It isn't a question
of kill
or be killed

The world is a death bed

Choose your hill

Will you play on the platform
of the subway
of rage,

The tunnel of hatred?

The erotic cage?

Will you die on the hill
of Mohammedan
pride?

Burning in hell

For the privilege of harassing
underage girls;
will you

Hide
behind death-cops,
elitist

Sodomite vampires

Who hold you in such high regard,
that they offer to use
you like a tool
to destroy their own people,
and,
as though making an effort
to prove your own
fun
da
mental mediocrity,
you allow yourself to be handled
like a cheap plastic spoon
tasked with
digging the grave
of The One Who can
save you
in exchange for a meal
and a measly
hotel room?

Or, perhaps you revel
in the miserable
jubilance

Of the sexual mutilants,

Blowing their brains
like angery
kisses,
or bubbles

All over the wall,

Falling in puddles;

The high cost of cuddles

Is a lifetime of optional

Medical troubles,

And the SSRIs
and anti-repentants
prescribed from on
high
like a criminal
sentence

Prevent you from
feeling
love,
or remorse,
until your only
recourse
is to die on the hill
of Spirit Dysphoria,
and drag as many
prepubescent
infidels into
the afterlife
with you,
even if

They go to Heaven,

While you go to
hell

Against God's holy
will

So, if the world is a morgue,
an idyllic dystopia
of beautiful
traps,

And we must choose a hill
upon which to
collapse,

Let us choose
Jesus,

So that we can be seen
as the Son of Man
sees us



8.29.25