Intolerance, Morality, Cat Piss and Onions
Every so often, love is unleashed upon the land in wondrous abundance and empathetic hearts are filled to bursting with vows of undying devotion and promises of unfailing loyalty.
Starved for this love and attention, we do tricks and lick the master’s hand.
The truth is worked and molded for us into silly prisms and used to twist lies into easily recognizable shapes.
Shadow puppets are birthed onto crumbling walls by the light of temporary dreams.
Moth light is bent in the name of love through rose colored glass and cast into dark corners where the unwashed wait for crumbs.
We are found.
Our filth is celebrated and the love givers rejoice and glorify themselves and tell us that soon we shall all be fat and happy and living in castles.
If we choose wisely, we shall be cleansed and our pockets heavy.
“Now dance for your dinner!”
They sing into our mouths and revel at the sound of their own voice.
Poisoned gruel dribbles down our chin and we blame the spoon for making us sick.
We love our brothers and sisters when our opinions spill from their mouths, but level treason on those who disagree.
We shit in our bedding then point an accusatory finger at a ghost.
We can no longer see the value of discourse and label opposing ideas as propaganda, hate speech and hypocrisy.
We’ve looked down on others for so long, we can no longer raise our eyes to the horizon.
The world spins faster, but the sewage stands still.
The tolerant have lost their tolerance and the moral have sold their decency at an everyday low price. We marinate ourselves in idiocy and are amazed at the stupidity of our fellow man.
A million lights of love shine in the distance as one, but when you get closer, you can taste the sulfur heat of animosity and division of those who are seen to be seen.
The brightest light can’t give sight to the blind.
In the distance, Pavlov rings his bell…we all go running to our masters.
We each remain the smartest person in the room. We lay at the feet of our kings and lick our genitalia with dirty dry tongues.
We fall asleep listening to the cold metallic clink of the master counting his gold.
Be careful of how many friends you sacrifice to momentary gods.