O COME LET US ABHOR HIM

    Severed Head On The Mental Guillotine … A Life of Blasphemy

"Is there anything left we have not yet done?"

"Could you be any more perfect?"

"Should I fear yr mind-control?"

"Can I really trust you?"

"Will I forever be stuck examining: these days of unchecked frivolity, this forever bubble of instantaneous connection lain between us like a dagger to the heart?"

"How many fractions of yr personality do you feel able to show me in our best hours?"

"Maybe none. What is a life with no mistakes?"

"Can’t you mock America’s military-industrial complex by speaking in ways which both introduce and make attractive a revolution for the masses, by the masses?"

"Do you mean how much more can I slip the Revolution’s more salivating attractions into everyday discourse, thereby rendering the common vernacular forever blessed by my readings of arcane tomes?"

"Maybe I meant how much more can you preach to the fieriest schoolchilds about the perils of police brutality?"

Then the interviewer kisses me and I kiss her back with the added fructification of my pitchfork tongue… I am Lucifer’s most feisty reincarnation, baby! I kneel down to the pavement and sit upon the wanly lit street-corner. She alights upon my lap. My erection nestles comfortably against her caboose.

My lips are perfectly still but my right hand glides higher and hooks under her bra’s purplish lace, cupping her left breast and caressing a cherry-wild teat. Angel babes dance through my skull’s dizzying rollercoaster as my left hand slides between her legs, rubbing down and down—gladdening with her moistness.

She is the most beautiful tellytube journalist and she dares to speak to me… but I decline her proffered interview, then curl a finger into her cunt’s heat and add another. Her muscles purse together to work me deeper. She is almost hairless way down under and my carnal desires are fulfilled in a smooth and easy manner. She is the apotheosis of glabrous, of sensuous… yet a sharp ringing encompasses my ears.

Her delicate, slender hips are parted and tightly held against my own. Her body grinds polyrhythmically into me. She cannot find a way to syncopate herself with my wave-like beat and my heart is pumping viscous blood around my body but I feel it pool, gather strength, and almost force its naked will upon us both.

My gaze opens and turns downwards: her clenching legs and searching arms—spangled with shining new Cosmic Bomb tattoos—rub into my soul, careening over my heartstrings like a horsehair bow bringing forth angelic praises from a handmade violin.

Overwhelmed with a bursting glee… I am now so, so happy… I am once again in love. Ahem. There I am amidst the best question master game of my life and, "How many girlfriends do you have?"

       "Either… two, thirty-six, or seven," I whisper—but I am able to make eyes at even more.

"Why did Yahweh create snakes in the first place?"

"How were you actually created?

"Is it within possibility’s realm for to you tell it true?"

"Am I really scared of you?"

"How do I not yet know you?"

"Still?"

"How is it that Jesus Christ and I have so many similar qualities?"

"How are you both so wisely unknowable?"

Her hands shade across my meniscus. All of a happy sudden: so much footsie.

"This brings up a great many delicious questions. Why did Jesus call out, ‘My God!’ on the cross if Yahweh was his father?"

She looks close to licking me.

"That was the fourth of his seven cries."

"In the second he said he would be with his father in heaven that very day."

"Did it happen?"

       "This was obviously included in the Gospels to highlight the demi- aspect of his demi-godhood."

"Might it have been included to show that torture disrupts the mind’s saintlier aspects?"

       "Why is the God of the Old Testament not the same God as the New Testament?"

She traces pyramidal hieroglyphs on my blushing cheeks. Lolling over puffed lips, her tongue is out and it calls me by my true name.

"One is kind of cryptic and cloying."

"The other is both those things."

"Plus actually forgiving."

Ra, Set, Ptah, on and on…

"And also very demanding."

"But in the best of socialistic ways?"

       "I oft call Jesus the very first Communist when I argue with nigh anyone over liturgical subjects," I respond, finished with foreplay and ready for a real snuggle.

"What worth would there be to religion if there were not some mystical impossibilities inlaid therein?"

"Is mystery not what friendship is all about?"

       "Where are you right now?"

"Am I dead and gone into yr personal nirvana soul?"

"Why do you feel so nice?

"Can I get any more?"

"Where are we?"

"How far can we really go?"

Atticus Tattoo                           

Luke Dylan Ramsey is a Texas poet. He has a flash fiction chapbook forthcoming from Nat 1 Publishing.