The Tool can only deviate so (from its beloved Shed) J’en ai marre! Ben Norton As cloacal garbage relentlessly decants from their contemptible bowels, oozing muddy cerulean vestiges of despicable, frivolous thoughts—inundating my own: aqueous asphyxia in a sea of inane trash, the flotsam and jetsam of a vacuous soul—I scream; I yell; I’ve had enough. And, upon screeching this mephitic lexis, I see the light. My mind opens. My sight returns.
Through Revelation.
The obfuscated become seers of delight—soothsayers, prophets, saviors. And I step forward—clairvoyant, shining, amidst nothingness, the light of “hope,” emitting from my own inner depths, my own emptiness, my bosom, my innards…illuminating an oblivion, an abyss, a history of emptiness; rewriting it. I stumble forward. And out spews even more rubbish. I am here to save! Rejoice! Rejoice! I am here to redeem! Rejoice! Rejoice! I am here to judge. Rejoice! Rejoice! And, as problems proliferate, in my wake, I prevaricate. I mislead. The large calamities become small, pale in comparison—all to my alluring charisma, to my beguiling promises. Empty. Falsehoods. Fabrications.
And, with that illustrious, *wink, wink, wink*—a twinkle of the eye, a snap of the fingers, a click of the tongue…a brisk whistle of inaudible pitch—I create Truth. Purpose.
For, as everyone knows, “A lie told often enough, becomes truth.”
As the feathered proboscis tenderly whispers pleasant thoughts into my innocent ear.