A megadose of mass payment failures

Created: Thursday, 09 April 2009 Written by *CAPTAIN_AUSTRALIA*
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A surge of economic oppression is absorbed by the
paralysis of spiritual leprosy and death.


The prophet returned, a bent grotesque thing whose
insane cousin Judas crucified his love doll for
the principles of spiritual capitulation. I love
him whose soul is so deranged that it looks
astonishingly like it contains suspicious heresies
and deviations.

The puppet people had discovered the door of
opportunity, and they pondered what horrors may be
hiding inside that temple of recycled despair. A
portal to Hell. A remote and desolate place for
the disembodied soul after its journey into ruin.

The third floor of my mind was storage for sick
and depraved nightmares. In our dreams, the Dark
Lord decides he can inherit the ruins of human
abnormality. He would know how to sow the seed of
nihilism from what remains of the sunset of my
sanity. I was the tough-minded social scientist at
the epigram of many venomous salvations.

I knew deep down among the iron chains and
padlocks of market discipline that God is
applying spiritual enemas to the unrelieved
blackness of our capitulation. It was a luxury
sadly denied me. Despite years of spiritual
necrophilia I was sent into total madness. Whoever
studies himself arrests his mournful longings, but
the veneer of our afflictions is soiled by inner
abomination. Ignorance is the terminal stage of
technological rationality.

Stick with this story and limp along with the
tormented philosophy of the Great Australian
Dream. Get swept away by programs and policies
consistent with Lord Satan's best ideas. And when
night comes, enter the twilight of the damned, and
quietly slide downwards into the shadowland of
awful dreams.

There are reasons to believe that ritual
hallucinogenic enemas have failed pitifully to
advance virtual reality. So we come now to the
cruel realization that unobtainable prizes
tumbling into the cracks and crannies of
respectable fraud are vapourized immediately.

My favourite thing about the illusion of progress,
is the unspeakable cruelty that comes with this
mass of emptiness. The poisoned spring of national
vainglory always flies the red flag of agony.

Because the loud irregular beatings of my stomach
contents caused feelings of despair and utter
helplessness, I came upon the shortage of
innocence and honour in these bleak scenarios.

Poisoned by the the wearying drag of civilization,
no culture can survive contact with a death-fetish
made from false economic theories and a fictitious
external world of family values.