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Rupert Murdock, the decrepit baboon skeleton,
airs his saggy old *****, just scraping the ****** post-riot pavement,
tethered by holy eternal varicose veins.
On the pulpit,
while his latest  18-year-old Sinclair media wife
is about to get another sponsorship from both
Chick-fil-A and Pornhub simultaneously.
She hoists up her 4 pounds of silicone and chastises the teleprompter.  
The non-stop, family-values-approved bride to bed conveyor belt of
plastic, airbrushed Barbie fantasies delivers again,
family prepped since  16 , timed to be next in line on her eighteenth birthday,
prenup in hand, already half-replaced before the vows finish, brain-dead sacrificial ******.
She delivers the one line of her lifetime :

“Pray for stricter FCC compliance!”

Rupert Murdoch, that brittle old heartless greedy leather hate balloon, waddling up to the baptismal like some ****-mummified televangelist.
His ******* looks like a pair of deflated Macy’s parade balloons, gray and dragging,
incalculable waddles
swinging under fluorescent stage lights,
while Fox News’ camera crews powder  them up
and then pretends not to stay  zoomed in.

Next to him, his Sinclair-branded trophy wife—18 years old,
teeth white enough to blind an orphan
leans in, hissing like a possessed Stepford wife:

“FCC compliance, Daddy, for our sponsors!”

Meanwhile the teleprompter glitches, spitting out a slurry of half-written QAnon hashtags and ****** ads. Every time the chyron updates, his granny-bedazzled MAGA ***** twitch
like a Sunday school metronome,
keeping that uneducated southern apprentice rerun rhythm
with Tucker Carlson’s embalmed pre-****** consta-sneer somehow still echoing
through the sound system.

The sexually repressed civil rights denier menopause crowd
goes wild,
waving hymnals made of Bible stock options
and AR-15 gun show manuals.
The choir belts “Fair & Balanced” like it’s the Nicene Creed.
Karen boomers in rhinestone MAGA hats throw ******* on stage till it rivals Mt. Rushmore.
Then another hate-filled racist streamer Infowars priest breaks in, live-commenting the *****’ tempo.

The traumatized, ritually molested and ignored choir kids are
all corporate mascots:
Ronald the death-of-cows McDonald,
the forgotten pizza-*******-addicted Noid,
the ******* Geico Gecko shame-and-fear puppet,
all singing the Fox News hymnal
while ****-chugging Bud Light in NFL jerseys.
The cross-shaped teleprompters melt into a deepfake of
Jesus hocking MyPillow and ***** pills
simultaneously.

The A.I. audience loses their scripted corpo-tested ****.
Hot G.O.P. elected ****-doll **** Karens fleece boomers in rhinestone MAGA hats,
steadily flinging Spanx and granny ******* toward the stage
like it’s a Pentecostal wet t-shirt contest.

Black priests react, screaming
“POGCHAMP BALL SWAY”
into their Amazon headset mics.

The choir is a corporate mascot freakshow.
The Fox camera pans to Grimace rising from the fryer grease
like Cthulhu saving the Hamburglar’s soul from the elitist liberals. Except now no one can tell Matt Gaetz from his exact twin Ronald McDonald
as they are both conducting with ketchup-stained Trump-approved Happy Meal scepters.
The Geico Gecko, in liturgical robes, chants in Cockney while doing snow angels on a pile of corporate lobbyist insurance regulation cash
(oh, and all tax free).
Judge Judy, in ecstasy, hammers a tambourine like a tweaked-out animated hemorrhoid
They belt out the Fox News hymnal, a distorted “Fair & Balanced”  sports score interrupted  drone.

Deepfake Jesus appears.
Holy hologram Christ, beaming and lifelike,
pitching mandatory prayer in school
AFTER  collection plate time.

“Blessed are the erectile, for they shall inherit the white Earth.”

" Rupert’s will is all-powerful. He hath made Trump into an infallible MAGA God, and soon the tiny-handed orange one of mushroom ***** glory shall be ascending like the Star of Bethlehem, guiding the gas-guzzling SUVs to Wal-Mart to stock up on bullets, for the numerous bunkers shall overflow with powdered supplements and the ****** of your neighbors.    ... Amen."

