ONE: (Judgement((s)) to come)
or Original Sinners in the Hands of an Angry GOD
“To blame the fault of a creature is to praise its essential nature.” — St. Augustine
ONE: The Absurdist Notion of Being Not Only Reborn in the Afterlife but Being Held Accountable for a Previous Carnations Limitations by a Reputably Benevolent God whose Love is Conditional
In Greek Mythology, Tartarus hidden deep within the bowels of Hades itself, where the Titans were bound in a dungeon of torment and suffering, had a place in creating a Judeo-Christian version of Hell, or Tophet, which has survived for thousands of years unchallenged. Why the mere notion of an afterlife where one was held accountable (for real or imagined shortcomings) was hardly a Puritanical Christian invention, however it is remarkably alone in its intent to indoctrinate criminally underage minors and subjugate those in its servitude with the Damocles Sword of Eternal Damnation should they stray, falter, blaspheme, or stumble along their pompous way, almost assuring most would rather err on the side of caution, just in case, and take the fire insurance they offer. Here Hades is an ever lasting inferno from whence a soul was placed as punishment for the mandatory sentencing of “Original Sin” dictated it and the inherited shortcomings of the Father (which amounted to the Divine Intervention of the Creator in perpetuating the problem) with a Freewill that damned them with what was supposedly predestined. It has become a Xtian’s calling card of sorts, that repugnant attitude of “Repent or Suffer” the stark equivalency of “Convert or Die”. Gehenna was a trash heap on the outskirts of Jerusalem where refuse was often burned and became much of the inspiration for Hell itself and Tophet. Here is another Avernus where Mephitis waits on the volcanic shores of its lake for the embrace of the lost along its noxious journey to enlightenment. Move along…nothing to see here, SHEEPLE whose religion was wantonly adopted with little scruples (or scrutiny given) inherited as a thoughtless heirloom to be placed upon the mantle along with that insignificant cross on the wall, full of dust. With the church as a whole a useless reliquary, a symbol of a bygone life pining away for the ever-elusive heavenly reward.
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.
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