Babble

Bleach

The stoned hours when we stone our demons.
Momentary respite for the living, who live to make a living.
‘The mind is its own place.’
A man, the countenance of Moses, no shoes, staring at a burning bush.
Burn enough, you might be able to see your deities, the ones you hope to see while on bent knees, to no avail.
All this, while your pastors drive off in their Bentley’s…
Borne of your travails.
May the enlightened burn enough frankincense to smoke out your propaganda…
Blasphemous.
May the edified make sense of your scriptures, literal or anagogical…encroaching on the paradoxical.
Sophistries or righteous philosophies? Fallacies.
Pondering all this, while partaking of my morning coffee.
Your inculcated need to be saved was, is and will be your undoing…
All this, while doing the purported lord’s bidding.
Bringing temples to ruin.
They babble on about the babylon…
I wonder if they’ll ever see it?
They babble on about the babylon…
I wonder if the angels will let them through.
Let me ponder on and babble on…
While partaking of my morning tea.
Let me be.

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