Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

A dream or nightmare

December 19, 2013

There wasn’t much to it. At least not in the end. The various pills and elixirs scattered and spilled on the floor mixed in the piss and vomit. Torrent of tears from mothers with Rosary-wrapped hands held in prayer to a god that wasn’t there while the altar boys knelt to pleasure Father Jesus. The voluptuous, vivacious Virgin vixen lay on the bed, her legs spread open for the offering of saints and sinners alike while the whore superior baptized the children with menstrual blood.

The boy overdose on heroine. Blood clotted the dropper. The injection came in with strong. They televised his death as Saint Francis Assisi held his naked body against his own.

A stained-glass heart. Multicolored facets of Hell. A bit too Catholic for the religious.

Manticore & Other Horrors by Cradle of Filth is available now at Amazon.

Manticore & Other Horrors by Cradle of Filth is available at Amazon.

Until recently, it never occurred to me that believers believed that religion came first. Well, that’s worded incorrectly. What I mean is, I recently discovered that believers believe that science “copies” from religion. “One of the main concerns,” states my friend, the Lizard King, “is how we arrived at this place? Science attempts to explain …

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I swapped my Agnostic religious status to Atheist last night on Facebook—because, as you know, nothing is official until it’s Facebook official. It’s something that I should’ve done months, if not years, ago. I began to find it impossible that something can exist outside of the physical. That there’s some designer in the sky who …

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I’m not an easy person to love. Not one to experience things like I’m expected to. I’ve never cried with a movie. Never shed one tear for The Giving Tree. Like a popular Barenaked Ladies song. I’ve cried at funerals. I’ve grown attached to people, or maybe just the idea of them. I don’t have a …

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With a voice lacking compassion. Benevolence is overrated. The bombers flew over the holy land. Just a child, looking up at the oblivion, damnation profession. Confessional, the pews are empty as her porcelain stained tears spilled. Rosary. Jesus Mary Child. Grown up, her words echo the silence. Forty five minutes and seventy-nine months. People think …

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