The Centurion's Cry

what-what!!?? Im celebrating Easter, dawg, in the Thanksgiving season, son! Yo, Yo, Im celebrating Lent @ Christmas and Christmas at Easter! What-What! Big up to my nig big Nietzsche, nahm saying? Dat bamma was right son (on Good Friday, at least)

Jesus, my Dude - TONIGHT U IZ DED SON! D-E-D DEAD!

How yall likes dem apples? - Read on!!!!
(dont worry I got Acts Chronicles and anecdotes about the babe who dissed me
coming up tomorrow!)

TONIGHT WE HONOR THE MIGHTY - FALLEN


When Jesus had received the sour wine, he said, "It is finished," and he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (John 19:30)


[-A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.
-A subject for a great poet would be God's boredom after the seventh day of creation.
-After coming into contact with a religious man I always feel I must wash my hands. - Nietzsche]

Ayo....son....Jesus is dead....and we (our sin) killed him. Madmen (and madwomen)

----------/Absence of Aspiration: The Centurion's Cry

sacrilegious silence
shameful. sad
sunlight shunned. sacredness sabotaged shrouded
satchels and sackcloth
saliva slithering
down his mouth
somber, stiff.
paraparesis. peaceful peripatetic pinned patronizing placard placed
above him
and the wind is bone chilling cold
and the void, the voices of insidious inner insecurity; an incredible
screed on sustained sinfulness
more palpable.
the earth quakes, the dead incensed so greatly they walk and moan
vultures circling not over the weak and waning wounded
but eyeing the healthy, the formidable and stout
disordered chaos - morass, bedlam
no one harbors hope anymore but harrowing horror
vacant eyes - all victims
sentenced to death and untimely demise with no salvation
to cling to in these darkened moments
blood willingly offered, goaded into a grave grotesquely
flagrant flogging foul dice rolled for his robe
gashing crown
the world, through this thick trenchant
blackness is blind
and predatory animals, lions, wolves, bears, walk the streets
out of sorts, unsure and unsteady
seated next to us trembling
Dropping the extra nails I have in my hand I drop
to my knees and embrace the dirt
bracing for annihilation, or newfound nihilism that will become
normative
scared, huddled next to other soldiers but feeling lost and alone
burly men, over six foot tall crying
murderers dont murder anymore and thieves dont steal and plunder
they have killed their own hearts
and stolen their own souls by their shudder-inducing shouts
"CRUCIFY HIM"
the moon has failed to rescue, all our refuges renege
on relief
Pilate's wife begging for mercy echoes in the tempest
a storm is brewing
the rain coarse like drops of blood
this is the absence of aspiration
this is God dying


(we killed him)

Nietzsche - THE MADMAN----


Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: "I seek God! I seek God!"---As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated?---Thus they yelled and laughed

The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him---you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.

"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us---for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."

Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. "I have come too early," he said then; "my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars---and yet they have done it themselves.

It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: "What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?"


When the centurion and those who were with him, keeping watch over Jesus, saw the earthquake and what took place, they were filled with awe and said, "Truly this was the Son of God!" (Matthew 27:54)