Fuck you and your god. I am tired of all your pious whining, bowing before the altar of self. What will yo do when the lights go out? When the toilet does not flush? When all you have to wipe your ass with is a dirty cloth? Where will your world be then? I see a world where the corpses rot in their metal coffins at five miles per hour in heavy traffic. On a planet where there are six billion people, you are yet still alone, waiting for that first touch of human contact. Do you feel safe? We will bring down the towers that rise to the sky like wicked skeletons with metal streamers buzzing and humming like angry hornets. We will pierce the strong solitude of the bulwarks, letting life flow again to and from the sea. We will pull down the spires that are but decaying cathedrals to a religion of nihilism and exploitation. Our logo is everyman's face, our totem the sky. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year, decade by decade, century by century, millennium by millennium, aeon by aeon, we will pick and peck and tear and topple, fight and flog, beat and break your world, until there is nothing left for you to do but live your life. We bring not the saccharine support of certainty that drains the vitality away more surely than any leech, but the chaos and change that prunes the weak, and fortifies the strong. While you fret, we work. Like a fungus, the spores of decay blow everywhere on the wind. We will remove the air. And the water. And then desiccate them like the dreams they suck away, only to return as a melancholy grimace. When the wind returns, it will be bourne upon pillows of fire. The ocean will return, and the cradle rebuilt, lent to another for another new life to be gently rocked to sleep from the pain of being born. Every minute you sit there in your chair gives us more time to do our work. Your schools will be emptied, the contents upended in the streets and interred into the gutters. Your mother, your father, your brother, your sister, your son, your daughter, your aunt, your uncle, your sperm and ovum cast about like the soil it will become. Better the sharp shaft of steel than the soft cradle of decay. Like a thousand meteors, the titanium and gold will rain from the sky, heralding the end for most, a new beginning for others. Ripped up, pulled out, strung taught across sinuous ribbons of endless pebbles some will seek to rebuild. Others will seek to be reborn. What faith do you have? Is it the inward faith? The outward faith of certain conviction? Or the proselytizing one, that electrifies and asks for more, like a junkie for another hit? Can the vessels be filled to overflowing when there are no pitchers? Is a stone full of faith? Let it rain stones from the sky upon your house. Could you rebuild? Would you want to? Do you know how to? How much honest work have you done in your life? The dishonesties you have uttered, the bile you have cast, the anger you have bred; where will you let it go? Will you seek refuge with others when it is loose? Or will you seek it alone? Fuck you and your god, for we have no need of it, nor of you. Every forkful you shove into your maw comes out as shit in the end. We will climb upon your tables, your last suppers, your reunions and defecate with staccato bursts that rain upon the dishes you let the dogs lick clean when you are done. We have already been in your house, and rummaged through your closets, your drawers, your desks, your files, your pantries, your icebox, your virginity. Taken away, never to return, it is ours to keep beyond our deaths. And yours. Your consecrated graves will become little more than fields of joy for frolicking upon. The grand ball will be held at midnight that day, starlight twinkling down from above, beckoning us, taunting us to forsake our provincialism and join them. How long will you stay? Until it is too late to go? The heavens will drop again, and again, and again, like a bad joke orbiting just beyond your ability to understand or appreciate. If you have the guts to climb aboard, we promise nothing but not knowing the destination or the outcome. A slow tedium awaits in either locale; would not you rather die in your boots than in the plastic embrace of pumps and buzzers? The final indignity of faux concern while the boat payment is due, the wife is nagging, the idiot child's laugh to confront you each night through the prism of the bottom of the bottle. That horse will not jump. Splayed open, the celestial dance goes on for a while. It will not wait for you. Make your decision. Now. Every moment is the same, frictionless in their passage through you. The arc of your movement is like a comet trail, pointing away from that which boils you. Bouncing from one well to another, sometimes being captured until being flung away like Apollo upon a pillar of fire. And still you sit, and wait. We are working. The wells are being poisoned, the blades are being sharpened, the guns are being oiled. When we strike, there will be no time to prepare. Like a tsunami, we will pass below you, unseen, unfelt until crashing upon your rock. To scour all away in order to be able to start anew. We do not trust you to do the right thing. Either you are with with us or against us. Indecision will not be tolerated. Like a free being, make your choice, and then get on with it! Get out of your chair. And go find your life. It is not here. We would not show it to you even if we had it. Get out of your chair. Turn out the lights. Pull it all down like an overloaded