I'm alone and ready and then…my good old body finally shakes up to itself. Then, I'm inside of her. Just like that…inside. Deep and immoral and inside…I been alone for a long time, though…and I love this girl…I guess…by proxy. We here alone. That is…I'm alone, she's alone…and you got to love somebody who just as lonely as you are…that's scripture, at least.
But ain't it the truth that God must hate us all? On some level…I mean…to punish us to these vulgar bodies, this smelly act. I can see now why Man hates God…or, at least, why we slip down into the crypts of megalomania and have a look around for awhile. It's nice down there…those brown, simple walls are lined with stained glass…blue and red and yellow… and the gold halos of saints are snuffed out, stored forever… floatin in vats of rubbin alcohol. I can see it now…
I wonder what is it to feel like God? I mean, to actually know what it's like to look down here on Earth and see all of this shit. A dream, I guess. But I, personally, don't take too much to dreaming. This once, though…Ulysses…or maybe just what I thought was Ulysses…asked me in a Holy Vision if I was a slave to the Godly Wish. I told him, "Ulysses, those Sirens beat some fanciful rhythm into the ocean and you was followin." The payment of my girl's body, her insides…well, they see me…some horrible need in me and I feel a paradox, a decision I gotta make between God and my pecker. But unlike those…singing bells…unlike God in the most general sense…the body of my girl ain't less than what I expected….
So what is it that I expected then? That's the question I think about all of the goddamned time. Was I supposed to expect the sex act as some glorious release? Was it really the meldin of two bodies into one? Come on! That's fuckin ridiculous! I didn't expect that, or anything of the sort.
I expected…self-doubt, I guess. I expected to be damned to Hell….
Spite what most people sayin' here on Earth, I ain't in Hell yet…thankfully, but boy do I got some doubt! Slippery doubt…doubt that writhes in my hands like a…like a dying snake! Or ain't that…in my hand…my poor old pecker?
Poor old pecker-snake! Ain't you sad? Didn't we buy our little rowboat before the Apocalypse was callin…didn't we sail out to the Sea of Galilee, away from all temptation? How could we have known that that evil Antichrist was inside the boat too, watchin us all along, smilin behind his invisible cloak…checkin his breath…cinchin apples? I was told different bout our relationship, you old, poor pecker-snake. If I'd known that you let him in our boat, I wouldn't have gone out there with you (figuratively speakin, of course). I wouldn't call myself no Onanist, but that's what happened out there…I ain't happy to admit that…cause I coulda stopped.
But I'm trapped now, pecker-snake… trapped hoverin above the sex act, listenin to the metronomic thumps of your hissin fury. I feel sorry for you, poor boy…I mean, you wasn't there when God turned World Innocence on a dime…like some little wave rolling back into Pegasus Bay. You wasn't there when those horrible pagan women perverted the hymns of sex into somethin dawdlin and tender and…and almost sacrilegious. You wasn't there and that's fine because neither was I. But above the sex act, lookin down, I can watch you and see all of these things somehow…and somehow I know that you were put here to do the same things as that Antichrist…and I feel sorry for you…cause you, somehow, is all Sin.
I know the Truth…you to blame for it, inseparable from it. You a pecker-snake, and God put you here to be Sin. Question is…why should I be angry cause of this? Cause I come very close to thinkin that I have a better chance at lettin out that Antichrist than I do of lettin out the Holy Spirit when I rub you a little? Shit…ain't my fault. God's fault on that one…if you ask me.
And even if I ain't right…what am I to do with the likes of you, then? Be damned to Hell and chop you off anyway? No way, no how!
I somehow need to just be God for one day, that's it. I just need that one day…but you know as well as I do, my dear old pecker-snake, that ain't gonna happen.
So what do I got left? Watchin this sex act? Voyeurism? Now this…this the closest I'll probably ever come to godliness…I guess.
Why didn't that nasty Antichrist pecker-snake slither up and get inside of all those women? And didn't the Good God just put me and those same harlots here…mix us up a little….then watch and laugh and maybe question our perverted thinkin?
Well, until I figure that all out, I'll just sit here and watch you go on and on. I know I shouldn't be questionin our Good God, but I'll be just like old Yahweh, watchin and not doin nothin for now. And you…you just keep doin what you doin, pecker-snake. I'll just sit here and watch and listen to these little, white seraphim that always perch here on my shoulders…God's agents! I listen to their whispers, to their chides as you keep goin inside that girl. They're formin a fine choir here on my shoulders, pecker-snake. They sing all the time. Gloria! Gloria! Gloria in the highest! They're great to hear sometimes.
I just hope I don't go crazy waitin for my chance to sing.