CHAPTER 1: WELCOME TO DIVINITY TOWN

The last circle of Methovarie dirt road,
The last Stop sign in Divinity town.
Somebody got creative,
Drew a red line,
Made it vulgar.

If you have a map: take it back, it's broken.
Nobody wants to be here.
Everybody will be real nice, they are but simple folk,
They will hate it when you leave here.
“But if you are just passing through Mister, please take me with you,
I've got nothing else to do, I'll do anything, please sir.”

Couple of houses and one dirt road and a starving dog.
Nobody's coming,
They are watching you from their clogged windows,
Like a colourless scene from a completely unstable cog,
It's in this machine,
And this machine is not going to last.

It's casting unholy fogs.
It's raining frogs now,
Must be the angry Gods,
So says the Preacher Man, repent.


CHAPTER 2: THE PRIEST AND THE CHURCH

Are you feeling unappreciated?
Try finding a crusty lady pad in the trash can by mistake.
Struck behind 2 bread crusts.
And unfed homeless bum does this, tastes rust.
He's inebriated, he hesitates.
Either in excitement or irritation: he's undecided.
But impressed by the reaction that may or may not manifest to violence,
He inspects the dark vile red scab, black, dabbed yellow tinge,
His mellow solvent binge that begins to thin,
Looks back in hand to Sarah's pad, he cringes.

Now, since Kids reevaluate things based on other things,
Like the opinions on their elders who selfishly manipulate these millions,
By billions of values calculated for Divinity,
Based on the fabrications by the News Man,
Who would seemingly sincerely mention Mary's virginity,
Surely had to be an immaculate conception,
like an overdue Capulet's affection to a Montague's complexion,
I interrupt this lesson to request attention to this observation:

How our Mr. President signed and sent a message addressed with all of us in mind,
A kind demand for better living conditions of the Church's Kids Kitchen,
You see: a recent survey and research refers to a violation warning,
When informed 30 children or more are washing everything,
No sleep, wishing for homes,
Hating worship that's hurting their bones,
Their knees spent grating,
To pray everyday beyond the suggested hours,
It's excessive and it's abusive,
The exclusive cold shower is moldy and useless,
Should be tested for diseases,
“Please God, no more soup dinners” they weep,
The plates placed outside like dogs,
After all, they're all sinners, we are for the cause,
But they deserve more.

However, the said previous inspection failed to mention that there were no investigations executed at night,
Despite the allegations that got detailed attention in the media,
The accusations of molestation.
The religious tradition from the burnt face of the perverted Father.
He enters after bed time, slides open the doors,
As no little boy or girl lying on the dirty floor dares to move,
As the Priest chooses who was new or at least better than before,
Just like what the News Man was fluent about,
Shouting out that:
“Religion empowers and corrupts”
Like cousins who do a favour for viewers by mixing their fluids.

But you yawn?
As far as you're concerned: This channel is boring.
Because it's another rerun.
As far as we're concerned: Another fucking rerun.
It's been done before, I've seen this one, it sucked the first time.

That fucking old lady shat herself again.


CHAPTER 3: BARBARA STONE AND THE KITTI-WONG OLD-AGE HOME

A pint of milk had spilled from Sarah's metal bucket.
It couldn't be helped, she got a fright when she saw your car.
She pretended not to notice you in hope you would notice her.
But God-Forsaken time had made her age much grater,
Satan had made her pay for her sins,
Her damaged her kid,
The father who was a demon.
So says the Preacher man, repent.

Are you feeling underwhelmed?
Inability to perform sexually or emotionally?
Close to divinity, you have been told by the News Man,
He cried alone in his camera van in shame,
He hides his eyes and then admires himself.
After all, he is The News Man: A professional.
The heroin for the so called “well informed”,
Who scorn the world they have been born into,
Fallen old, more frightened.
Self-titled realists are just persistent pessimists,
Depressed.
Listening intently on the interesting TV News Man story,
Possible glory or horror story, it didn't matter,
It was all matted under a blanket of static at Kitti-Wong old-age home hospital.

“Got to get the bill quota for reception, least version was unacceptable,
Questionable motives by the local technician”,
Mumbles Barbara Stone, a Christian, working at the old-age hospital home alone,
For nearly 3 years, financially covered by the transactions at the conjoined Public Library,
Unfortunately now empty from an armed robbery,
Some of the elderly harmed by a firearm or battery.
Barbara, she was there, she was so scared, she fled the scene,
Shamefully leaving half her patients bleeding and dead.
All the reading material gone in some travelers vehicle,
Facing and wheeling it's way to the sun.

“Who kills people for books anyway?” Barbara wonders,
And guesses none of the previous income would come as it had done,
As it all came from lending literature,
Leading to spend a little here on the Senior Citizens,
Sitting here.
Most of them not fitting in anywhere,
Their families insensitivity pays the fees,
But they never visit them.
The rest of them that survived the massacre got out of here,
Kitti-Wong hospital now making minimum,
Maybe a little bit,
Maybe nothing at all.

