The Death Dealer, The Grim Reaper & The False Prophet

By Andrew Pacutho:

I have recently been taking a few detours in life. I have discovered a number of things. I have, for example, found that I like the taste of Castle Milk stout. It is less bitter than a strong cup of coffee and less frothy than a Guinness or any other beer for that matter. It tastes, well stouter than other beers which if you will be brave to admit taste like watered down urine shaken to froth.

I have also discovered that there isn't a woman going to get a hold of my 'cookie jar' unless she says. “I do” at the altar. I am going to hold onto this tighter than nuns’ drawers in sin city.

I have learned also that apparently God does not have beef with some people. I have never known it to be that God had 'beef' with certain portions of humanity. I guess some people choose to project onto God what are other men's mistakes.

I have learned to live a little and have quickly chosen to live a lot less when I read the fine print. Life has sucker-punched some people one time too many leaving some with hard jaws and others still with heard hearts, and others with both.

Me, well I have learned that Christians have spines of French beans and can be counted on not to be there when you need them the most. Give me some fanatical 'Muslim fanatics' any day of the week and twice on Sunday, they have passion for something even if it is indiscriminate killing. Give me instead, the town drunk, the street hooker, the local burglar for they have more vision that most of us do. At least they have no squabbles admitting they are who they are. Screw this…look at me trying to make some philosophical point out of the worn out diatribe of a disturbed soul.

A visionless reprobate in hiding, a man whose eyes see no more colour and whose heart hears  no more the sound of music or the beating of the drum. I have taste buds but all they taste is the bitter bile of a world that does not know he exists. Of a system that tells him he is so much and yet does not help him get there.

A system that promised light and only gives darkness, kicking those who are down and celebrating those that have won, risen to the top of the tier and stands highest on the shit pile. This is a world that sees not the gem that a human is but only measure the bulk of his purse of possessions.

I blame not the agnostics for they cannot admit that God is worth believing if his fellows can be this crude. I blame not the atheist for denying him altogether, for how can a God let this go on. I blame not you who wonder what all this is about for you cannot recognise the cry of a hungry soul nor are you able to answer it so you retreat to the lofty mountains of denial and cheap mass produced replies to questions you find too hard, too disturbing and to unnerving.

You embrace the darkness and call it a light. You cower in the shadows because you know it shall reveal you for whom and what you are. A sore covered filthy scab on the face that is spirituality.

Sometimes I feel like we are the towns' people living in denial at the foot of a volcano that rumbles and smokes. We refuse to see the danger before us because we are unwilling to admit that we have failed, fallen and fumbled. We go on 'happily' living our lives ignoring the volcano in our back yard.

I am tired of the scripture filled status updates and the lifestyle downgrades. The holy convocations and the flowery notes bore me. The back slapping and praise we give our half hearted efforts fill me with rage for I ask, “can we not see what is going on. Do we not hear the call, the cry, the plea?” apparently not.

Apostle so and so walked in, the price of his shoe, the sweat of a hundred of his congregations, his cologne the food of orphans and his suit the blood money from a widow's hand; Sister X just sauntered in; the fluids not yet dried from the condom used the night before; Brother Z bows in prayer, his hands soiled with the third aborted child!

Oh let's not forget the youth leader, his new phone, the price of a crooked deal, an overpriced profit. Aunt E mumbles in prayer next to Aunt R her partner in the gossip business. The lewd joker sits in a corner laughing at them all; he is just here to meet his next goal, tapping the choir leader's keyboard.

Do you see the cross? Do you see the blood? The river that runs down the aisle from Emmanuel's vein? Only the bloodstained are clean but hardly any one steps in. We all clamour for that which will not raise us above the church beams. Our measure? , that of men, like generations past those with money, looks, power are the anointed, the called of God and the blessed.

I walk into my church and curl up into a ball on the floor for I have walked into the tomb of a thousand souls. Let me lie here among the dead, maybe my master will be this way soon, to resurrect me also, for I am dead.

The death dealer has not friends and nor does the grim reaper…but the false prophet.

Disclaimer: Like the howls of a hyena they are just that, expressions, even though momentary of a bothered mind and cumbered soul. If it makes no sense, take it then as creative writing. If you hear a voice or a cry….you know where to find me. It's a lonely planet and sometimes, a dark one.

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