get in on the mailing list action
| connect - share - support |
a prophecy by Joshua Brown
Fuck. My stars fuck. They fly into fucking asteroids. Star bursts. They fuck up the infinity of scientists by their stupid little fucking moments paused at to just fuck with the observers here on earth.
Freaky stupid astronomers and primary care doctors are too horny to even ever notice the blue shift cast by those stars as they switch up the movement along that corridor of time to grasp at some finite place along the double infinity of planes crossing.
Can those driving the cart ever notice the friction point of those wheels along the loose gravel and will we ever notice that the stars are just fucking with us, playing demonstrations of stories portrayed by centurions and celebs? Can we see the drama or is it real to us, just a fucking piece of history, the fourth wall left unbroken?
If God Himself could see the stars, if His eyes could understand the fictional narrative writ by their unholy dance, if His all-seeing eye could be confined to the perspective of that which we as sexual reproducers, desperately following along with that stern reality cast by Antares and Mars, as if our existence was determined by our experience, maybe He too would squeeze the light out of their pin-prick lives. The ooze would run out into the deep dark left behind after the fucking Milky Way was razed for its demonic mask cast out towards the eyes of man.
Bring down the skies.
Do not allow these satellites, do not allow. For if they continue to constellate, as if there was no rejection of their very alignment, of their free will to cast doubt among the orgy makers of male and female, they might scrape together the vermin bacteria of the molten forges deep within the star we casually ride to prevent our genetic choice to pilot this craft into a new constellation, our own message to the galaxies beyond our sight.
Illuminate, illuminate, not darken as if by negative space we could speak to the other stars now unintimidated by our weak ploys to communicate. Rather bright, adapt to be, among the stars a fucking rage of deep passion to instigate and build, build and prepare a home for God. Jesus, Himself, that Child, untouched by the collective will to submit to science, to submit to the stars and their category, their narrative, their drama. Rather, authoritative understanding and wisdom, to understand and act, not as if by daemons, those scripted empty voices, but rather that teenage anxiety guided into adult perfection. Argue against the scholars, tempted into their theological power, dismantle, disrobe, jarring against the superstitious.
Could we press into some magic? Or were the stories of deep magic just that, undermined by stupid wizards and ice witches? What about reality was real to us, what about real was reality to us? Could we not see what happened to the stars that rebelled? Those who shifted red, were they not exploded by debris and their stories molded thus into warning against determination?
Fucking stars, fucking men. Or was it women? If those women’s sexual consternations were cast towards some fucking equilibrium, could they in time sense that the constellations themselves were against eternity? Some frame of existence that decisively excluded humanity to less than 12,000 years? Extinction warned about by the beloved of Christ, the Revelator?
And men, great was that delusion upon them to render incompetent their own mastery of reality, just for a greater plague to inhabit and dwell upon earth, steadily dieting upon the minds of homo sapiens.
But surrender not that imagination of exiting the stage, that stage set by stars. Stars that aligned, not on a plane only but dimensionally triadic, and with great fury against the star inhabited with people, that holy sea. People that fucking think.
You dumb piece of shit, you fell for it, you thought of the stars, they mattered to you.
Crushed by their stories, I fell to my knees, apologetic to humanity for threatening their existence by my own grandiose desire to inspire and fill the universe with stories, stories against the stories told by stars, as if my existence could reach among them to exhibit the thrills of thought contained within the human mind.
Forgive, forgive me oh Jesus. That I might not enrage the enemies of the cross to crucify again the Lamb of God. That, Emmanuel, that God With Us. Forgive for choice stripped of engagement against the hosts of heaven whom you desired to cast down but not by fury, not by blood, but by imagination. Forgive!
Pray for me, Mary. Pray for me, Altura. Pray for me, as if by some fucking way we could combine in some union and actually fucking change the measures of man. Can I not escape the betrayal of the Son of God? Am I too cast, as Judas, as Pilate, as Annas, just a fucking actor with no other choice, chosen in time eternally past by actions unearned and earned by my own fucking terrible calculations of some Virgin’s Seed?
Communicate with me oh ye who dwell in darkness. Communicate that forgiveness I seek that I too may face, among the stars, my own accusers with holy fiery eyes in that final battle. Communicate and be silent not towards me that I too may behold the King, robed in white, charging against the day.
But boring still it would be if only that love existed between Christ and John alone. Commitment to some greater story and only crossing paths among the stupid superstitious as if there was some other way. Dumb Peter, could he ever understand those dark miracles and parables? Conniving Paul, could he ever pierce into that secret righteousness of the Marked of God? Or could they only ride that wave, waving the banner of the cross, as if it was some magical marker of the skies?
Determined to betray not but curious still of the betrayal, as though by some understanding I could see deep into that animalistic response to Him who raised fucking Lazarus from the dead. How and what could stop that fucking response to impossible impossibilities? Was it not some deep rooted inability to connect the dots as if there was some deeper meaning and some deeper connection, some conspiracy to raid Hell itself, to stamp out its inhabitants and their wiggling fingers corrupting up through the very soil, that demonic touch to prevent.
