“BOWING AT THE OPHIOLATRINE” by SEAN KILPATRICK

Bowing at the Ophiolatrine: Being commandments for an obsolete “religion”.

(Intending the millennial grievous harm.)

 

1. KNEEL ALONE AT THE MOUTH OF THE OUROBOROS.

2. ENGRAVE YOUR EVERY CURSE.

3. ARCHIVE THE WORK OF YOUR BETTERS.

4. DROOL SALT IN THE WOMB.

5. PROVOKE NO ONE, SHOOT ONCE PROVOKED.

6. WEAR EACH GENITAL IN A SLING.

7. BREAK YOUR HAND TO THE FIRE’S RHYTHM.

8. BEAR WITNESS NOWHERE, SAVE HELL.

9. COVET YOUR GRAVE THROUGH A STRAW.

10. PROSELYTIZE REVENGE (THE KNIFE IS AN ALTAR).

 

 

Spoken on high by a snake circling my urinal (life’s sole embalm) toward the embrace of its own rattle and concerning the generally arrogant wireless state of affairs unobtainable for rebuke, the smitten milieu from which I withdraw, never far enough, toward a holier resentment and here make space within the iron maiden for others to join pell-mell. Further disavowment embodied below.

 

To join, post a pic, face strewn with blood (yours or others’). As founder, I approve any Frankian redemption through sin carried out under the hospices of this fledgling orthodoxy and hereby exempt myself from the pale laws and citizenry of all nations (including civic responsibility, taxes, the well-being of my poor future, concurrent spouses and suggestable crimes against).

 

Doctrine

 

Kneel alone at the mouth of the Ouroborous. The reward at the end of solitude is beyond pituitary. You gather wounds to wag the space where your tail isn’t. No flesh worth text, no misanthropy mean enough in practice or in theory. Exhume theory from the campus and pluck off its wings. The death throe is our true exegesis. Evolution elaborated us a conniving ordeal just to gulp. Every success comes with an asterisk shaped like the person behind it. Why aren’t more serial killers in the news? Bait the world by grinning. Crawl through life enlightened. (See Brother Theodore.)

 

Engrave your every curse. The purpose below purpose: record talent worthy of constant incineration. Spray graffiti on the cosmic maw. Avoid being reamed explicative. Remove your acupuncture by sneezing until the libraries are full of viscera.

 

Archive the work of your betters. Speak with reverence to those whose work has revealed itself to you. Be of service, no matter difference of style, or foremost mind your business, blowing off steam in private. Naming names in public is often a kind of snitchery. (If an artist cries wolf with any crime visit that crime upon them tenfold). Compared to their output an artist is as a mouse taken shape beneath the scales of a serpent. Dangle a clock above the skull of whoever is useful for temporary elation. (See fifth commandment if someone exerts control roisterously, or at all.)

 

Wear a sling around each genital. Hide an anchor inside every petal of the bouquet. Be a hummingbird with an anvil tied between its tits. Past the age of thirty, no one else is esteemed an exclusion to gamble against your paramount solitude because they will subtract from who you are with their inconsolable, time-consuming need for attention and return only parodic love, whether they mean to or not. Do both of you a favor: converse, come, never sleep in the same bed. Stuff the brat with raw nipples until it grows a gill. (See Iceberg Slim.)

 

Drool salt in the womb. “Melt your fucking nationality.” – Sam Pink. Wave the flag for your own abortion. Family is a task inflicted secondarily, if at all. Avoid the plague of lovable people. We exist to praise bloodletting and proclaim zero virtue. Commit any regrettable good deed in silence, almost by accident. Reserve dopamine for a project outside a hand or spouse. Monogamy is a bent and zombifying chemical.

 

Provoke no one, shoot once provoked. Notice others most when they attempt and fail to control you and punish them for it nonstop. Be controlled by talent and orgasm only. Practice shutting people down, cut them out of your life by blood, silence, or both. Upon strike one, counter atomically.

 

Break your hand to the fire’s rhythm. One’s line of thought should be the perfect crime.

 

Bear witness nowhere, save hell. We are alive in hell already, jeered through its pinhole. Death may not assuage, yet one knights oneself through suicide.

 

Covet your grave through a straw. Hold a straw up to your pupil whence coveting the grave’s syntax. Envy the shroud, expel the meat below. Ideate violence with a snorkel. Hypervigilance is worth the preceding traumas.

 

Proselytize revenge. The knife is a portable altar our sacrifices heap themselves upon. Those who advance against your meek demeanor or shared vulnerabilities (especially if the perpetrator demands as such (competition is there to train infants)) without cause (with bored and arrogant argumentation and direct nonconstructive insult) enable the cycle of their own retributory lambhood. Someone will forever be stepping into your space. To accuse general expectation or countenance of rigging the situation against you is a therapeutic con perpetrated by the intellectually gifted upon the weak-willed and moneyed because they cannot appreciate the sound bloodletting of an endlessly impending recompense. Fatalism scratches the surface.

 

Beatitudes

 

Daily routine, minimal food, talent training, art inundation, weapons. Food and money are a tinfoil shelter of humiliation via bloodline, country, indentured servitude; a maintenance for the trick society converts you into – touch with disgust when necessary. Assume anyone stood before you is the conman who bested you into homelessness (no ghost feels regret): avoid, ignore, or treat them politely until their intentions drip, then stick shears in their mouth and squeeze the cheek meat in half so the fucking scream can fit out better. Every relationship should come with quotation marks around it. Sentimental contact is an embarrassing vaccine to be kept in reserve and doled forth as little as possible. If you grant contact, make sure to follow the upcoming abuse with a sound strike in return. Approach a human heartbeat with extreme prejudice.

 

Where you live and how you make that living are of zero consequence until either is made a source of personal pride. Woe to you then who live lives vast and yuppied, who swell your markets, you predatory loan sharks, you claimers of faux rebellious collectives cowed under a sense of duty, you collegiate pocket politickers waving snitch culture smartphones, you specious crowd justices and obvious appealers to a commonality of oppression, you tourniquet of identities, you self-help charity drivers atop a squalid sea of comments, but that you had one neck, quoth saint Carl Panzram, the press-in-able Adam’s apple of this neat new satan online, unreachable and provoked by the subjectively petty, staying hidden behind a firewall of anonymity or distance where one’s beloved knife, alas, cannot travel! We will rim the stuffing from your pets.

 

The blood groove of a knife (rumored to assist suctional maneuverability while stabbing flesh) is really there so you can blow bubbles.

 

Open for business – blood donations only.

 

Signed Sean Kilpatrick, Founder of the Ophiolatrine