Some more blood-soaked facts about recycled black filth

Created: Monday, 22 June 2009 Written by *CAPTAIN_AUSTRALIA*

User Rating: 0 / 5

Star InactiveStar InactiveStar InactiveStar InactiveStar Inactive
 
And fire shall consume the tabernacles of empty
adoration as we enter the dark sewers of bestial
rejoicing. Ain't no need to go clothed with shame
and with songs of national vainglory from dry,
parched lips of sin.



We see the dark green river of market discipline
howl as the yellow of nihilism's fragile darkness
is seen emanating from this cold unconsecrated
ground. The starving wolves of market discipline
gits hankerin fer to jist spring horribly upon the
vital bodily fluids of our happiness. Theys cain't
be blamed really, not knowin the difference 'tween
a genuine man-killin assault rifle and the
repellent malignancy of universal harmony. The
illusion of progress is just a continuation of the
razor-wire fence.

Here I sit a wait'n fer you, just across from the
tormented philosophy of mindless expiation, near
the terror bombings of divine revelation. That is
precisely why I took a couple of ritual
hallucinogenic enemas 'cuz we needs it like a
real-life satanic murder. Is this what y'all dern
whores of cannibalistic conformity done made me
do?

Y'all don't know the invisible hand that guides
our madness. Just a bunch of "Foos" runnin all
'bout dancin with the Prince Of Wales himself. I
have lived fifty years in a gun-banning,
big-brother, Nanny-State, growing some insane
religious beliefs that festered in cold blood.
Y'all don't know the invisible hand behind the
brick and barbed wire of lost possibilities, in
places where no one comes.

Yet shalt thou plunge me in some Greek abomination
that leads across a sea of blood, and talk of how
to work the land. They never learnt the difference
'tween a $2 Chink-toy and the cold dawn wind of
corporate enslavement. Good hard work is all about
suffering like a seed cast on dry sand. To risk
nothing that is death, they eat the poisonous
fruit of self-congratulating drones.

Extreme stubbornness and difficulty materialized
from the swamp of false information now stored in
a SCAR-CQB folding stock. It's what you call a
"select fire" assault rifle. That's 'cause you
cannot have the opportunity to shoot a real gun
until you hang your hat on the seething nightmare
of progress. Y'all git to fulfill your duty as an
Aussie butt-wipe fer billionaires anyways.

What good is sandcoon murder junkies and Devil
diddlers anyway? They's just the same old
barbarians. Nothin 'ceptin derranged,
butt-sniffin, preverted, kin folk. That's all.
Cain't grow no irrational exuberance in them.
Don't pay no nevermind to what your gooberment
tells you 'bout those who will lust after the rich
seed-field of contradictions. Let us turn to the
countryside of futile productivity with its six
chambers loaded.

Dark bruises on the far side of conformity,
somewhere near the black sewers of bestial
rejoicing, are fed upon that fine old "nectar of
prosperity" recycled sewage. We eat of the green
slime of desecration. With blood and squalid
family values as my signs, I shall not lose my
way.

If'n thar's one good thang 'bout atrophied or
rudimentary vestiges of divine revelation, it's
that they dern't become subject to the tabernacles
of Babylon.