Tag: freedom of Speech

A New Page from the Book of Pat, verse 12:08:25

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I say everything I’ve done, it’s all make believe. Pure work of fiction. Just nonsense I babble on about.
That’s because if I forget to say it ain’t so then some ass will come along and see the reality in what’s what… then I’ll get screwed again. Just like before.

I’ve been here many times. Sat in this very same mildew stained chair. Watched the cobwebs drift down to blow eroticly about with dust bunnies upon the floor. Fixated I am. I get off transfixed at the slow movement of my own decay.
Death doesn’t come easy for the insane.

Today’s extraordinarily special for me. Lucefer and the other angels have come by for a birthday party. Sadly I am the cake.
Long sensuous fingers peel back the flesh from about my eyes. Careful to avoid the layered muscles and most of the nerve clusters. Of course temptation being one of his weaknesses the devil makes sure to pluck a few strings. My mouth quivers in the ecstasy of the moment. Here the party trick of a forced smile isn’t lost upon the revelers. Skin stretches back bringing with it hair. And just like that the wrapping paper is undone.

I don’t scream though. Only the living scream, and everyone knows I have been dead for awhile. I’ve been dead for a very long while.
If it wasn’t for the guilt I believe I’d have quit playing this game of pretend sometime ago.

I ramble… I can’t help it. It came with the dieing. Someday you’ll understand what it’s like when random braincells flash their last gasping breath of memory, and somehow you’re supposed to put shit into some kind of rational order just to be understood. A few expletives would fit here. Feel free to choose your own. I won’t mind. I may learn a new word.

Let’s go back to the party.

Like a birthday cake nimble fingers make quick work of the frosting and beautifully rose shaped flowers. The sweet red cherry jubilee pulses in the open air. Its translucent strawberry gelatin shudders orgasmic from all the festive excitement of the party goers. I take a deep thought and point out to myself that even now at the end I never was much at being the life of the party.

A seething crock pot steams over rattling it’s lid. The noise of the gurgling almost too distracting to think. Pressure builds up from all those lame ass things I should have, could have, but didn’t. No regrets…
A white hot froth simmers up to a boil. Things buried tumble up from beneath. The vapor expelled casts a ghostly shade above it all.

The scene changes. Bloody hands claw out tearing loose the worm eaten cloth about me. A revenant fresh from the rapture, emotions clash with the truth. All will see things at the same instance in time.

I know the purpose of this calling. My seeing and dreaming of things in repetitive fashion. You wouldn’t understand. At least if you’re favored you won’t. So don’t be a nameless Lot’s wife and take an errant look back. What you would see following close behind is a horror that’s been promised since the beginning.

And I know you’re not ready to know what I mean.

Broken Mirrors

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There are things you’re not supposed to say

Emotions that you’re expected to suppress and hide

There are moments you are supposed to not make eye contact and if by chance you accidentally do 

You pretend you didn’t and quickly turn away

Change the subject

Quit reading because that shit bothers you

And if you don’t

If you have the courage to get all sucked into that drama

You somehow manage to pull someone back from off that ledge

Hell…

I reckon that makes you a hero

The world needs more of you.

Another Page from the Book of Pat 04/16/24

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It’s the Bureaucrats, the unelected rule makers that secretly and publicly siphon off your life through penalties and taxes.  Like maggots feasting upon your bloated corpse they destroy the healthy flesh just to recreate reality for themselves.

The politicians are just failed individual meat puppets for that machine. The living Ken and Barbie targets for the sheep to worship and hate. Destroy them if you must just never look beyond them into the dark.

It’s when you look beyond that you can see the evil as it truly is. Do you not feel the revulsive gag reflex swelling up and overflowing, as the ooze covered rot seeks to overcome your last defenses of sanity.

Accept the truth. This is the parasite that has eaten into your Constitution and remade sections slowly over time to suit their purpose. It’s time to carve away the blight and cauterize the wound. If you don’t the infection will never heal.

