I was born alone like a bloody little midget into this wailing cauldrin of matter. And here I shall die alone too.

I feel my time running out here and I feel the weight of a thousand slugs on my soul. Cold and slimy and damp. Merry fucking Christmas.

The smell of mold invades my senses on another perfect summer afternoon at the beach. I watch the perfect little poodle bodies of youth glistening in the sparkling waves around me and I feel the sting of ultimate Disappointment.

And now it is Christmas here on this New World Ordered Ronald McDysney Prison Planet. I sit back and watch the human hive cannibalizing itself, enraged and indignant at the bitter stench of humanity’s wailing failure, and especially at my imprisonment, my own weak mortality today.

Why is one born into such unjust and unhospitable times? Why is one created to dream of poetry and music, lust and desire and love and passion while inhabiting such a world of mind-controlled mass ignorance, hipocracy and poverty, spinning around dizzily on a stinking little dustball where silk-robed lizards make the laws for men to live by in comfortable sheep-like bondage? Where a new race of men barely worthy of the title of Slaves grovels meekly before the awesome might of a thousand diseased sheep farts? Where obesce old women resembling mutant tumors more than human beings righeously hold hostage the Holy Sex of their healthy pubescent offspring, castrating the boys and wrapping the girls up like stinking little mummies in straight-jackets of shame and poisonous pseudo-religious guilt and “moralism”? What is the purpose of one’s long, sticky visit to such a savage and unfulfilling reality?

This new, improved race of man only serves, it seems, to consume like a plague of diseased roaches while breeding itself into an ignoble extinction, covering itself in waste and excriment and eating the planet in bite-size chocolate-covered chunks while greedily cannibalizing its young.

What sort of race would ondemn itself daily to prisons called jobs and crooked madhouses called schools? What kind of an insane, godless creature would agree to live beholden to the sacred industries of Fear and Death while its wise men laugh from televised cotton candy prison cells of well-informed over-educated indifference?

What sort of hellish planet is it where machines with nobler names than their creators guarantee the building blocks of a “progress” to which its race is gleefully doomed while her philosophers peddle their rambunctious drunken souls to the highest bidder under cancerous black skies of institutionalized deception?

Who deserves to live in a society where art and nature are marginalized, catalogued, controlled, bought and sold like invisible stocks and bonds, comodities and pork bellies? Where truths are shit on in secret like dark shameful crimes and where intelligence and intuition and inspiration seeking mainstream channels of communication are condemned to be hidden in the ass-cracks of gay murderous clowns like so many sordid scraps of contraband pornography?

Merry fuckin Christmas, Uncle Satan. And to all, a good night.

Photo by Richard Kern

Cutup by Eric Magnisun