The crowd bows in Islamic unison.
Rupert, the angry ******* desiccated ******* scarecrow,
***** doing subliminal semaphore, adjusts ***** microphones, lipstick-covered ******* swaying like a doomsday pendulum,
as the choir’s chorus crescendos into a mashup of Fox jingles
Bringing in the sheep  and “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”
Ellen Joyce Sep 15
I learned to hold my breath
the way leaves hold out for seasons change; continuously
relentlessly
bracingly -
both in anticipation of the storm
and caught beneath its savage gaze.
The piercing ditty,
melodious cries that uncoil us
springs forth like flashes of lightning -
fear that catapults towards another painful promise of sleepless nights and hope deferred yet held fast still.

Still
Still
I need only be still.
And I exhale
Your name on my breath
as I realise I’ve been holding air in my lungs, tighter than anxiety and fear clasped my heart causing the beats to come like torrential rain,
like tears of release, relief, remorse that fall, surrendering to the One who sees me.

I feel the load lift from my shoulders
boulder by boulder
9.12, 9.57, 11.26, 13.50, 16.10, 18.12
every confidence, horrifying utterance
weighed so heavy on my heart
absorbed into yours
piece for peace
Yahweh Yireh.

Still.
Still.
I need only be still.
simmer Sep 12
How quickly he forgets
Lashing out in revenge
Just to watch helplessly as God turns his outrage into righteous uproar

He lit a flame in hope of chaos
Only to see the word of God spread like wildfire
He took his shot, crosshairs centered on war
Only to learn we fight on our knees

Some don't long for light until there is none
And he showed the world how dark it really is
Leaving the name of Jesus shining brighter than ever
Foolish angry man..
Johnson Oyeniran Jul 2020
-A Psalm Of Johnson

Nothing fills the hole in my heart but the Son of God Most High,

I cling to him in all I do, he alone I glorify!
neth jones Sep 11
for a life of creativity
a clean voice and lung
calm weathered brain
i ought put effort
diary prayer from 23/10/23. minor tweak made (‘for’ added to beginning and 'i oight put effort' to the end) . taken from shorts iii no. 11
ProfMoonCake Sep 10
The world is weird.
I pray to gods of stone—
and ignore
the god in me.
A burgeoning dream /
That proliferates /
Even as my physical body /
Wanes /
A lingering will /
That compels me forth every day of my life. /

Dreams are the quintessence of life: /
Ineffably rare & tender. /
Dreams give me hope /
They instill within me the fortitude /
The impetus /
To bring them to fruition. /

But sometimes /
I fathom the fulfillment of the promise
/
Shall ne’ er come to pass, /
As though I am not enough /
As though I will remain /
In limbo. /

I beseech The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love /
That my dreams are fulfilled. /
A wish is inviolable power /
Cast in the light of reverie; /
Therefore, I await the day /
When my prayers are fulfilled. /

(—Se’ lah)

09-05-2025
Written: 1/14/2025

It's the miserable life of a depressed hypochondriac.
15 years and the shadow hands stretch
out to torment me.
I was in bed crying out to God, this is my
suffering on a plate with abundance.

I feel like my soul is sick.
The thought came to mind while sobbing:
"This is a dark night".
Men who'll pay in the end don't care about sick souls.
As long as they have sports, food, *** & comfort
they'll gladly walk to hell.

Last Thursday I just walked around my apartment
all day trying to sleep to no avail.
Here's to the open page being the best and worst of my grips;
I need another part time job because I can't be
left alone with my thoughts anymore.

Repeating to Yahweh anything I could think of then
once the tears stopped I remembered why I hate praying quietly.
I see the cracks in my rage and run off from
a vivid life of black ashes.
Pulled the covers up and stopped moving in the cold stillness.

I guess these are the notes of a scoundrel but it
can't stay this way, I have to stand face to face with my fear.
It's like one of those antidepressants where going cold turkey
causes pacing in the backyard for a year straight.
Back and forth, back and forth.
A poem about praying at night © Jan 31, Sean C. Stucki   slice • of • life
Steve Page Aug 30
Be an activist.
Pray in a loud active voice,
to an active God.
The Psalms use the active voice to a God of action.
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