birdblogwhichisforbirds:

My brother, listen, do not be afraid.
I have descended into Hell to talk
About forgiveness. Yes, Pilate, with you.
With others too – with everyone who’s here.
But you first. Even Judas, my old friend,
Must wait a while for me. We have a while;
The sempiternal agony of Hell
Exists outside of human history. 
Souls killed in every century are here
Millennia before and after you.
You stand among those millions who share
An everlasting sentence for the crime
Of “just doing your job.” Your job killed me.
Your job ripped my skin open with a lash
And drove me, bleeding, shambling up the hill
Where your job drove an eight inch iron spike
Through each hand and each foot, and hoisted me
Towards the sky and left me there for hours
To slowly suffocate. You did your job
To many more like me. Their names were all
Forgotten as they rotted on the cross
Unburied. Hell is teeming with the souls
Who did their job, who served the empire well –
Not just your empire, all the ones that rose
And fell, before and after your own Rome’s.
You asked me once what truth is. That is it.
That is the truth about your whole life’s work.
You know this and it sears worse than the flames.
But that is not why I descended here.
I’m here about forgiveness. Listen. Please.


In the beginning was the Word of God.
That’s me. Like you, I had a job to do.
By me all things were made, and without me
Was nothing that was made. The universe
Was my life’s work, the empire that I served.
My father’s will for Mankind was my law.
One act of disobedience was enough
To sentence every one of you to death.
I did my job, and did it thoroughly:
The hands that made the stars built every tomb.
They sculpted tumors, planted neat rows
Of plagues in human lungs and skin and guts,
Conducted rousing symphonies of storms,
Earthquakes, tsunamis, fires, and wrote
In stone: if you survive all this, the time itself
Will kill you. Yet this law, My Father’s Law,
No – our law, I share blame for it – forbade
The dead to die. Infinities of pain,
We gave as punishments for finite crimes.
My father made me judge, and I looked down
On human beings. I saw their sinfulness
And built sparse Heaven and a crowded Hell.
I thought this law was justice ‘til the day
I learned what it is like to be condemned.


Pontius, I have no right to punish you.
I killed you. I killed everyone you loved.
I tortured you, but this ends here. You’re free.
All Hell breaks out today. I will not judge.
From now on, I refuse to do my job.
I am not Christ the King. I abdicate.
How you repay your debt to those you killed
Is your own cross to carry – they decide
Whether they will forgive you when you meet
In Paradise. And Pontius, I forgive
You for my death, of course. How could I not?
But I’m not here to tell you that, I’m here
To ask, to plead, for what I don’t deserve
From everyone in Hell, but first from you.
Brother, when we last met I said to you
That you would have no power over me
Were it not given from above, but now
I bow my head, give power from below.
I beg you for the one gift only you
Can give me: I have sinned against you, please
Brother, can you – will you – forgive my sins?


Tags:

#Christianity #poetry #that one post with the thing #hell cw #death cw #murder cw #illness tw

aeschylus-stan-account:

fluentisonus:

fluentisonus:

shelley’s ozymandias but it’s about lost websites & broken links from bygone days of internet history

look on my works ye mighty and despair [geocities link]

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Say no more!

I met an admin on an antique site,

Who said: two vast and broken hyperlinks

Stand in the cyan menu. To their right,

A glitter gif of Mickey Mouse still winks,

Whose pixel smile, and endless looped delight

Tell that its maker well those passions knew

Which yet survive, stamped on this lifeless shell:

The mind that shaped them, and the hand that drew.

And on the header green, pink words appear:

My name is Ozzie Mandias LOL

This is my homepage—come pull up a chair!

Little beside remains. Round the decay

Of QuickTime music tracks, boundless and bare,

The leveled geocities stretch away.


Tags:

#poetry #amnesia cw

Purple Oceans

helloitsbees:

jumpingjacktrash:

historical-nonfiction:

For about seven-eights of the Earth’s history, its oceans were extremely rich in sulfides. This would have prevented animals and plants from surviving in 70% of the planet. But it was a great habitat for photosynthetic bacteria that require sulfides and sunlight to live. Known as purple and green sulfur bacteria (because those are the two colors it comes in) these single-celled microbes can only live in environments where they simultaneously have access to sulfides and sunlight.

