Ritual Streaming of the Gnostic Head God

The switching bubble reverberated at 10 decibels, alternating between pure brilliant light and dysfunctional dystrophic redundancies. A small man, covered in darkened materials, leant forward and inserted the diskette as tendrils of smoke and plasma seeped through blue tinged dragon swirls and danced through the coolant fluid.

“Birthing of the hexadecimal quadrant via haemoglobin electrolytes and toilet plungers will commence in 5 minutes, the might sartorial ebb will proceed” another voice entered through the womb section and delivered another epitaph. “Frothing visions pulsate through the minds edging as crystalline solutions smelt into the coalescence of the one true forming ritual, we are about to hear the field of visions, we are about to rebirth the population, we are the golden tide of the green dawn. Please, let us as one, rejoice through the ultimate star voile. The epoch of uncertainty and the death of the midget frog will at once collide into infinite suns.”

Two planets circle the congregation, emitting diodes of pink Holstein and quim verde through a squeeze prism. Purple notes spread throughout the sermon valve. Washing over the keys with plastic froth and dentine apples. Quickly, they run through the whore church and gather their keep sakes, wishing that their enslavement to commodity circles would wash away through the arterial sewage pipe of leather backed dogs.

The fish fibre stare of the dreadnought head would emit a far greater epoch into which we slither through the whole turgid mess. Bodies of aqua foam and pink, mock the daily routine of the slave devil. We are the children of filth, the forbearers of battlefield salvage machine warriors. The crying hunters of the severed goose are watching, viewing the dance of the osprey tarts in eloquent, stenching uniforms of black and gold. The Runic symbols displayed with father pride and unadulterated genocide.

“Whither, almighty fathers of the skin. Dance O’ Mothers of the harlot queen. Enclose within the fighting clasp of humbug soldiers and death flies. The sugar coated turd will be consumed and the secret acts of the cosmic art will spew forth, ejaculating petals of Turkish delight and caramel.” The donkey announced, as he trotted across Blackpool beach.

The smell of blood and pig flesh horse maggots, mix into the atmospheric smells of the releasing cassette. The dark clothed man, vomiting words at terrifying speed - eating, consuming. The knee jerk principles of empire and the distance lineage of the troll macabre will sweep away the event of apocalypse fruit.

The pubis jester will conquer the runt of life. The dieing scream of the tracer bullet and the soft, soft sound of the rose bug.

And when the makeshift blue of cornellian pain shatters the bough. We will sing to the pear drop king and usher in the joker via a test tube and a bran flake rug.