Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Dogs disguised as men

Five times today you have prayed towards Hollywood, worshipping the botox masks of unconcerned idols as they watch your cheeks sink with hunger.  You are beyond physical starvation; you are deprived in every way having sold your youth and your soul for tiny wages and a television set that sometimes you call a window, but more often, a mirror.  And you pray to the west while they rob you blind from the east.  Who?  You wonder, looking around you at other nations and other races of men when, in fact, your enemy is all nations and all races of man.  If you could see beyond the mirror you would see that you too are the enemy of man, thumbing through a catalogue, picking the specific Jesus that you’ll encounter and crucify.  Of course Jesus will not be called Jesus, but have some name like Boxcar Willy or Hobo Joe, and you will throw an empty bag of potato chips at him like a stone tossed at a criminal.  That night you’ll kiss your crucifix and the cruelty it represents.  For it is that even when you are half-dead, through lips cracked and dry by the deprivation of water you will expend the last of your energy to utter coarse words and vulgarities towards your scattered siblings while invisible despots of every valuable resource forge even sturdier shackles, and you will wear these shackles willingly, decoratively.  They will be neckties and they will choke you like dog-collars.  Those who have no necktie will have filth-matted hair and the psychotic look of one who has suffered the burdensome and unsanitary life of a stray.  Some will live their lives in a pit gnashing their teeth at the wounded and pathetic thing in front of them that could easily be their reflection.  Meanwhile the shouting, jeering, drunken faces of you or your masters that surround their little circle of Hell go on unnoticed, laughing at their degradation.  You will call this living.  This will be life.

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