You really ought to say sorry
What do you have that you shouldn’t be sorry for?
Haven’t you heard? Someone died on the cross
Someone died on the cross and brought us a new regime
Though it was already there before, the ancients weren’t libertines
But it’s the regime on the cross that we now deal with
Did you think we got rid of it? Some folks looked at the stars and some heads were cut off, now we are free!
That is quite foolish of you, the regime of the cross is undeniable
Its pressing on your heart, its crushing your head
Its telling you you ought to say sorry
Don’t you feel it? This insurmountable guilt and shame for being what we are?
Oh but certainly you do, certainly you’ve felt this way before
You know you have to apologize
You’re a born devil, a vile, base matter, an inhuman monster
That is everything you can ever be
And so we choke and drown on this shame, we grow desperate
We grab on something to cover ourselves, so we may not feel shame again
There is, its morality, a beautiful cloth covering your naked sinfulness
Without it you’re nothing, you’re evil, and you ought to say sorry
Everything that makes you you, your viscera, your blood, your bones and your skin
Cover it up, I don’t like it, it offends me
You as yourself are vile, disgusting, excrement, impure
So we’ve brought about salvation, we’ve given you the possibility to be a good person
Forget yourself! Be what we want you to be! That is salvation!
We are all born devils, we all have the responsibility to take the cloth and be better
It's beautiful isn't it? Merciful salvation? Oh how God has blessed us, given us an out
You just ought to say sorry, forget yourself, feel shame, that is the rule of the cross
It is the rule of everything that came after the cross too, it is the rule of repression
It is, most of all, the rule of the divinity, of the sacred, that which is above the profane thing
There’s no raising yourself up, daring egoism is utmost devilry, it must be punished
Is it not enough to make you feel content? Do you want yourself rid of shame?
Is it that you’re a devil or that you ought to be an angel?
You aren’t something you won’t ever be
and you ought to be ashamed for being what you are
Constantly chasing after an end to shame that will only come when you are dead
Do you dare to think that you, as yourself, are already all you need to be?
Do you dare to accept yourself as a Devil and tear off your moral cloth?
What an egoistic affair, to believe yourself to be enough
Is this the most daring thing? Daring to be?
Burning
Ardent.
Ardent desire urges the exploration and execution of exciting urges.
Fire rises burning everything to ash and bones, charred corpses strewn along the way.
Hatred and contempt fuels the machine which beats the rock onto the skull and liberates from it the blood. Blood flows down the streets and rinses and washes the stones that pave the way into unfortunate continual provocation and nothing else but endless preaching.
The blade falls upon the neck and decapitates the tyrant which has decapitated so many, the gun pierces the skull of the revolutionary that has pierced so many, beaten and beaten and BEATEN blunt objects unto the poor victim’s skull, crashing endlessly a miserable life like everything else.
Begging and begging and sopping and crying and moaning and begging, annoying discordance of no meaning at all. It is sound without meaning, blood without meaning, no passion, no love, no hate, it is meaningless, and it keeps happening forever and always like a wheel that spins on and on and on and moves forward the mechanism of torture that bends ones back and fractures it in two. That beautiful sound of it breaking, will that have meaning?
For the meaningless torment and misery that the painful wheel gives us, what intellectuals can only do is whine the lowliest and most miserable and most contemptible of whines. Miserable noise flows through the churches assaulting and violating the ears of those that allow themselves to hear. Hypocrites sing their song beautifully, so beautifully it drives one to suicide. The quest to become a good singer is all the meaning that the wretches have reached to, to the wheel that's all they can say.
The wheel churns and churns and all priests can do is prove themselves the better priests, they curse one another for violation of their own delusions and they reject and put away all pleasure they deem not be pure enough for their gluttonous gullets. They fail to realize that nothing is pure, everything is stained by blood, not just blood, their robes and their icons and their holy books are all dirty and rancid with shit, piss and semen.
But they wail and they scream and it cannot be seen as anything else other than contemptible, certainly someone must see it that way. However, good senses are one in a million, and instead what rests for the ones above all this folly is to have to suffer the torture and the pain of hearing the infinite wailing of sniveling weasely hypocrites inventing stories, codes and rules for their own salvation.
The entire church is a cesspit of vomit, vomit that is shat on, mixed with piss and then devoured by famine stricken monks who aim to find in it their salvation. The wheel has broken their minds into rabid senseless pets who fight and kill to be the better pet in hopes whoever put the wheel there will also pick them up and take them into salvation.
All intellectualism has been an exercise in chaste masturbation, an experiment to see to what degree one can jerk themselves off while remaining pure, moral and ethical. It is this hell pit of a church, filled with masturbators, vomit eaters and self-made pets that holds everything that will ever be. It is in their hypocritical contempt and vermin-like crawling towards a pure salvation that all hopes of anything beyond the wheel lie. Every blood shed has been dropped in the cesspool of whining and purity.
Despite being the educated class, this is all the clergy know, all they can know, all they will ever know, all they want to know. The brute, while being a more contemptible creature, at least doesn’t deny itself pleasures beside the stroking of its own genitals. Of pleasure and passion all is denied, logic in its chastity and emotional purity sanitizes every feeling into boring nothingness. All passion and pleasure has existed in the realm of the illogical, all rage and all pain, all feelings which move a creature exist only in the sphere of the illogical and unreasonable.
That is not to condemn the act of creation, but to denounce that so far there has only been the creation of objects for anti-production, that creation is performed for its eventual cessation, the cold and unpleasurable death that is logic. Creation that liberates has only been violent, illogical, barbaric, destructive. The freest ones made themselves free by bashing stained glass to bits and running wild in the fields beyond decrepit misery. The ones that made themselves free sullied themselves in the vision of priests in order to do so, they hurt, they broke through, but they ended up free.
Freedom that the clergy can only dream of has been touched, felt, fucked and eaten by the sinners who decided to make themselves free. All others ever eat is only so in order to become vomit and shit, and they call this production. It is the endless, infinite breakthrough of desire above logic and piss that has granted the free flowing wind and the soft touch of grass to the skin of those who dared to be impure.
And of harm? of pain? of evil? shouldn’t one be free from evil? Well, but it is the clergy who knows most about evil! Why do you think they have all those rules? Because they are the doers of evil, it is in morality’s hands the blood shed under every oppression and violation. And the perpetuation of violation, oppression, repression and slavery is the ultimate result of all the clergy stands for, only those who made themselves free know what it means to be free of such pain, but the clergy knows nothing but guilt and hypocrisy. I speak not of moral purity, but I speak of being free from the coils of the machine that press one bone into another.
Philanthropy is the greatest enemy of liberation and visceral intimacy, the greatest enemy of desire, passion, love, hate and orgasm. Moral purity loves no one, love is not pure, it will never be. So to the clergy there is only one thing left: the endless chase for impossible pure salvation.
The sound of a window breaking is liberating.
