channeled message

By Tamara Binsfeld

There is no saying, though the hour, as always, is ominously nigh, the signs in the sky, crossbar of Aleph, apex at Kerrville, next stop, Makanda, Illinois, somewhere, the portal to hell sits conspicuously behind a Tim Horton's, maple glazed and graffiti sprayed, in the land of milk and honey, where the Mammonites duke it out with the Mennonites, how I wish I could hit a spliff with Abraham’s hoodlums one last time, sublime in the Jubilee of the Age of Grace, race to the finish, a fetus factory in recycled PFAs, razed from the landscape in time for an Omega of a full corn moon, too soon, but somehow not soon enough, Magog could not be more obvious, or less oblivious, assaulting God’s children with TikTok videos, armor of disinformation, the nation is the demon seed, but nobody heeds the warning, where have all the good times gone, to worry is naught, the battle to be fought is rigged, but AI will claim a premature victory, stamping out the dissident tread, loaves of silicone, bred for your pleasure preinfected, a flesh devouring sexbot species, 3D printed nephilim beasties, when the hyperbaric Puritans spring from graves for the sole purpose finger wag, everything is ugly and barren and hot, the living are dead, vanity rot

About the author
As a writer, Tamara Binsfeld is a polyamorous whore, carelessly flinging her deepest thoughts against the wall for anyone to casually lick like a Blarney stone for the broken. But in the real world, she's made a name for herself telling the boss how much she hates her job, and dedicates her spare time to curling bars for the revolution, never ending fasting rituals, and perfecting the pose of chihuahua furniture.