PSALM 8: Flesh

Chapter I: Mane, Mane, Thecel, Upharsin

I pull the trigger and I murder God.

Chapter II: Ecce Homo

Listen. Let me tell you what isn’t important:

It’s not important how I scored the gun. The gun is an elemental factor. It’s a totem of destruction. It’s chaos made flesh, if you dig jive like that.

It’s not important how I’m walking down this elementary school hallway, looking into classrooms, looking at the kids, a loaded revolver stuck in my jeans. Enough brains and you can smuggle even a thermonuclear device in a mall. Easier than you might think.

It’s not important who I am.

I suppose I could tell you my name, what I do for a living, my dreams, my fears. I suppose I could go at length and give you a detailed account of the events that led me to this path. I suppose I can humanize myself in your mind and heart so that I won’t look like the medieval concept of Satan. But then what’s the point? This isn’t about you liking me. This is larger than the both of us. And that’s how the universe rolls, my friend.

Now, let me tell you what is important:

I have a gun.

It has six bullets.

Six people are about to die today.

Chapter III: Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani

You’re a fish. You were born in some pond. You don’t know who your parents are. But that’s okay. The food is free. There are no predators around. You wear serenity like an emperor’s cloak. It doesn’t get any better than this, you think.

You’re right.

One night, the pond is disturbed. The nets appear. You get thrown into a metal basin crammed full of your brethren. You can hardly breathe. Hours later, they stick the aerator into your basin. The sweet flow of oxygen seems to be a divine blessing. A promise of salvation.

You’re wrong.

A hand comes down from heaven and grabs one of your brethren. You don’t see him again. All morning that hand keeps darting into your cramped new home and grabbing one of your siblings. Each time the hand appears, it taints the water with the terrible reek of death. You know that hand is an agent of annihilation. It’s an elemental factor. It’s a totem of destruction. It’s chaos made flesh, if you dig jive like that.

You’re right.

Whenever the hand grabs someone else, you feel relief. There is still hope that you’re going to come out of this alive.

You’re wrong.

Finally, the hand grabs you. You get yanked out of the water and slammed onto a chopping board. You thrash about like Leviathan wrestling with Jehovah. You get slapped with the flat side of a knife. You’re stunned. Deft hands, cold and dispassionate as a surgeon’s, scrape off your scales. Your skin is a screaming web of pain. The knife chops your fins and tail off. Fingers covered with your blood tear at your throat. Your gills come out, red as fucking rubies. The knife opens your belly and your guts spill out. Your insides are rudely torn out. You see your heart still beating on the chopping board beside you. Then you get thrown into a plastic bag, your muscles involuntarily twitching. And then you slip into darkness, grateful for the peace of death.

Does anyone weep?

No.

The cosmos sheds no tear for the destruction of a speck of dust.

Chapter IV: Quid Es Veritas?

The old teacher is kneeling in front of me. She’s crying and praying to God.

God is a carnivore, I tell her, and He wants his meat.

She asks me why I am doing this.

I tell her there is no why. There is only how.

She prays some more. I think she sincerely believes God is going to save her from my bullet.

I prove her wrong.

The children scream.

I ask the girl with the pony tail if she believes in God.

Yes, she answers.

I pull the trigger.

More screams.

Suffer the little children.

I turn to you, the gun a throbbing erection in my hand. This is your cumshot, bitch. I’m about to blast away at the Human Condition and you’re about to catch the bullet with the jagged teeth of your everlasting soul. It’s going to be a clever trick. It’ll make grown men weep and pregnant women sing hallelujahs.

But you don’t look at the gun. You look at me. I think you’re getting it. Christ, I think you’re getting it. The gun isn’t what’s important in this picture. The gun is an elemental factor. It’s a totem of destruction. It’s chaos made flesh, if you dig jive like that.

I ask you if you believe in God.

Of course you don’t.

Not anymore.

THE PSALMS OF HATRED:
Psalm 1 (Video)
Psalms 2 to 7