the bible and the breathalyzer
The Mars Volta Lyrics

Among the tattered dwelling of the new found home, in the furthest cramped corner sat the shell of a goat head strangled in copper wire, scraped of its insides, unwashed behind the ears, fueling the crooked names spoken by leeches.
In the abandoned home, hidden away, was a grotesque goat head that had been violently transformed into a mute symbol of those who use others for their own gain.

To a thinning cowlick's fat his crippled limp, dragging along the hump of the floor. Sobbing from the smacking mouth of the demagogue wells, making wisecracks, spilling from the corners with their pink flinches, second glancing their every move.
The disabled man moved slowly and heavily, tormented by the mockery of those around him, who reveled in their power over him.

It ate pickled nose cartilage that fell from the ceilings, a pork skin drizzle unnerving the humans, while it read aloud from its favorite books, in glossolalia slang and haruspex truths, following a slow and patient wait, a mocking their hair as it was glued to their upper lip combover.
The goat head consumed strange and repulsive foods, while reading from esoteric texts and ridiculing those who imitated the superficial appearances of others.

Under the wall, the ships smeared by faithfully talking the magnum fanatics and their bottles of scalp soup.
Beneath the surface, devotees propagated their deranged beliefs and customs, based on gruesome and perverse practices.

They cooked up a tardis smudge on their eyes, a lunar antidote that powdered underneath the oncoming pestilence of their idling fingers.
The followers concocted a hallucinatory potion that numbed their senses and dulled their awareness of their own futility and suffering.

It wrote them a seance, penetrated their every dependent desire.
The goat head communicated with the followers and exploited their vulnerable and desperate longings.

It hacked off the central headpiece to the collective.
The goat head severed the leadership and identity of the group, leaving it fragmented and aimless.

It wrote them a message in the marrow of the knife, with the extension of Baphomet* transfusion.
The goat head engraved a cryptic and sinister message on a blade, invoking the occult deity of Baphomet to imbue it with power and significance.

Glued to the animals, perversions of their former selves, patiently biting their fingernails looking for a clue.
The followers were enslaved to their animalistic impulses and behaviors, deprived of their humanity and reduced to anxious and helpless creatures.

As soon as it failed to appear, the faithful fell under the spell of public execution.
When the promised salvation proved to be a lie, the followers were subjected to a brutal punishment and humiliation by the authorities.

It had been an eternity filled with useless ritual, and all for nothing, promising salvation, but only flags came swarming around for a better taste.
The cult had perpetuated meaningless and futile practices for a long time, offering false hope and rewards, but attracting only empty and superficial symbols of success and loyalty.

What was left were the scraps, dressed in animal skin, defiled servants holding their breath, fatherless culprits blaming their kin, waiting for an answer.
The survivors were reduced to the remnants of their former selves, shrouded in primitive and degraded attire, condemned to servitude and guilt, hoping for a resolution to their existential crisis.

They thought a day would come, or a giraffe might choke in midair squeal, some sort of indication.
The followers clung to vague and absurd signs and portents, hoping for a miraculous intervention or a dramatic confirmation of their expectations.

Only it was the hands of the followers that had left their markings in neatly packed dunes filled with the decapitated remains, found sealed in sand.
The followers were the ones responsible for the gruesome and barbaric massacres, leaving their traces in the barren and ominous landscape.

It only stained the conscious for a brief moment, then came disgust.
The experience only created a fleeting impression of guilt and remorse, soon replaced by revulsion and indifference.

Realizing there was nothing to it, people began collapsing in collective states of drought.
The realization of the emptiness and futility of their beliefs and actions caused the followers to suffer from a spiritual and emotional drought, leading to their physical collapse and dissolution.

Palm-size vents heating in the chest, cluttering the graph, a bladder full of remains.
The followers experienced a surge of intense and chaotic emotions, reflected in the erratic and distorted patterns of their vital signs, while carrying the burden of their past atrocities.

Nothing became of them because nothing was the reason, an apathetic display dripping into vats of obesity.
The followers were doomed to insignificance and meaninglessness, as their indifference and complacency drowned them in their own excess and waste.

The feud had been sucking teeth for some time now, but the only baggage that paraded about was the curtain epidermis unfolded in an inebriated suit.
The conflict had been festering for a long time, but the only evidence of it was the superficial and illusory appearance of power and prestige.

The fit came suffocating, feathering the boa-constricted paleness, frostbitten, and shovel-faced.
The crisis and chaos overwhelmed the followers, causing them to gasp for air and revealing their frayed and withered state of being.

It came before them in utter confidence, flares of pink owls in the nest of albino eyelids blinking out chemical obscurities to the blind.
The goat head appeared before the followers with complete assurance and control, emanating disorienting and hallucinatory visions to those who had lost their sense of reality and identity.

It bloomed into a hemorrhaged contraption that impopulated the disenchanted, one by one.
The goat head transformed into a grotesque and monstrous device that penetrated and enslaved the disillusioned and hopeless followers, one by one.

All the churches were converted into quarantine facilities, inside them grew bacterial stubble compacted by larvae, contracting and teething.
The institutions of faith and worship were transformed into oppressive and isolating places, breeding disease and suffering, infested by parasitic and destructive forces.

A newborn litter degradively sufficient, running from the horse collarbone, amongst the murmuring femurs whimpering in fractures.
A generation of helpless and degraded beings emerged, struggling to survive amidst the ruins of their predecessors, haunted by the echoes of their painful and shattered past.

"Are you the Polaroid shot you thought you were?", it said with a coy smirk.
The goat head questioned the identity and authenticity of the followers, taunting them with a cynical and mocking smile.

With the position now vacant, it waltzed right in and made itself at home.
With the collapse of the old order, the goat head seized the opportunity to establish its own rule and authority, effortlessly and unopposed.

Seduced by the empty nominations at the altar of broken ballot boxes, closer to that nothingness that everyone seemed to embrace.
The followers were enticed by the hollow promises and illusions of democracy and freedom, approaching the void and emptiness that permeated their world.

As it pissed all over them, the sigh of relief steamed off the soaking depressants, an impending sleep was on its way.
As the goat head humiliated and degraded the followers, they experienced a perverse comfort and satisfaction, numbed by their own despair, and welcomed their imminent extinction.