TWO: The Geographical Location/Construct of Hell can be Indefinitely Argued to the Nth Degree
“Nothing human is alien to me.”
If indeed “HELL is” as The French say “other people” then no true geographical location may be given; though declining property values may factor in and many could argue for the demographics which have affected their overall quality of life. Many cultures continue to proclaim that the Dead rest in Sheol, a place of immense stillness and darkness where both the righteous and unrighteous are forlorn, in eternal separation from creation itself, as Shades (Rephaim) without the strength or personality to partake in the monumental task of living, outcast of GOD, unwitting pariahs. So in essence I’ve always taken the concept of H-E-double-hockey-sticks as being placed in never-ending time-out to be forgotten by one’s own. However, it should be noted that meritorious reward and punishment based systems might work well for the Pavlovian Lot of Mongrels whom love to lick the proverbial wounds of Christ.
Nature abhors a vacuum. Look beneath any given godforsaken rock there life thrives once it is seen through a microscopic lens, the machinations of germs threateningly just beneath the surface.. Peer upwards through the amorphous clouds and past nebulous waste and know that there even in the darkest of spaces when viewed through a telescopic eye one may find the ghost of dying cultures, the vestiges of quantum civilizations just waiting to be shared amongst us sentient stardust. Love your Darkness! Live your Light!
Agios Lucifer & Hail Satan!
Djan Karet by D.R.Strickland
Shut down like a sun gone cold, I ignore you.
Locked away in my silent skull
Until life necessitates my leaving,
But for now you do not posses such a key.
I wait for the conversational catalyst
That will move me, but I am catatonic
In your presence.
In Indonesia they have a name for it:
The hour that stretches.
Nothing so ornate comes to mind
When dealing with you,
Though time does wax and wan
Out of Synchronicity when you’re around.
I exhale, clench my fist and purge myself
Of the venom of vulgarities
That has accumulated in my mind,
Like urine filling a bladder.
At least I know that today
My words have been a
Torrential piss of poor articulation, but you…
You posses but one opening on your entire body
And the essence of you is pushed forcible out
With every syllable;
Pure, adulterated, shit.
The poem that stretches.
Every moment of every hour
Of everyday your
Dialect is defecation
And I don’t have to endure it…
I will warn others.