Praised Be the Idol, Humming in its Awesome Power

On the right is the sound of flames licking up the air from the fireplace next to me. On the left, the sound of a television in another room chattering away its endless chatter. Voices and buzzing and blathering faces, building up in my stomach's soul the vile gray nausea of too much empty chittering.

You know what I mean. A culture, a land full of blatherers who Can't Shut Up. They fill their lives with suffocating noise in proportion to the emptiness of their souls and minds. They make the television and the multiverse of screens the ultimate mimesis of their souls, or rather they conform themselves to the empty image of the LED voice speaking nothing to no one at oppressive volumes in despotic torrents. Oh, how we bow down to our precious idols and are remade into their image.

Once we forged our idols from wood and stone and metal, glorified ourselves by casting our own image as we perceived it into dead matter. Glorifying ourselves and our evil, we conceived of what we lusted to be and then cast that desire into earth. We bowed down and were remade along the lines of our vanities. We committed incest with ourselves, masturbation in frenzy multiplied by masturbation. "Hallowed be my own semen and feces in my throat. Hallowed be my name. Worthy is the phlegm." By the sorceries of our imaginations, we fancied ourselves gods and rulers, lords of demons.

Oh travesty of travesties that our revery was broken by the revelation that our idols' great fault was their inability to speak. Grievousness, our croaking terrible grief! If our idols cannot speak, they cannot be gods. If they are not gods, neither can we be.

All praise to Babylon, our wishes were granted. Now our idols can speak! The black box of our deification chatters forever in the humming glow of its own power. We lift up the box with hollow hands and point our lives toward it, bowing down over our erections, over our genitals burning. We must be gods! And the skies must be empty, for the glory is ours to be taken and swallowed eternal. Swallowed eternal! I am the lord of my own seed. I give myself breath; I give myself life. Who am I to stand above? I deign before myself alone, for the glowing box of my own glory chatters incessantly into the night. Who is god if not me?

My flesh is warmed from the heat of the screen, and at last we can writhe together with lust bodies in blood, semen, sweat, feces--the glory of gods! Enclosed by the empty sky as an iron door locked and bolted from the outside seals us forever in a humming, sticky pool of our own tepid glory.