It's a
calculated fuck you.
You and your
filth, in this
place. A
taint. A
mote in God's eye. A bloody
slash on the white plain of creation.
Why? You just had to
smear yourself all over something beautiful. A
maggot eats because thats its only
instinct. Dig, chew and shit. You choose to do it. Some burnt out ugly little
impulse sparked up in your degenerate head and filled you with
infernal purpose. You had to do it. A human maggot, filled with
purpose.
Before you, it was
Eden. Blank, whole and infinite. A perfection of balance, purpose and function. It hummed with the
pulse of the universe, like a hall of
monomolecular crystal. Solitude was its only
function,
defence and
reason. Then the man-ape came. The baboon plague of the Earth with his mashing paws and jet-black soul.
It must serve your purpose or die, you filthy ego-centric beast. Creation spins under your boot, smoking and churning to perform your
pathetic feats.
So, here is your
handiwork, like the swath of a wild uncaring
storm. Broken pieces and ruined vistas. Smoke and pain. A million years to make and milliseconds to shatter. You must be very
proud.
Do you
puzzle and
rut your brow thinking of your next act of pathetic
hubris? Or are you a hell-borne
savant, a genius grotesque generator, Picasso of the deadeyed set? I wish I could
fathom the depths of your
anthesis, the polar distance your soul sits from mine. It is as hopeless as staring into the
Sun. The titanic volume of your base desires are beyond any stretch or leap of my imagination, a
nightmare miracle I recoil from involuntarily.
It stains my reality a
sewer-brown. It halts all thought. Voluminous hate blossoms freeform from me, a
black miracle borne of your fistlike delicacy.
Bravo maestro.
Encore!
You make me sick, you little
tin God.