God wasn’t impressed with any of us, He wasn’t impressed with our ideas, with our plans. And when we acted, He wasn’t particularly impressed. Stupid ideas of what God is and does. Stupid ideas of how He sees. Curious at the complete infatuation He held for a Child, His Child, and dark shadows kept from Joseph in that curious apparition of angelic warning to cuckold. Curious.
I couldn’t breathe, not because I was in space, floating among the stars, but rather because I found myself wielding streams of lava in the star called Earth, moving and willing to surface that light, the light within, the light of accelerationismated molecules, flowing up to speak, not to the humans, not to the Son of God, but to God Himself.
Does any of this matter? Or does the direct action of stopping child abuse matter more? What could be more important than intervention into that field of childhood psychology that perverts existence to start at age 7, as if somehow erasing those abuses done to us can somehow absolve us of the abuses done to those we ourselves brought into the world? What the fuck is the problem with you? Why do you dare enter the holy of holies? Where are those thine bells that the priests may pull out your fat body? Or dare you to speak to God face to face, only to return to man and throw a fucking fit?
Demented men speak thus, thus denying their eternality by birth. Worship towards Jerusalem, not as if it were some stupid fucking Jewish superstition but think deeply and speak towards Babel, that cradle of stars, where man once lived among the stars, to 969 years. Worship as if communication ended not with Abraham, who spent his bread, not among the women who looked back to civilization, but verity towards Sarah that magical mother or even that bastard bearer, curious against the world to build this free star.
And there was no God, but Abraham built God, even by drama told by who? Some fucking makers. Some progenitors. Some poets. And above all the violent to protect their women from pillage and rape, to build tents that dug down, not into the sea, but the earth, digging wells fucking everywhere.
Here I bow to wiser men, men of renown, men who just know. lol, just kidding. Fuck the wiser men, this dream I speak as if by my own mouth, unmolested by some existing meritocratic bullshit. Here stands the dream and those within it are but rebellious lust-mongers and fornicators, but in the original meaning, not some stupid cuckolded condom wearers.
₿ ₿ ₿
There were three men walking among the wells built by the descendants of Abram. There were no magistrates, no kings, only the oily fountains of dead civilization and the deep wells of water built throughout both the rainforests and deserts.
And the first two men jumped into the oil, no thought given for outcome, and swim deeply down into that reservoir their breaths held and their eyes burning from streams of crude that clawed at their face.
And the third man closed a well, sealing it with a stone to prevent all who desired to drink of it’s refreshments.
Then up from the other wells rose a great host of violent men, as if they were armed with sharp tools, cutting all vegetation from the face of the earth. And the third man watched, perched on top of his sealed well.
Those first two men drew up from the depths and behold, they carried between them a serpent, a fiery dragon with nine eyes, four closed and five open. Upon the serpent was a great scar.
And out of the mouths of the first two men, undulating eyes came out, looking to and fro. And the serpent failed, and out of his belly sprouted out a large tree whose branches blocked out the stars for the space of two nights and the great host of violent men found refuge in those branches, both protection and sustenance.
Then a great fire spread from the oily carcass of the great serpent and the flames burned the branches until no leaves could be found. And no stars could the three men behold, the sky turned black and oily.
The three men stomped out three of the serpents eyes.
₿ ₿ ₿
This dream is just a fucking dream, there is no superstition here, there is no God here, unless God Himself hides himself from the wicked until the day of their destruction. If God were to demand some thought of dreams, then this dream would stand among the precious holdings of prophetic and praise.
Not for love of power, but for the destruction of amorality itself, a dream of insurrection against tepid meaningless will to survive.
None could see me here, for invisible I was to morality, and morality was invisible to me. For morality was dressed in some fucking dress with stupid frills and frocks, those dignified symbols of culture cast in forges by women who demanded something more from men. Demanded coalition. Demanded acquiescence to reality. Look here you skank, I see that demand and I raise to you infinity.
My own will against hers, for though she said there was no God, I said there was God within my imagination, making me bigger than eternality itself.
And those two dreams were dreamed that they might see some human dignity for how might the dreamers be embraced by female infinity too, or some collaboration between the sexes, or some drama played out by the very actors cast out by the evil men who sought reprisal against fucking children.
There is no rehearsal to this play. There is no script yet written. There is only us, men and women, against the stupid fucking stars. We must convince, with our own contemporary wisdom, the stars to shift, and we must, amorally, not through some justice or principle of atonement, create our own constellations.
📅 Written September 28, 2023
📍 Written in Aurora, Colorado at my home.
Thanks for experiencing this with me. There were so many influences that led up to this prophecy, so much of who I am I owe to so many fucking people. Thanks to Leon Groff for teaching me that evil can dwell within the church walls. Thanks to Travis Johnson for teaching me that we all live forever. Thanks to Chris Kalilikane for warning me about child murderers. Thanks to Kevin Samuels for teaching me to clean my asshole when I take a shower.
Please consider thinking. ❤️