You know what the poetry of the Testament of Truth reminds me of? There was this book published in the early 1980s called "Michelle Remembers". It basically helped kick off the Satanic panic. Anyway, at one point Michelle is supposedly in this giant pit thingy, for like a week, and Satan periodically shows up, and spouts the most horrible poetry, like so:
FOR THE FOLLOWERS of darkness, Satan's Master Plan was the high point of the feast, the long-awaited moment when he would reveal his intentions and his wishes for the next twenty-eight years.* The ceremony took place in the nose of the pig face, and its message was called "What Satan Knows." Standing at the altar, Satan commenced the ritual.
I write a Master Plan Of the destiny of man....
Satan then picked up a large, wooden crucifix. During the course of the ceremony, he would whittle away at the carved statue of the crucified Christ until there was nothing left. Symbolically of the way he works in
the world--undercutting--he would start his whittling at the foot of the cross and proceed upward.
First, cut away the feet; Make a man feel incomplete. Lose his footing, lose his ground; Lose the way to walk around.
Pretty soon you have no knees; Then you can't bend, can't say please. Can't be humble, can't be small; Have to stand up straight and be tall. Taller than the rest; Start to think that you're the best.
Then a hand might go away; Without a hand it's hard to pray. Where's the sign? Where's your cross? Ha! It's getting very lost.
As he whittled, paring off countless slivers of wood, Satan flicked the fragments to the hungry fire. He had reached the loins of the corpus.
Then I chip away at the part
They say should be connected to the heart.
But I can separate it with one cut,
And make it separate, make it smut.
Leave barren a fertile place,
Just a body, with no face.
As the grotesque hands approached the upper reaches of the body of Christ, Satan began to rail against the Christian Church.
You've grown so tall, You can't be reached at all. I'm the one that's accessible now; I'm the one to show them how.
You're too far out to reach; I'm right here, each to each.
My priests know which way to go; The way I tell them, the way they know. Some of yours have lost their way; Some of yours don't know what to say.
Poor little sheep out in the cold; Come with me, I'll mark you sold. Some of it they cannot stomach; So I cut it away.
If arms can no longer teach;
Then they can no longer reach.
Then the world is in my grasp;
And the breath, my breath, will be the last.
I always act, sometimes in haste; But who cares if there's a little waste. If I can reach a human heart, I'll tear a human soul apart.
I just whittle away my time; Cutting into the heart of the divine. The Holy One, the One Most High; Ha! Not for long, pretty soon it will be I.
He had reached the heart, the heart of Christ--and had splintered it with his snake-gripped knife. And then he began on the head:
Thinking starts to be the first; If they figure it out, they know my curse. Get all caught up in their thought, Forget about what they've been taught.
Think so much, no time to pray, It's easier to listen to what I say. In a world where there's only sense, I'll make the most of my intents.
And finally, the eyes and the ears:
That's what's funny, funny to me, They are losing their eyes to me. They say they listen all around, But they never hear a sound.
As he finished the whittling and tossed the last splinters into the fire, he uttered his coda--
Slowly I whittle away.
That one's gone, but another's been given.
Another's come along, so I'll start.
I'll start at the feet
Make a man feel incomplete.
"Michelle Remembers", Ch. 31.
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"rabbid dog aggressive attitude" since 3035. THE SYSTEM IS TRAP!