I remember the days before

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I remember the days before pouring through the breach from Saudi Arabia into Iraq.
Months sitting idle standing guard, repairing equipment, training over the same lessons.

The season changed but the looming doubt and fear never did. Each day built upon itself like the ever growing dunes that piled up at the tent flaps.

On occasion some other units would become fully activated and ready. The dynamics of our purpose would change. Tents would be pulled down, moved a few hundred miles, then once again assembled. Each time the burm would not be built up so high or as wide. Each trench dug a little shallower and shorter.

We knew. Soon those protections against the world would only be a hindrance in the final day before the breach.

Live or die, most were ready for what outcome there was to be.
You see, those enlightened few had already experienced death, that blissful adrenaline rush over the edge of reality, and now only moved by muscle memory. We knew what we were to do.

Kill and die, live or die, stand up, move again, rinse, repeat. Everyday was the same day. The only difference was the sand and dirt that piled up at the door.

Soon it will be time for those that don’t know to shake back your own tent flaps. Step out into the reality of an endless day, and fight a war you did not prepare for. Those people will believe in Hell that day…

And us devils who know will be there to show you the way.

April Showers

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In rubber galoshes the sucking sounds of wet feet trudge effortlessly from puddle to puddle. Joyful laughter bubbles out from young smiling faces. In the light of their twinkling eyes arcane magic flows. A pagan ritual of childish happiness that warms the soul.

What wondrous anarchy that strikes down the burdens of Victorian etiquette.

It’s good to splash mud onto those who think themselves mightier than He who makes the clouds to rain.

Insurrection

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War wounds open up again. Flag draped coffins carried out as gently as a baker’s dozen for display.
Strong shoulders bend beneath the reality of their death.
Impudent, impotent old crow in a hurry to pick clean the bones of other kills ruffles his feathers and stares at the sun checking the time.
I would hurl a stone at his head in the hope to do harm but the gore crow smells a meal and wouldn’t let go no matter.
People seem to take pride of their choice. They praise the theft of life as the murder flocks to the feast.
I say string each croaking feather from tall white pillars and let wind and gravity bear witness to the crime.

Old Joe and a Heavy Crown of Thorns

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Just a few more days. If I can hold out for just a few more days then the minutes carrying me up to that moment will be forgotten.
I keep telling myself that. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.
I’ve been here before, sat in this very same chair. I’ve watched and witnessed an eternity of failed attempt’s pass by.
Nothing ever changes. Not even the name.

The Traveller sat dumbfounded. How was it he had managed to become lost in such a familiar world. The directions and landmarks had been worn like an old cow trail into his brain. Yet for some reason he had managed to make a misstep. The Traveller had become lost.
Standing in one place and waiting for a rescue was not an option. Panic wasn’t an option either but it was going to be.

“What the fuck…”

Pat sat disinterested in the menu before him. The choices were many but the flavors they offered bland. The same old thing with the the same old spices.
Pat was sick of the choices. Pat was ready to go somewhere new even if new was some greasy meal wagon in the slum side of town.

“Change would be worth a case of the shit’s’.

The Sage sat tensely in his seat. His body rigid, head bowed, forehead covered in sweat. On occasion the old scholar would let out a low groan, then catching himself making the noise, he would shift uneasily in his seat and clench his hands in pain.
Before him sat a book opened to a grotesque drawing of the large intestine. A bookmark dutifully protecting his place.

From one of the dark and disembodied corners of the room a familiar voice was muttering.

“You get what you pay for. Change sucks dick.”

A Soapbox Jury

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Long before I was born
Man decided what was wrong and what was right
And yet they left in question their reasoning why
So came lesser men writing words they called law
Still they could not explain
The simply stated punishment for those things their words did not like
Things like love and freedom their words could not comprehend
But still they tried to cage them in
And still greater men try to fix what they began
Adding lines to words with no end
Calling it ethics or calling them morals
As long as they themselves did not need to heed the very words we were forced to read
So to you I have added this chore
I have in good concourse added more
Will you understand or will this too become banned

Freedom of Speech
Protect it!