That they thrived in the sulfide-rich ocean has been confirmed with the finding of fossilized pigments of purple sulfur bacteria in 1.6 billion-year-old rocks from the McArthur Basin in Northern Australia.

i looked up purple sulfur bacteria and now i’m laughing bc the ocean must’ve looked like a giant glass of grape juice, these things really are purple

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9d7d0e1fa62c796a23a9f486e446ce8f4183ee33

Tags:

#biology #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #((this amusement not to be taken as expressing an opinion regarding the statement itself)) #poetry

mangledmouth:

i got a gig, telling stories to a gang of witches
they sit semicircle round me, cross legged and i tell them
every mundane detail of my day, draw out my fears
and shakes and angers and small, desolate disappointments
like strings of sugared candy. recount momentary crushes
on strangers in alleyways, on buses, in half-open coats
they’re all like—500 years old, give or take a decade
they don’t get these things anymore. some part of you dries up
so they just listen, and then they take me to the door and they put
eighty dollars in my hand, from a chest in the corner
piled high with cash, in layers of color, some older, some foreign
and i think about breaking in. but they could kill me
so easily, and they pay me over minimum wage, so i just smile
and cry on the bus, and feel odd thinking about telling them
next week, about crying on the bus.

i’ve got this girl, a couple weeks now, and i didn’t even mean to
swore i wouldn’t date when i got into this part of town
it’s like being a chip in a hurricane, marveling at the massive
unable to get your feet on the ground. but i got this girl
she’s got teeth made to pierce the important veins, but she swears
she’s seven years dry and she has bags of red stuff in her fridge
so I believe her. but, you know, they say vampires can do that
put thoughts in your head, so maybe i don’t believe her.

i think a lot about love
how it gets in your veins, parasitic
how it fucks up your brain
i think a lot about how it comes on you
about how it pulls the rug out
how it blows foundations open for the marrow
i think a lot about how i don’t want it
i think about that while she puts me on the floor and
puts her mouth on my neck, but doesn’t bite

love’s always coming for you. it’s an invisible force
sure and utter as the divine right of kings
as the bus charging fifty cents more every year

against my will, i am sent to bring you to dinner
against my will, i am in love with you
against my will, i am opening, i am opening
against my will i am opening the door

– urban fantasy; r.m.s


Tags:

#storytime #poetry #witches #vampires #death mention #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what

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plasmapop:

plasmapop:

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20/04/20 • title is the subject line of an email about middle egyptian classes. italics are ‘quotes from my middle egyptian prof that i happened to write down’ 

#…apparently this post was *not* made in October #it was posted in June and that date implies it was written in April #which means that truck of emotional resonance that hits you at #“it is october‚ and i wait for the symptoms of spring/it is april‚ but only when i close my eyes” #is not *intended* to be there #or at least *that* particular truck isn’t #but fuck it they sing it back to you for 85000 reasons (via @brin-bellway)

yeah so possibly this unintentionally contains a timeloop thing. you’re right that it was written in april but it also grew out of various sentences from my diary-ish notebooks. the line about october/april was written in october 2019 and was vaguely about seasonal depression / winter Sucks and april is when you can See trees starting to grow leaves again. then when i was putting the poem together in april obviously that resonated in…… a very different way. so i was like yeah ok sure. and now it’s october again and it has a whole new but not unrelated meaning!! poetry timeloop

#so yeah intent doesn’t really…… matter and usually i don’y reblog things onto this blog

#but this time it’s kinda interesting bcs i Did actually intend it Kind Of this way but then also the intent got Out Of Control!!!

I wrote a post [link] about time standing still during the plague, so it makes sense that that was the first meaning that hit me. I can see *multiple* COVID-related interpretations, though: one could also interpret it, not as waiting for the spring of 2020 that never came, but as waiting for the metaphorical blooming of a post-plague world (which *could* potentially happen during a literal springtime too).

