Sunday, December 14, 2008



I was pulling on the pipe the pipe the pipe when the fanged demigod lifted me up on high and I did see the dead of Iraq stacked like firewood and the furred angles dancing on the stack, cracking the brittle bones, singing, “Glory be to God on the highest,” and the veil of Heaven crack’d and breathed its rank contagion upon the earth, cleansing and purifying all it corrupted, and the furred angels dancing, cracking, did sing of the of the most blessed George as the chosen one who shall smite the Antichrist and ready the world for the coming of the redeemer who shall arrive surfing a megawave of blood, riding the pit as he sets his line through the tube on a surfboard of decayed vertebrae held together by the duct tape of the damned.


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