1. |
Crucified Pollyanna
06:00
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The children are watching;
Does that not frighten you?
You’ve pulled them from the
paradise of the unborn,
thrust them into the thresher,
and they look to you for guidance:
How to avoid the cuts;
How to avoid decapitation;
Seed beaten out of
stalk and husk
and left to sow the fields.
The children are watching;
Can you look them in the eye?
Can you tell them it will be alright?
That the god who left
His own progeny
to be
crucified
—a fate inscribed from birth—
will love and protect them?
Who conditioned the trial in the garden?
Did god forsake his child,
or was his inevitable death
the ultimate expression of love?
The children are watching;
Can you see their eyes?
Do you feel them on your back?
Will the glad game save you from their gaze?
Do you know if
they will sit in judgement on your hubris?
If they will ask:
How many Pollyannas did the Romans
Crucify?
How many Panglosses were murdered in
The gas chambers?
In the ditches and forests with a bullet,
Paired off one by one?
Do you think Pollyanna
would have been thankful
to be crucified without nails—
merely tied to that instrument of
sepsis and asphyxiation?
What would it mean
if she answered in the affirmative?
Would you still consider her birth
a blessing? The world,
a gift to be experienced?
The children are watching.
The children are watching you.
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2. |
Acéphale
05:53
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In the end,
he bowed with the headless—
the culmination of a fate
generations in the making.
The conspiracy was sacred,
and so too the sacrifice:
progeny doomed
by their progenitors,
a tongue clicking from behind.
At what point is a child
just a man?
Does it lessen the pain of death
if that threshold has been crossed?
Did she even realize
the nature of her wager:
that her children would outlive her
and spare her the weight of their
inevitable deaths?
And what of her mother?
Did she spare her offspring a thought
as she prepared the conditions of their destiny?
No matter her wishes,
no matter her intentions,
decapitation forced the truth upon her
and all paid the price for that
foundational sin of procreation:
engulfed in flame;
sawed through with piano wire.
In the end,
he bowed with the headless
as a husk and a puppet:
His ultimate inheritance
at the end of his line.
“Hope is my enemy. She is a succubus who descends upon sleeping humankind, whispering that there is a future. A bright future, as a matter of fact; as long as we persevere in extending our essences through our children. She is a liar, a snakeoil salesman bartering chimera for generative fluid, which she sucks out of us before casting our withered husks onto the fire. And so we fall, row upon row like seasons of corn, but not until we relinquish our seed into her exploitative hands. For in the end, we all die, and only Hope lives on.”
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The Cult of Grinning Martyrs
Pessimist Black Metal from the United States
"There is nothing to do.
There is nowhere to go.
There is nothing to be.
There is no one to know."
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