[Split]

The Last Father (vs. Veritas)
04/07/2013


RELIGION 2.0


Patrick, 000.001.001
Father Patrick attacks the blackened pews, Windex and paper thin sheets.
Encrypted in vagrancy, its rows home to those who aimlessly plead,
The simplex decaying city sleeps in droves, arise as corrugated chambers grew cold.
It's seven oh-five on Sunday, 3405 AD, twenty-nine hold service for eight running weeks.
Cursing the meek, inherit the Earth that bleeds ashes and dust.
Stained glass above, adjective: rust. Anno domini blues, captive of trust,
Seems only recent news that God gave a fuck. Plotted off course.
Consumate corpses, toxin'd, constantly drugged lords frolick above-
With laser pistols drawn they'd stolen every end and odd for a buck-
Made off with crystalline goblets, copped for bankers, jesus pieces for gangsters,
Murals and crucifixes appended to resemble President Bernake XII (wanker).
Indigenous strays reclaimed immigrant papers, diamond spangled banners,
Gold White and Silver draped over missives, silent constituent drainers-
the Bibles ripped by ambivalent teenagers, violent and faceless with anger.
Every vial of wine, wheat little crackers. Got Love, Law and Militant Mavens,
As price signs shimmer in their eyes, our gold ***hes definitively raided,
The Pope cashed his check, Rose of the West vanished like a thorn in Italy's lands,
But effects of pedantic prose and holiest tomes expands, torn by our fiddling hands,
The imminent revitalists rose with a clap- cried stimulant manufacture-

For the price of a million pounds- or tithe of sermons and interpretive rapture,
A SimuLink cursive of your psyche mapped, and memories relayed to the Master.
So when- with dwindling cries, heavily forced breath resembles an endeavor-
The Lords Men will arrive by Four Mezzers, make for a Minister Center...
And when you awake. Find proportionate measure of devotion recreated,
ogent sensory pleasures adjacent. Heaven noblely exposed in rays of essence indefinite,
Run-on words expand on mental TVs, hopelessly indentured and separate,
Treasure stationed by cerebral extensions of rope, silver-spun band of Endless,
Sewed to every digital cloud in the cyclically wound Silvre(R)-Diskette SimMetric,
Life-everafter affixed. Equivocal septims. Drivel, grim and yet depthless.
Embezzled in excess, riddled consensus whispers a reference
I brittly interject- "but what Words have we sentenced..?"

Just a pivotal rebuttal to visceral soliloquy.
For God and I are one. Residuals of a pedigree.
What need is God when you never must meet?

When the first of my brothers blanched, embraced in Confessions,
My shaking hands blessed my own soul with hope's wafer-thin vestige.
The bourgeoise's incessant advance, je ne cour pas is the stance and the song.
Records have been drawn... forced awe at our hands, corpus christi vineal flaw,
These raw numbers don't lie, even in loss of their prometheal Gods.
His people run abroad. No false idols, appears to be no idols at all,
The technological holocaust that caused society's zealots to fall.
Holographical norms expelled beyond limits conceived previously,
When the grimace recedes, we'll see we all but encompassed Ecclesiastes.
Knowledge streamed, bludgeons faucets to maws. Living extinct paradoxically,
Scholars, doctors, children interrupting Gods, it's all but modern ecology.
With these withered digits scheming up loads of honest apologies,
It appears that upon finish, believe I'll only owe one


To theology,

Some say there's no soul, no afterlife, that life and death is the straightest line on the compass, and nothing more. I say believe what you want, because no matter what you do, cut everything up, burn it all down, you're in the path of something beyond your control.

Signed,

The Last Father


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I woke up alone, and infiniteless.
Exposed to my open omnipotence.