depressing shit

Encased into the stone of history I am as an immortal pig amongst men: immortal, yes, but what pork does not rot sour in infinity?

I am unreliable in the outcome of my attempts of chastising myself. My mind and my flesh and my thoughts are all melted together into a new substance foreign even to myself, and I can not recognize it as human. I command my evil thoughts to cease but they simply do not. I doubt and I wail. I hold no mastery over the self. I try to abdicate my crown and spire, but my throne has no pretenders. My cape and robe and my purple shirt are all coal in the fire of my homestead. I evoke malignant psychic material. Memorial cadavers, remnants of some trauma. The feeling of giving up on future itself. A length of days I shall not acquire, and fortitude of spirit remains but an ideal in my heart. Nerve, guts, gallantry – ghastly spectres haunting my house! The gaze of a hero I have…but on my back, burning, as I turn away from challenges! By way of sins and spoiled chances, I shall be led to an abyss of fire, and I shall be contained therein until but coal and shame remain there down! I have met and I spoke with the harpies of the night! They are nasty creatures. Together we wandered aloof through the whistling vapors of hell. We were harassed by the madness of  hungers – religious hunger; amorous hunger; emotional hunger and all the rest of them. We drank from the sullage of heaven and leapt then forthwith into hellmouths. I am shit, I am flesh, I am mud. Dirt, rubble, ruin. A naked fetus I am – in front of the Lord but none else. I am fallen and destitute and to my own ruin I am doomed. My skin boils and my heart, a weird and gloomy thing: a fortress as useless keeping things in as it is keeping things out, it has become. Its moat is shallow and a sewer. Its gates are crumbling and dusting. Its stonework is rickety and unstable and the peasantry all around it is stricken with drought, poisonous wells and the devilish hunger for food. Things here need work and things here need care: with the exception of honey and art, left to its own devices, everything goes from okay to bad to worse. And this is a rule which applies to the existentialism of man also.

Mammon and Belial in me I cannot seem to evict. In sudden rages of confusion, I try to unroot from matter as to float like some fairy in the aether. I try desperately to forget my body but my body refuses to forget me back. To enter the storm one person and to walk out another, I try.  And I cry, I shiver, I moan! Shemihazah... I am you. I am possessed by the spirit of you – but possess I like you the resolve to forswear heaven? Indeed, I am naked and I throb like Shemihazah – but then, do we not all in front of the Lord