm a minor deity in a pantheon of one - a pantheon of truth tellings and magical figures that echo the mundanity of the world out of mundanity into
a sane, nonsecular worshiping normal world that will care for you,
like they were socialists - real socialists.
Fuck Marx, and fuck Engel (but not that hard because we all forgot about him. His name doesn't have an "x" nor is he as photogenic). They were writing for themselves, for some penal fantasy that they jerked-off over until the red of the cover was a sprinkle of thick, viscous white.
Don't read filth. Read this, tell me that I'm better than Engel, better than anyone that can even pick up a pencil or dictate they words to a drunken fiancee. Drunk of power.
My power. The power that I garner because I'm the face of the news,
the face that filthy assistants bow to because I fucking tell them they fucking should!
What better way to win acceptance than to build the world the way I fucking want it. You can't do it.
No one can but me. Because I know what goes, say what foes.
I am a fucking God!
and no one tels me a goddamn thing different.