Burn

[Patchwork]

When Mountains become Volcanos and gods unleash their vengeance. Those who have turned their plowshares to swords

Weep when we punch back. Hiding behind their bedsheets even as they hang and burn the witches and the madmen and the dreamers.



They claim to act with Jesus. But we are the ones providing shelter to our neighbors. Turning the other cheek. As they call us Nasty, F*ggots, T*rannies, Wh*res, N****rs, r*pests, children, s*ssies.



They claim we are godless. But we are the ones feeding the poor,

Providing shelter to the dispossessed, opening our borders and hearts, to be our brother's keeper.



They claim we are children, needing their protection. From the middle-eastern boogyman. Even as they poison our rivers, silencing our shamans as they cry out, that we are killing our world around us.  Taking away the voices, of the EPA, the NPS, NASA, and replace their words with state-mandated Alternate Facts.



They have forged swords from their plowshares, waving them at anyone and everyone, knowing that we love them too much. Too much to unite, too much to call them the names of Nazi, Chauvinist, villian, too much even to stand behind our generation's mandate, to punch a nazi in the face.



And so the witches and the dreamers and the heretics shall burn. Filled with guilt over having dared, to meet violence with violence - even for a moment, even with a word, even in our hearts. We make way for the future, of new corporate overlords, preaching the dangers of Hell, side by side with 401k's and tax incentives and promotions.

We did not create this world. But as we immanentize the eschaton, we shall surly burn in it. As Greyface rises, to inherent the ashes of our Earth.

[Patchwork]

Your god of Earth would enslave our minds to this magic-less, grey existence.
But our spirit guides were not born of blue skies and gentle winds.
Our Allies where the ghosts that played in the fires from when the earth was new,
When the sky boiled red and the lands churned with lava,
Drying the oceans before the rain could even settle.


The nanny god of angry children,
Would have been lunch meat had our daemons,
Our demons and genie and fire.
Had the earth not cooled.
Had our allies not decided to rest.


Our gods reside in the endless void.
In the stars, too numerous to count.
Our gods are reached only by warp drives
And Wormholes and impossible ships,
But they do not demand obedience.
Only curiosity. And reckless courage.


So dance with the angry Jehovah,
In each stroke of your royal decree.
Silence those who would dare,
To dream beyond this infant world.
But our every breath still hums
With the fire of primordial creation.


And in the end,
When this world is become your tomb,
Our hellfire will carry us beyond.
Into the stars above.