The Final Burp.

someday, in the wake of my death,
a number of people will gather at my
gayly-anticipated funeral,
and all together vomit into
my statutorily dug grave.
then all together they will partly disrobe
and shake and wiggle,
and flap and wag their dearly beloved genitals
around the rim of my hole,
and perform the actions fit for them, my friends
and relatives.

and i, from way on high,
in the crook of the muscular arm of Jesus,
above the prophets subordinate to him,
will peer down upon these dead observers
and moan for the hellish waybelow
i avoided with ease,
but which surely
awaits them,
for they have been so foul,
and cannot dance,
and forgot my plea and desire to be burned dead.

Some people

some people have heavy cracked claws in place of hands, and
they are generally lords and businessmen and holders of Office.
some people believe in God.
some people believe in the Golden Guillotine of State.
some people are incorrigibly mean and stupid.
some people believe in giving a second chance.
some people say what they mean, incessantly, and have no idea what they're saying.
some people will decapitate the goat just as it climaxes inside their wife, for the best results.

yes, some people believe in being on time, in timeliness.

some people don't know when to quit.
some people quit as soon as the going gets gnarly, as soon as an abrupt noise is heard.
some people prefer cats.
some people are dogs.
some people eat swine and this makes them cannibals.
some people didn't deserve It, but it's not clear why.
some people deserve an eternity of every form of pain, clearly.
some men have man-servants.

some men have feelings.
some women have a sense of style that is not haughty, or petty, or vain.
some people torture and lobotomize for a paycheck.
some people have been tortured and lobotomized by them, gratis.
some people never learn.
some people can't navigate a sidewalk too well because their eyes are fixed on the pavement and their whole bodies are bent towards the earth by a dark, heavenly shit-blizzard of Woe.
their numbers are growing.

Lair of the Coprophagics

we will eat it with a smile,
scarf it down without guile,
we don't mind the funky smell...
if it's unhealthy, we can't tell.
it's the staple of our land,
from your colon to your hand,
food of winners.

in america,
what's for dinner, is what was for dinner.

it has magical effect,
to consume what you reject,
as when we self-debate,
our own opinions highly rate,
and when serenading one's own ears,
it's easier to fashion tears,
here's a peace for sinners.

in america
what's for dinner, is what's your dinner.

in prison camps of the mind,
it gets cold but you will find
that your ass serves as more than just a cook-pot.
Filled with your head it gets quite hot
and comfy, and then there's this, of course,
you save energy eating directly from the source,
yet you're still thinner.

in america,
what's for dinner is what's more dinner.

and when we can't produce our own,
because we're then just skin and bones,
the State will gladly give us shit,
no, we'll never starve for it.
we may have to wait in line,
but well-trained dogs rarely whine,
a whiner's not a winner,
and should die.

in america,
what's for dinner is last night's dinner.

in your jowls, the fruit of bowels,
trapped in your gut your sad soul howls,
we are creatures of the flesh and nothing more,
gobbling up what's down in store.

An empirical list of proofs for what we call "Satanism" in America (in which we do not bend to the black magic dictate to intone the unholy numbers).

1. the numerology of Non-11, the date. historic echoes, augury, interstice repetition in subsequent attacks.

2. addition-based numerology of Non-11 attack plane serial numbers, flights 11-14.

3. talismanic/magical federal reserve notes depicting masonic ritual of Non-11. Aspects of the origins and basic iconography of the American national seal.

4. architectural layout of nation's capital.

5. basic occult nature of twin towers, and pentagon, and washington monument, and the Millenium Hilton as it stands sentinel over the mass sacrifice, and now still, over the Pit.

6. Jack Parsons/OTO/scientology/Kabbalah/Manson and Henry Lee Lucas/the State.

7. Kubrick and his death

8. The entirety of the pop music industry and its inimical effects on the soul of humanity and its children, especially.

9. the Bush hegemon/clan/brood of devil-worshippers

10. Skull and Bones.

11. The Bohemian Club and their Bohemian Grove.

12. The Franklin Cover-up.

13. aspects of american "serial murder" phenomenon suggestive of programmatic state control. See reason number 6.

14. another reason, so that we do not conclude with the number thirteen. Perhaps the importance of the number 13 in the rabidly secular history of the United States. Or perhaps the fact of the ultimate breaking of the story of the diabolical Catholic Church's pederasty doctrines, here in America. Or perhaps the numerologies of Waco or OKC bombing, or the blatant State evil of the happenings in Jonestown, Guyana. Or maybe Albert Pike and his reverend statue and tomb in D.C. Possibly even the bizarre occultic dualism of Non-11/May-Day!-bin-laden-"death," (which imaginary killing is in a sense a rebirth, a favored concept or ritual in esoteric traditions) and Obama killing Osama, whose name was for a long time, perhaps unimportantly, spelled with a "U."

(postscript: in a fascinating twist of synchronicity, i kind of randomly chose the cartoon image at top. After posting this, i realized that there may be symbolism in the fact of the devil standing in clouds and surrounded by light rays. Lucifer is the so-called "Light Bringer," and in certain murky terms is a revered godhead of the Freemasons, and this is undisputed, if little known, and murky. And it's that less than comfortable gray-area i referred to when saying "what we call Satanism." Kind of totally strange, this coincidence.)

(amusing and lewd post-post-script: the devil in the above image also seems to be led by an occluded and energetic phallus. Oh man, the symbolism of that on two different levels. One, the occluded nature of this symbol---think metaphorically---and two, the symbols' obvious relation to ancient religious systems and their preoccupations with the regenerative organs, an obsession still positively alive and well in America. And to completely certify that the cartoonist was familiar with occult symbology, the comic Lucifer is giving the Horus/Lady Gaga ocular salute.)

Death to the murdering dead.

On the day we killed
bin Laden,
I stubbed my little toe,
a bank was robbed in India,
and a pimp beat down his ho.

Now despite not having photos
to prove my tumid toes,
or evidence that swollen banks
should not be looted,
I'm taught that pimps will beat their ho's
and superheroes defeat their foes,
and democracy's soldiers will be recruited.

On the day we killed Osama,
Obama got a rash,
for he had to hash some soaring speech
from trumpery and trash.

There was to be no body
as proof the devil was cut down,
but Allahdamn if the Potus
didn't make me proud,
so manly was his frown.

Now we'll exult in his ocean of blood,
and roll like jackals in his phantom corpse,
the tide has turned for the forces of Good,
and de free world now got Herpes,
I mean Hopes.