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Goatvomit and Gasmasks by Impaled Nazarene





Goatvomit
Gasmasks
Cemeteries
Ripe cunts
Rituals
Spilled blood

Vomiting blood, vomiting fire
Gasmask ritual for goatvomit God

Jesusvomit
Goatsperm
Hungry cunts
Guiding star

Vomiting blood, vomiting fire
Gasmask ritual for goatvomit God

Goatvomit
Gasmasks
Offerings
Offsprings
No wasted lives
On a goatvomit night

"Rises the chosen - rise and shine
Calling the fallen follow or die
Bells are chiming sacrifice
End of ritual - you fucking die"

Vomiting blood, vomiting fire
Gasmask ritual for goatvomit God

Rises the chosen - rise and shine
Calling the fallen follow or die
Bells are chiming sacrifice
End of ritual - you fucking die"
 
Capricornus Rex in tenebris
I long to feel the dark caress
Of your cloven hooves;
I seek the loving warmth of your anus
As I place my worshipful
Lips about your teats.

We hate, and so we gather
By the light of the moon;
The art of veneficium...
This we learned from you...
To make them grieve in their lord,
Their redeemer in flames
Fanned by the scorn of the children
Who now curse his name.

Sire of sin,
You embody me
Undivine...
To you we congregate;
None so vile,
Your magnificent
Crown of horns
Inspires deeds maleficent.

Destroy the parasite,
Destroy Jesus Christ.

They'll crawl in their perdition,
The righteous will be lost
Where gutted angels lie fucked...
Beneath the funeral cross;
We'll dig them a mass grave soon,
And bring to their knees
Those who would have rescinded
The laws of disease.

"The children have turned",
The cherubs wail,
As anticross triumphs
Where the cross has failed.

Hell-spawned majesty, we eagerly
Await the advent of the
Next millennium
When you will return with a swarm from
Beyond to claim your carnal
Lost dominion.
 
Unnatural Selections: A Meditation upon Witnessing a Bullfrog Fucking a Rock
Jim Dodge


Amalgam of electric jelly,
constellated neural knots
in the briny binary soup,
as surely as stimulus prods response
brains are made to choose.
And through a major error in pattern recognition
or a significant cognitive fault,
the bullfrogs brain has selected
a two-pound rock
as the object of his rampant affection,
a rock (to my admittedly mammalian eye)
that neither resembles
nor even vaguely suggests
the female of his species.

He does seem to be enjoying himself
in a blunted sort of way,
but since the rock so obviously remains unmoved
one suspects it's not the blending of sweet oblivions
that fuels his persistence,
but a serious kink in a feedback loop--
or perhaps just kinkiness in general.
The less compassionate might even call him
the quintessentially insensitive male.

Assuming a pan-species gender bond
and a common fret,
I advise my amphibious pal,
"Hey, I don't think she's playing hard to get.
That's the literal case you're up against, Jack--
true story, buddy; stone fact.
And I'd be fraternally remiss if I didn't share
my deep and eminently reasonable doubt
that she'll be worn down
however long and spectacular the ardor."

Ignoring my counsel
as completely as he has my presence,
the bullfrog continues his fruitless assault
with that brain-locked commitment to folly
which invariably accompanies
dumb, bug-eyed lust.

But, in fairness,
whose brain hasn't shorted out in a slosh of hormones
or, igniting like a shattered jug of gas,
fireballed into a howling maelstrom
where a rock indeed might seem a port?
One can only conclude
that such impelling concupiscence
serves as a species' life-insurance,
sort of a procreative override
of any decision requiring thought,
thought being notoriously prey to thinking,
and the more one thinks about thinking
the thinkier it gets.
Therefore, though the brain is made to choose,
its very existence ultimately depends
on the generative supremacy of brainless desire--
for with all respect to Monsieur Descartes
you am before you can think you are.
Dirt-drive compulsions riding powerful desires
render any choice moot, along with
reason, morality, taste, manners,
and all those other jars of glitter
we pour on the sticky and raw.

The hard truth is we never chose to choose:
not the brains we use to pick
between competing explanations for our sexual mess
nor these hearts we've burdened with our blunders
in the name of love.
Do whatever we decide we will,
the choice isn't free;
we live at the mercy of more pressing needs.

Thus, urges urgently surging,
we mount a few rocks by mistake.
A bit more embarrassing than most of our foolishness, true--
but so what?
The power of the imperative
coupled with the law of averages
virtually guarantees enough will get it right
to make more brains to be made up
about exactly what steps to take
toward what we think we need to do
on this stony journey between delusion and mirage--
when to move, where to hide our dreams--
a journey where we finally learn
freedom is not a choice
a brain is free to choose.

Fortunately, my warty friend,
the soul is built to cruise.
 
Invictus
Dark is the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
for my unconquerable soul.

In the fell cluch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud,
under the bludgeonings of chance,
my head is bloodied but unbowed.

It matters not how straight the gait
how charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate
I am the captian of my soul.


Best I can do without googling...
 
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