To the Philosopher (2)
Golem, the prose poem
Jive your way through the masses of disposable wastrels, for the kingdom of attrition, which is not your duty to attain, violates all celibate zealots who preach your stadium-crippling masochism. Humor me, for once– do not fall prey to ridicule. You will pray to us, and we will weep until you’ve had your fill. The sorry tears sunk into your blood will convolute, dilute, and ignite whatever inkling of tendency you have to refrain from stockading the earthly beings– delivering them their wants and needs perilously, shrouding them in the facetious tomes of argument that not only fail at argumentation, but restrict the formality of logic to the utmost degree of superficiality. At a breakneck speed, we will shred the tarps that form your camps, break guns skin stripped, and shatter the bones that hold your back uptight. You believe organized religions counteract solemnity– erase them before we can, or else make the expense necessary to reveal truth. This isn’t truth, this is hogwash! Do you honestly believe what you are saying is anything but lies? Veracity, tenacity– these traits elude you, and for good reason! Your sniveling gashes are delectable to our sonorous songs.