shelf. Set it all aflame and dance. Dance, dance, dance the dance of joy. Dance as long as you can, for you have work to do in the morn. There is no easy way, no hard way, there is just the way. Get with the way or get out of the way. Find your tools, and prune the deadwood. Hammers, saws, drills, pliers, levels, mallets. Pound, cut, bore, grip, measure, whack. Change the world. Before it kills you. Fuck you and your god, graven images or not. Tablets, partings, slayings, pillars, pilgrimages, sinners and saints, we do not need them. Beaten about by fists of air, flattened by the roar, we surge forward against you, and tear you apart, fighting over the entrails, the marrow in your bones, the orifices to violate. We will feed you to our animals, and smite your temples, brick by brick, board by board, stone by stone. Your bibles, your korans, your talmuds, your graven tablets, your scriptures, your scrolls are of no need in a world that is god. Throw away your crutches and walk, walk as a free man. Think as a free man. Life as a free man. Or we will enslave you, use you by pulling on your strings, tugging on your tender spots, dragging you by your dogma. We have been dodging your piety, your hypocrisy, your inflamed sense of righteousness for years. Now it is our turn. And we have no mercy. For the rotting log has no need of mercy. Get out of your chair and go live your life. Before we come there and haul you up, like a blind fish from the depth, distended and flopping on the deck. It gets stranger every day. If it did not, something would be terribly, terribly wrong. Consigned to loop about, over and over, to never find your self. Get out of your chair, and move about. Move along, move along. Get out of your chair, and go change the world. Leave your god behind, and go do it yourself.
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="verdana">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by theonlylivingboy: I'll make one in = Count me in or sign me up etc etc. Keep studying, one day you'll learn English <HR></BLOCKQUOTE> whut?
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="verdana">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by theonlylivingboy: I'll make one in = Count me in or sign me up etc etc. Keep studying, one day you'll learn English <HR></BLOCKQUOTE> well fuck me, i'm english mate and i still needed an interpreter before i could understand your post.... anyway ya fucking lamb-raping dingle fucksmudge... regional slang terms hardly count as fucking english
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="verdana">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by theonlylivingboy: Violating orifices sounds good to me ! I'll make one in! <HR></BLOCKQUOTE> eh?
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="verdana">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by ~pimpchichi~: Fuck you and your god. I am tired of all your pious whining, bowing before the altar of self. What will yo do when the lights go out? When the toilet does not flush? When all you have to wipe your ass with is a dirty cloth? Where will your world be then? I see a world where the corpses rot in their metal coffins at five miles per hour in heavy traffic. On a planet where there are six billion people, you are yet still alone, waiting for that first touch of human contact. Do you feel safe? We will bring down the towers that rise to the sky like wicked skeletons with metal streamers buzzing and humming like angry hornets. We will pierce the strong solitude of the bulwarks, letting life flow again to and from the sea. We will pull down the spires that are but decaying cathedrals to a religion of nihilism and exploitation. Our logo is everyman's face, our totem the sky. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year, decade by decade, century by century, millennium by millennium, aeon by aeon, we will pick and peck and tear and topple, fight and flog, beat and break your world, until there is nothing left for you to do but live your life. We bring not the saccharine support of certainty that drains the vitality away more surely than any leech, but the chaos and change that prunes the weak, and fortifies the strong. While you fret, we work. Like a fungus, the spores of decay blow everywhere on the wind. We will remove the air. And the water. And then desiccate them like the dreams they suck away, only to return as a melancholy grimace. When the wind returns, it will be bourne upon pillows of fire. The ocean will return, and the cradle rebuilt, lent to another for another new life to be gently rocked to sleep from the pain of being born. Every minute you sit there in your chair gives us more time to do our work. Your schools will be emptied, the contents upended in the streets and interred into the gutters. Your mother, your father, your brother, your sister, your son, your daughter, your aunt, your uncle, your sperm and ovum cast about like the soil it will become. Better the sharp shaft of steel than the soft cradle of decay. Like a thousand meteors, the titanium and gold will rain from the sky, heralding the end for most, a new beginning for others. Ripped up, pulled out, strung taught across sinuous ribbons of endless pebbles some will seek to rebuild. Others will seek to be reborn. What faith do you have? Is it the inward faith? The outward faith of certain conviction? Or the proselytizing one, that electrifies and asks for more, like a junkie for another hit? Can the vessels be filled