by Lloyd Schwieger
Wouldn’t it be nice if there really were a God?
Then we could all say,
“Oh God. Please help me. I need a new set of corningware.”
“Hey God. Kill that motherfucker for me.”
“I’m sorry I had to stick my knife up that motherfuckers ass.”
“But can I still come to Heaven?”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I know I did it a couple times before.”
“But I said I’m fucking sorry!”
Then I could go get fucked up and do it all over again.
But there isn’t a God.
There’s just me.
If there were a God,
The good wouldn’t always get fucked,
And shit upon.
Every lying, sneaking, scumbag piece of fucking shit wouldn’t be prospering, while the hard working and honest are held under the stinking, fetid Holy Water that our lying, sneaking, piece of fucking, holier than thou, shit society has created.
I am God!
I am God and I am exactly like their imaginary Christian God.
Because there is no God.
There is just me.
And all I can do is try to hide,
In the lying, evil, prospreous society,
And try to make my way.
Being held under,
For being real.
Spreads the virus stink
Of gods cloying breath
Reverend Rape whispers in your ear
Salty tear mingled forever His
Satan friend in every candle
And brother hails
From the rivers
Bleak and stony edge Jesu
Golden shines in
Lusty sermon shames
Satanas flickering glow
You don’t hate god for being
Nothing you hate nothing
Declaring godhood for being
Unobtainable for being
Nothing unable to grasp with
Your western regard
Puking gods remorse
Filling the third toilet from the sun
Dribbling down to the poor
Hunger for more feces to dine on
Marduk slurps from his bowl
And wipes his maw
With congressional red tape
Is it not evil
To wash down his sacrificial blood
With a fevered dream
Of peace on an alter of serene vision
The clergymen whitewash
As the bureaucrats drive the green
The disease is spreading
A regression of doom for the first man
Rape is a kinder love
Than the lie of ever after
If life can be something to be thankful for
Thankful for pain and lost dreams
For understanding life only after it’s too late to use that knowledge
For old age and helplessness
Disease and war
Corruption and political enslavement
Goals never obtained
All we do will crumble to dust
The children that will carry on the lies of their fathers
Only to die as well
Everything is just a distraction until doom swallows us all
I guess you Jews have your Heaven to look forward to
And you Christians have your Jewish Heaven to hope for
You Muslims also think you get to go to Heaven
I wonder if you will be suicide bombing Heaven
Do you realize that all those exploded Jews are gonna be there waiting for you
They invented it after all
That’s the thing about fairy tales
There is always a dark under current
At least everyone else is as fucked up as me
Not to imply that I am thankful for that
It would be ok if I were the only one
Then I would probably be an Oracle or something
Or stoned to death
Then in two-thousand years people could be fighting over a bloodstained stone fragment
A piece of The True Stone
That sounds better than The Cross
Every Sunday we would all get stoned
Praise The Lloyd
He died for our bong
Then instead of fluffy clouds and pearly gates
It would be billowing fragrant puffs of smoke
In a green forest
Hand me my bong
God I’m hungry
Got any turkey
Lloyd Schwieger is a misanthropic writer, artist and musician, with homicidal tendancies and an intense God complex. Since a fatal and back again motorcycle accident in 2006, He has been fighting his way back to creative expression (life). Although the accident has claimed most of his musical abilities, he has found solace in his first love, the written and spoken word. His work has appeared in a number of print and online publications. Most recently in Darkened Horizons, and Grim Graffiti Magazine. He has several projects in the works, including his second spoken word release, "PREYING MANTITs", and seven pieces in the upcoming D.W. Green exhibition, "The Twisted Twins". A Seattle native, he now lives in a beautiful, if inbred, twilight zone between Seattle and Portland.