Coffin House. (via This Modern World)


This global world grows darker and more tribal,
and none who shun its prizes hazards libel.
Each impotent mobster
gets boiled like a lobster
andante; and noise is their bible.


"Oh you o'er-arching and high heavens on whom
I call, because that as remote from me
Ye must be good; that as diverse from me
Ye must be strong; that as serene above
The comprehension of my human sense,
Ye may be happy; is it well, you heavens
That ye look down on such a thing as I?

If your innumerous hosts be seraphs crowned,
Thronèd, with radiant limbs and upturned eyes
Reflecting God,--and such, methinks, but now
I saw at eve ere the great choir was filled
Taking their thrones expoectant of the hour,
And for the general anthem one by one
Tuning their harps and shedding dewy tears
Ecstatic,--if they sit there to adore,
And have perpetual function of mere praise,
Were it not wise, ye heavens, to draw your clouds
Between us? I was faithful once as they,
And mighty as the mightiest who doth sweep
His golden starry strings, and with the sound
Lighten these tuneless deeps. If I were God
They should not see this heart."

--Balder

Darth Cheney on Jenkem.