to overflowing when there are no pitchers? Is a stone full of faith? Let it rain stones from the sky upon your house. Could you rebuild? Would you want to? Do you know how to? How much honest work have you done in your life? The dishonesties you have uttered, the bile you have cast, the anger you have bred; where will you let it go? Will you seek refuge with others when it is loose? Or will you seek it alone? Fuck you and your god, for we have no need of it, nor of you. Every forkful you shove into your maw comes out as shit in the end. We will climb upon your tables, your last suppers, your reunions and defecate with staccato bursts that rain upon the dishes you let the dogs lick clean when you are done. We have already been in your house, and rummaged through your closets, your drawers, your desks, your files, your pantries, your icebox, your virginity. Taken away, never to return, it is ours to keep beyond our deaths. And yours. Your consecrated graves will become little more than fields of joy for frolicking upon. The grand ball will be held at midnight that day, starlight twinkling down from above, beckoning us, taunting us to forsake our provincialism and join them. How long will you stay? Until it is too late to go? The heavens will drop again, and again, and again, like a bad joke orbiting just beyond your ability to understand or appreciate. If you have the guts to climb aboard, we promise nothing but not knowing the destination or the outcome. A slow tedium awaits in either locale; would not you rather die in your boots than in the plastic embrace of pumps and buzzers? The final indignity of faux concern while the boat payment is due, the wife is nagging, the idiot child's laugh to confront you each night through the prism of the bottom of the bottle. That horse will not jump. Splayed open, the celestial dance goes on for a while. It will not wait for you. Make your decision. Now. Every moment is the same, frictionless in their passage through you. The arc of your movement is like a comet trail, pointing away from that which boils you. Bouncing from one well to another, sometimes being captured until being flung away like Apollo upon a pillar of fire. And still you sit, and wait. We are working. The wells are being poisoned, the blades are being sharpened, the guns are being oiled. When we strike, there will be no time to prepare. Like a tsunami, we will pass below you, unseen, unfelt until crashing upon your rock. To scour all away in order to be able to start anew. We do not trust you to do the right thing. Either you are with with us or against us. Indecision will not be tolerated. Like a free being, make your choice, and then get on with it! Get out of your chair. And go find your life. It is not here. We would not show it to you even if we had it. Get out of your chair. Turn out the lights. Pull it all down like an overloaded shelf. Set it all aflame and dance. Dance, dance, dance the dance of joy. Dance as long as you can, for you have work to do in the morn. There is no easy way, no hard way, there is just the way. Get with the way or get out of the way. Find your tools, and prune the deadwood. Hammers, saws, drills, pliers, levels, mallets. Pound, cut, bore, grip, measure, whack. Change the world. Before it kills you. Fuck you and your god, graven images or not. Tablets, partings, slayings, pillars, pilgrimages, sinners and saints, we do not need them. Beaten about by fists of air, flattened by the roar, we surge forward against you, and tear you apart, fighting over the entrails, the marrow in your bones, the orifices to violate. We will feed you to our animals, and smite your temples, brick by brick, board by board, stone by stone. Your bibles, your korans, your talmuds, your graven tablets, your scriptures, your scrolls are of no need in a world that is god. Throw away your crutches and walk, walk as a free man. Think as a free man. Life as a free man. Or we will enslave you, use you by pulling on your strings, tugging on your tender spots, dragging you by your dogma. We have been dodging your piety, your hypocrisy, your inflamed sense of righteousness for years. Now it is our turn. And we have no mercy. For the rotting log has no need of mercy. Get out of your chair and go live your life. Before we come there and haul you up, like a blind fish from the depth, distended and flopping on the deck. It gets stranger every day. If it did not, something would be terribly, terribly wrong. Consigned to loop about, over and over, to never find your self. Get out of your chair, and move about. Move along, move along. Get out of your chair, and go change the world. Leave your god behind, and go do it yourself.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE> Is that Anal Cunt? Shit! I mean, I agree with you "Pimp" the seas shall turn to blood and all the birds shall die. Didn't you say that?Aww wait,my dark master has instructed me to say that I'm fucked up on alchohol and I shall say it now:I am drunk gosh dangit!!!I shall meet with you later and spill the blood of the innocents....
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="verdana">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by ~pimpchichi~: well fuck me, i'm english mate and i still needed an interpreter before i could understand your post.... anyway ya fucking lamb-raping dingle fucksmudge... regional slang terms hardly count as fucking english<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>A bit less of the "mate" shit for brains