The second interpretation that occurred to me was a Northerner moving to the Southern Hemisphere, the experience of the local Octobers carrying what they still think of as a certain essential April-ness.

Also I just took the exam for my penultimate semester and late next month I start my final semester, so…obviously it depends on how much 2020 Bullshit I have to deal with in the next few months, there could well be delays, but the single most likely month for “what month am I going to officially receive my diploma” is April 2021. Next spring will likely be a metaphorical spring for me personally, the blooming of the next stage of my life, entering my career.

Plus there’s that seasonal-depression interpretation, which I did not think of on my own but yeah I can see that.

Layers!!


Tags:

#reply via reblog #poetry #time #death tw #covid19 #is the blue I see the same as the blue you see #illness tw #adventures in University Land

plasmapop:

5b5aab97a80ba53a4e31e73d7225f855f3e6cb94

20/04/20 • title is the subject line of an email about middle egyptian classes. italics are ‘quotes from my middle egyptian prof that i happened to write down’ 


Tags:

#…apparently this post was *not* made in October #it was posted in June and that date implies it was written in April #which means that truck of emotional resonance that hits you at #”it is october‚ and i wait for the symptoms of spring/it is april‚ but only when i close my eyes” #is not *intended* to be there #or at least *that* particular truck isn’t #but fuck it they sing it back to you for 85000 reasons #poetry #101 Uses for Infrastructureless Computers #Egypt #history #death tw #historical documentation in at least two senses #covid19


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The Virus

birdblogwhichisforbirds:

Like Pilate before Christ, I wash my hands.
When soap rips them to shreds, do viruses
Feel pain? And can a virus feel regret
When it has killed its host and doomed itself?
No doves or rainbows follow the great flood
Of pus and blood that laid waste to the lungs
It called its home. I thought I’d killed my host
When I was small – the pale and perfect host
that I believed was not bread but the flesh
of God. My sin infested hands with nails,
Contaminated love itself with death.
But my infecting soul could only live
in Him. Survival meant I must mutate
into a strain of self less virulent,
that doesn’t eat or fuck or rage or sleep
or hope for anything other than Him,
or feel things besides shame, or love
herself.

I’d hide like herpes simplex in my God,
and scarcely bother him. It didn’t work.
“Can you not wait and watch an hour with me?”
I tried. I can’t. I’m human. I need sleep.
My fast fails, so I vomit, so my flesh
Insists on more. I slash my arms
to drive away my rage at you, the pain
only brings further rage. I’m hollowed out,
an animated corpse. Saints you run dry
Have tired and lifeless eyes but sparkling souls.
My soul is still a fetid mass of slime,
but my dark-circled eyes stare out
from a sick-looking face. I start to ask,
who is infecting whom? Why do the hands
that flung stars into space require a girl
an unimportant girl, to tear herself
to pieces pleasing him? I realized
I’m not the virus. You are. I’m the host.
I cast the angels out and heal myself.

But now the world’s more broken than before
(And it was always broken, always cruel,
Always riddled with plagues, always unjust,
Always oppressive, always full of pain,
Always on fire, but it burns brighter now.)
Temptation whispers “Re-infect yourself
with Me. There is no joy or peace on earth,
Only on the other side of the grave.
Give up on earthly good: nothing is good
but God alone. Abandon all your hope.
See all the kingdoms of the aching world!
Watch how they writhe around in agony
All this pain I will take away from you
If you simply bow down and worship me!”
Into your hands, Lord, I refuse to give
My spirit. I don’t trust omnipotence
To save me or my neighbor. Though I have
Almost no power, still the power I have,
I use for love, including for myself.
I worship life in spite of everything.
I say the world to come can fuck itself.
This one, imperfect, finite though it is
I will protect in any way I can.
Like Pilate before Christ, I wash my hands.


Tags:

#poetry #Christianity #covid19 #illness tw #unsanitary cw #self harm cw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what #(I might be reading too much into it but #–knowing that the author moved from Britain to America– #I feel like there might be some layers of meaning in the fact that ”neighbor” is spelled without a ”u” here) #(something about chosen homes)