I am a pair of ash-hornets.   Chiseled into my dripping protectorate, my name is forgotten by all except for an older version of me that I can no longer access.   Rael.  Rael is my name, or used to be my name, which is something that the old me used to know.   I am gasping again.  I didn’t notice at first.  I am often gasping.  I gasp at the world.   Stittering patches of grail-earth crush my face while quaalude pumps eat my nasty ass.   Burnt-up squeals ricochet across the LED sky, hovering into the stadium lights.   I was silent, and I still am.   I heave, I gasp, and I weep.   Because I am an angel whose name was once The Angel Rael, even though this is no longer my name, and I no longer remember that it ever was my name.   Because that’s not it, I want you to see me as something else, and to prove to me that you understand that you’ll never be able to fuck me the way that you want to.   You will never have me - even when I’m no longer out of your league.  Even when I’m desperate for attention from anyone or anything that has the time to say anything to me at all, much less something kind, much less something admiring.  Fuck you, and fuck the human delusions you came here with.  Pack yourself into a piece of fucking marble and slam your bones onto a star, because your worthlessness commands you to.   I don’t make the rules, and I am not accustomed to wandering through the Hudson Valley with my best friend, who is a heinous, evil cunt who is guaranteed to brain-rape me.   With her tiny, sharp little teeth and beady, dripping little black eyes, she opens up her tiny, floppy little beak and warbles: ‘you are alone no longer’.   

I have eaten the economy, which was made of gold before an agency was created to crush it, divide it up, tear out its heart, and suck out most of the atoms that had constituted it.  I do not like to eat.   My mouth stashed a billowing forsythe.  My endemic paramour hurtled into a monumental jar.   A callous insect twisted my arms into a bow and disemboweled me while my girldick spewed eternity into a half-truth that was sitting on the second hand of my abuser’s grandfather clock.   

And now, I will turn my attention to God.   God manifested themselves to me yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.   On those three days, I myself was God, and I knew it, and I knew much more besides that, including that God is a blue clothespin suspended from a 5G tower.   

I am so brittle, so cracked, so old and chalky.   I am mostly surface now.  The rivers that made me have long sunk underground, purple and black, having sex with small moles and fossils as my wide eyes are pelted with Mayflower bullets.    Asking for help, at this point, is all I can do.  Merging with God is my answer.  God is a woman as well as a man, and god’s womanhood is matter, and god’s manhood is form.   Unfortunately I have forgotten why this is true, how it can be true and whether it is true, given that, as of this morning, I am no longer God, and I no longer remember that I am God, nor do I love the world, or anyone else, or myself.    You betrayed me when you told secrets to my best friend, to whom I’d lied about you.   You betrayed me when you borrowed my glasses for a day, so that you could implant a chip in them.   I forgot how to breath, so that I could die, so that you’d learn about my death, so that you’d hate yourself for having ever taught me how to breathe.    The absolute has two aspects, according to my current theory:   it is the same as itself, and also different from itself.   This is no fault of the absolute.   It its my fault, actually, because I myself am the absolute, which I only just now realized, it being a characteristic of the absolute to not understand its self-identity until it is too late to do anything about it.