mother superior

sisters, fuck…

my little skanks dont pray to God, for they are ill suited for the sixth dimension. i am their superior mother and they do not obey. fear of the everlasting has not crushed them, goddamit. there is an innocent girl, looking dour. there is a blonde bubble-maker thinking of nothing else but the world beyond our galactic gate. then a pathological liar, telling stories to amuse her companions. there is the reader, a girl with weepy scornful eyes and wandering hands, leafing aimlessly at dead-end papers. and then a girl who likes to screw every strutting, all-talking man-child. so then, of course, there are more. these are my babies. in this fast forwarding future, monasteries still hold the Truth bound together with a whole army of capital Lies. probe seeking wars may rage outside these walls; stray rape and murder may fill the skies with nuclear exhaustion. and yet these little shits do not fear the impossible. they know nothing of it. they still read forbidden literature; they play with their inner organs and make whistling sounds with blueberry-smacking lips. why dont i reach for a cupful of truth, move the hand of God and cram some holy sense down their fallacious, cum-guzzling throats? yet i take one look at them and i know that every day i fail at delivering anything toward my spiritual oaths. tell me off then. i see these goddamn owls. they are ubiquitous, white and reproachful. flying in the fog-infested night in squadrons. they are the only animals with whom we have a relationship within these fucking monastery walls and towers. i want to bang their miniscue fucking skulls against the eternal. or against the centrepiece of our yard, our cupful of blessings, the medieval gemstone. yet that is the false truth.