Are we not fucked? Slowly marinating in our own juices? The flesh isn’t weak, its just tender. A lifetime of regret, longing, and tears unspilled.
When I was older I used to break into churches. I’d fill the baptismal font with piss and leave a special offering on the altar. I’d paint the walls with goats blood. Well, really it was chicken blood. I went so far as to actually buy a goat but I became quite found of him. I named him Admiral Steve. We were kindred spirits. Admiral Steve ate whatever, shit wherever, and was always in the mood for a fight. What a blessed creature. So I used chicken blood to paint my pentagrams.
Perhaps I was mad at God, or maybe it was the Methodists.
Both had done me wrong.
These days no one cares enough to shit on a church altar. There’s too much to see, do, be in all those little electronic gadgets they hold in front of there noses. What are they looking for in those little things? Do they ever find it?
I wait in the thicket with my pail of chicken blood and fire, while the minister locks up for the night. He’s trembling, his eyes wide, furtively searching the darkness with each little twig I snap. Someday he’ll realize that I am giving him and everyone else a wonderful gift, finally a living form of darkness to fight. An admirable foe. Gods need devils. The little shits with their I-phones need to smell some real shit and rancid blood and witness for themselves the power and glory of life gone beautifully wrong. Oh, but it feels so right tonight, here naked in this church, raising hell.
