[NeOPulP] Blasphemers Gone Wild

Frightened easily
Like having first-hand knowledge
Of all the rapes and murders
That took place in public places
In front of large crowds
Every single time for nothing.

Nobody will ever have
No doubts
About people's basic goodness,
Yeah, about that.
Yeah, hmm.
Entertain the masses.
On the fast track to becoming a millionaire.
Think like the crowd.
It's all about the money.
Sell your soul.
It's sexy.
Another reason
For another starving artist,
To make another pathetic excuse.
About why they failed.
Painful childhood
Disturbed memories
Traumatic experiences
Cry me a river
All you poor fucking babies.
Now is now and not yesterday
So what are you going to do?
Weep and weep and slobber
Your excuses on someone else.
Once I was exactly like you
Which is why I hate you,
And will be glad when you die.

We can party where the lights are blinding
Inside a pin striped box
Where small animals hide
During thunderstorms.
When did it become okay to be like me?
When did it become fashionable
To be a freak in the sunlight?
Changed the hair
Changed the clothes
Shaved, showered, spiffed up
Still a freak beyond all hope.
Of all the sights most detested,
The posers with sadomasochistic flair
Sicken me the most.
I can only imagine,
They have happy happy homes
Full of credit card debt
And mom is drinking because
It hurts more that way.
Dad is a loser
Because all he ever did
Was try to do the right thing.
The world cut off his balls
And erased his identity.
It's all about money.
We were all fucked from the beginning,
Aside from the occasional lightning strike.
Give me fifteen minutes
And they would be ashamed of their existence.
Give me an hour and they would never be free
I take boys.
I'll take good care of them.
C'est la vie.
Next lifetime learn how to float,
The undertow... just don't even tell jokes about that.
I also have a religion I'd like to sell you.
Have you checked out
My latest piercing?
A dumbbell
Straight through my heart.
Top that
I finally got that Gothic chick
With all the shit in her face,
And the smile that lit up
When I talked about hurting her.
It was quite fine.
She loved every second of the pain,
As did I.
"This will hurt me more..."
I could not love her.
She was too pure for me.
Another half-assed lie.
The truth was that the big man got scared
When everything fit too well.
It fit perfectly.
My personal favorite:
The devil made me do it.
"That's great, sir or ma'am.
Tell us where this devil is
So we can go arrest him."
"Mr. Lucifer, you are under arrest
For contributing to the delinquency
Of every minor,
236 trillion counts of temptation
(it was a big number),
one gazillion counts of encouraging
lewd and lascivious behavior,
and one moving violation
from that year you stole Santa's sleigh."
Never trust categories.
This is not an excuse.
This is a boast.

In honesty
I am quite for sale.
Wealthy people totally
Deserve my subservience,
for a price.
I am very confident
Such a thing could never take place.
I have nothing to offer
But demonic ridicule,
A ridiculous collection of Hot Wheels from 1973,
And one bulging
Egg sac
From which the queen's babies will hatch.
Master or Mistress,
What would you have me do?
Be careful,
This thing before you bites,
And always draws blood.
Infection will set in,
And amputation will be
You boys out there wouldn't want that,
Now would you?
You ladies need never fear.
That which you possess
Is the finest treasure
The world has ever known.
Worship would be more likely.
(metaphorically speaking of...
uh, yep, its sex)
The subtlety award goes to
Not that guy with the keyboard,
No, that other guy,
Yeah, him.
[ish hard to lie]
The finest things
Can only be described
Through sensation.
If you got the cold fish
You had a lapse in judgment.
I think warm honey
Better describes the experience.
Pick more carefully
The next time a chance presents itself.
Even my close friends tell me
That I am too public.
I have no other explanation for that
Than my fondness for humiliation.
I love to get caught,
When catching up
On all the beautiful ways
The beautiful people left me behind.

Friends will come
And laugh in your face
To watch you suffer.

You're left with what you had.
What's your excuse?
The devil made you do it?
Or was it a lesser devil?
Formidable linguistic adversary
That I am
(glottal stop),
Surely there are better excuses than that.
Psycopathia sexualis
Dear me...
Did I stake that claim,
Make satyriasis my personal game?
So come better than that.
Come with paraphilia,
The love that dare not speak its name,
Or something else of substance,
Like a lifelike rubber ducky
or an onion ring drizzled in caramel.
Come with fricatrice,
Or boondagger,
Or scotophiliac, or...
Do you think I have a problem?
Higgledy har.
I like this game.
The best toys
Are the ones that are
The most difficult to kill.
Thank you, Senor Frog,
For your insight and genius.
Yet an afternoon
In the company of Mr. Davis
And Mr. Coltrane
Relieve me of all concerns;
This is the finest exhibition
Of the human spirit.
 My entire life is baddable.
Take that away
And suicide is the only option.
In the wake of all this examined discourse
Impotent, perverted neuter,
Salacious imp with the gnomish gimp,
[It's hard to determine the sex just from looking]
Would probably be the diagnosis
With the mostest voteses.
If only that were true.
The wind blows and the sails furl,
Never at half mast.
It is a curse,
Not a blessing.
It's like living the staged Iwo Jima photograph
Over and over
Except there's nobody there but the flag,
Which, curiously enough,
Bears the coat of arms of Zaphod Beeblebrox,
Long may his name endure.
Imagine hunting with a lance
That never breaks.
The beast of venery dies,
But the lance keeps poking,
Over and over,
Like a mindless necrophiliac.
-philia, my favorite additive.
It's all about love, I tell you.

This should be
About a thousand pages longer
and contain
something besides vulgarity.
I'm still working on caring
What you think.
I don't reckon I'll ever get it.

Is this microphone on?

{{{Interestingly enough, though this version is less censored than my previously released version, I still can't bring myself to post this in its entirety. It turns out I'm sick. Very, very sick.}}}

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Symbols of Decay is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License..
Related written works at Angelfire, Sex Symbols, Cymbals of Silence.Repent or Die