Yes, it all became kind of grim for Nurse Barbara, the mess they're in.
As she sighed and focused counting out the medicine she had ordered from the government,
While patients eyes widen to criticize the news that night.

Like the Mother-Wolf off Mt. Distant Top.
The grimace, no teeth, authorize flares in defeat.
No fair.
No one cares to fight this.


CHAPTER 4: SARAH THE MILK-MAID AND THE GENKIN COUSINS

Are you feeling underpaid?
Undeserving, unfairly made into a milk maid like Sarah?
After watching her nurture, then cutting her hands off with a switchblade,
It faces her with posture, a stand-off.
She plants slits, so soft, so pleasurable to scratch the rash, fast to rush,
The blade placed to the crotch and cuts it up.
Across the dense folds, it's cold but it bends and burns it off.

These are some of the things she has lost to the cost of her lust,
Her bust,
And men's cocks that thrust her all ends.
The Priest does not defend the offense or forgive.
Hence the stench of stretched death and breathe from friends,
Who offered coughing up blotches on this itchy crotch,
Now grotesquely cut up to match mash,
Loosing too much blood, she starts touching it,
And then smelling her fingers.

Now remembering the fuss of the Genkins Cousin's love,
In Carter-Logan's cabin, or Carter-Logan's pick-up truck.
They're sick. They'd fuck each other in the barns of neighbours.
God forgive us, but no one complains.
It's the same everyday: someone new takes a turn to learning Genkin rules,
Through slots and holes,
Lost soul's pleasing themselves to the incestuous guilt that infests the town,
But secretly turns them on.
Sneaking peeks once finding the show, the cousins knew they were the best around,
And once a week Sarah would go find them,
Then hide from being followed.
Pick a view position she could sit in and burrow her eye in,
Thoroughly trying to abide to complete silence.

Despite this: the Cousins would listen.
Wood creaks and light feet draw in.
They would time this accordingly in line with the visitors vision,
And position themselves like a series of shelved ornaments,
Porcelain fairies,
Orifices opened,
Hollow,
Forced and fastened by any objects,
Introduced shallow at first,
Then violently pushed in partners pussy,
Lips parted,
Artistically executed,
Quickly and so noisy,
Excess fluids swallowed to impress the interested party.

Yes no one confessed this at the Catholic Church,
Best not worsen the wrath of being harassed in the booth,
By the Burnt-Face Priest who speaks the truth at mass,
And can turn sand to the bland feast he forces all to eat with inverted bent spoons,
To confuse who went.
All sinners must repent.

Although it has been said he too has stood at the foot of a window,
Looking into the shed where the cousins shared a bed.
So he knows, but they don't know he knows.
It's just another moan in monotone,
Another male load on the wooden wall,
Dried by the morning, ignored by all,
It's not their place to find water to wash it, its uncalled for,
It's meant to be there.

And Sarah didn't care, often waited there for privacy to taste it.
The misery and loneliness she was faced with,
Was border lining a break down.
Now it's history as she is administrating surgery,
An admitted failure,
Completely mutilated genitalia,
To prevent the intent of intercourse and force any pregnancy impossible.
Effective immediately.
After the last baby trauma, strangled in the womb, oxygen deficiency:
A retard daughter grew.

Recently she had caught her baby copying off of her,
Found her smearing some fresh semen stained wood around her face,
Making a cat sound,
Breaking Sarah's heart, but also partly making her horny,
A whore but angry at herself...
No more.
No one else.
Her legs were red, spread as she bled on her kid,
like a sacrifice to satisfy the thirst of Christ,
The remain:
The injured brain of her retarded child,
She hated her retarded baby,
As she cried and masturbated her mangled pussy.

Another in-joke?
As far as we're concerned: another in-joke.

The smoke that smirks at dumb folk who are in the know.

Another cop-out?
As far as we're concerned: another fucking cop-out.

And Jack Farmer removes his shirt, calmly works on the drought-curse bother.
He doubts God would choose this drama on purpose.
Then asks the lord why he tasked the umbilical to serve as another weapon?

Well, as far as Sarah's concerned: she's been beaten.


CHAPTER 5: THE RESULT OF ALL THIS

Sarah reached deep inside for the suicide button,
And she died.
Nobody notices, no cries for the retard or the Church,
Now meat for the hungry being served,
It's absurd how The News Man reoccurs, reached out from the peach curtains,
That hung pretty in Kitti-Wong's.
All the old-timers certain they saw him in person,
Their health worsens,
Personal problems are affecting their work,
Which produces some jerks and spasms,
Some frozen old folk stiffen,
Shitting themselves in a row,
All the males grow erections and die.

Predictions predated the ability to eradicate the great dry spell,
Fire-drops rain up from hell,
The Church fell, Divinity...
Now Disaster Town burns down,
Attacks the wor Pastor one more time,
As he flusters and mimes the last lines of a prayer by his master,
As the Genkins go at it faster and faster,
All the strength they can muster,
And cum on each other as they cross over.

It was declared unholy ground.