There isn't any rest for liars in a sarcophagus.
And out of my righteous anger, I want to hope that the stone tomb seals your body for eternity, and keeps you away from sunshine and happy rays.
And thereby forever seals you away from my rage and indignation.

Comme si rien ne s'était. Laissez ce être.

On the day that I show up, they will be completely out of their forgiveness supplies.

Post-modernism, you are an interesting mistress, to say the least.
Do you and I believe in anything, now?
Except that the sun rises and it sets, and the moon sometimes follows in its wake.
But even that is in question, because in 5 billion years a red dwarf will destroy the Earth anyways.
Besides that, we question the world.
We question God and man and the Devil in the sands.
Our philosophies are just clothes to be tried on and discarded when it becomes proven that they do not fit.
For no shoe covers all variables, no shoe completely fits.
And Man was born naked, anyways.
Post-modernism, really means, post-belief in anything.
And the absence of concrete to seal our faith.

Oui!

C'est le premier chanson d'où nous chantons avec les dinosaurs!


Vous etes bienvenue, internet.

To Heroin.

I was at a house party in Chicago.
With a friend that I had known since I had left Ohio.
We were just sitting down and a few drinks were passed around.
And people started leaving.
And the alcohol started deceiving.
The lights went out.
I opened a bedroom door.
And I saw my friend, face down on the floor.
Some poor little girl was in the corner, staring at the body.
She was shaking, she was quivering.
I checked his pulse, then I closed his eyes.
I’ll tell you this, though, I wasn’t surprised.
I had seen that look of heroin on another friend that had died.
And I turned to the toddler looking for answers.
She said,
“And the needle went in.
And the man went out.”

When I got there, I called the girls from my cell phone. It was my last time to hold that thing. This is symbolic. I called them, told them that I was getting on a boat and crossing that damn ocean, if it killed me. They told me that they trusted me, and I told them that I loved them. That nobody in the world was going to know where I was for a while, but that when I landed somewhere, that I swore to God that I would write them. And everything would be okay. They cried, I cried. A little. Then I destroyed that cursed digital thing. I smashed it with my boot, and laughed when I did it. I picked up what was left, and threw it off the pier, into God’s big water. I threw my contact with the world into God’s ocean, where it would be rendered utterly useless for communication. And I laughed again, for the first time in weeks.

C’est Pas Suffit.

It’s the dichotomy that screams, “release me, release me,” so that it can be judged.
It can be seen doing good or doing evil as it pleases, according to those primitive diseases.
And I think, “I want to be primitive; to be the basest of beasts.”
To surrender to that of the romanticists, so that Rousseau and Emile and I could have fireside chats.
So then our Heavenly Father could look me in the eyes and say, “at least you did this with passion.”
And then I will turn on that metaphoric Bunsen burner and heat up my life, and God knows I’ll never be lukewarm again.
Goodbye, then, you seven not cold but not hot churches of lore; my body is a temple, and it wants the sacrifices that it wants.
And today it wants drastic action, and so commands me, “do what I tell you.”
He commands me to be primitive.

But thinking back on how we got here, I sure as hell notice the pattern.
We merry men, we young few blessed youth, we think of life now as the search for a partner.
Then we become devastated by a woman, and in recoil think of life as the pursuit of pleasure.
Then we take that godly step back and crucify our consciences.
We burn our old ways, drive nails through the wrists and ankles of how we spent our old days.
Then we drag our lives through the ecclesiastical dictionary, screaming, “freedom from the flesh.”

But excuse me, Saint Augustine.
Sexuality is a hard-wired into our skins.
So no matter how hard we try to repress our physicality, it rends and destroys the cage bars.
It gets what it wants.
No matter how much we fight it and we hate it, we all love sex.
No matter how much little boys are disgusted by it, they all love little girls.
Men love women, and women love men.
And, I am sorry holy bishop, Song of Solomon is full of intimacy, whether you teach it in church or not.

So what than is the balance between Christ and carnal?
Should I be a celibate priest, who burns adulteresses and whores at the stake?
Should I be hungry man, who lives only for flesh, like a savage?
Which is more unholy, the overzealous religious criminal, written about by the Holy Roman imperialists?
Or the noble savage, who rapes and burns and pillages to fill his body’s demands?
How do I merge my faith and my flesh?
All of the theological debate is seemingly rendered unpractical, and so the dichotomy of good and evil wages its eternal war indefinitely.

Donc c’est pas suffit.