Slouching Towards Deathlehem

Slouching towards Deathlehem. An olive branch in one hand, brass knuckles in the other. Kiss and kill, turmoil and thrill. One pot to piss in, the other to cook up what could be anyone’s last supper. Amazing grace pulls all-nighters with greed and gluttony. Blood mongers preach poisonous prevarications from bullet pulpits. Every day, gets more difficult to assist the walking wounded when we’re distracted by smart phones, consumed by controversy, bludgeoned by political upper cuts and double crosses. All the rabble-rousing, bully babble: lethal edits for fate’s apocalyptic line editor. Better to think before we speak, rehabilitate before we annihilate. Better to rewrite all this insanity into one calm, connected living breath.


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