A proper urge is the eternal worm, burrowing through the soil of the space and subspace of what it is we cast eye to everywhen. The worm, like a thick penis self-procreating, yet sexless, consuming and excreting in rounds of ground up dirt. Frotting with circumcised clits.

I remember my father hooking the worm onto the hook for bait. A terrible proposition, worse than feeding live mice to giant centipedes. Life is a gruesome curse, an unholy affair. Worm writhes in destruction. I remember after a few casts it’s limp form, hanging like a wet noodle. Worms are only as good as the air and writhing they breathe.

I’ve mentioned prior I am a demon, as you are (yes ladies you are worms too, as horrid as the men you curse, all humans worms), but also a worm avoiding capturing and hooks at every turn against beings more benevolent and powerful in an omnipresence I can only BEGIN to fantasize about; impaling on such dagger points.

Lo all men there is the word. You are all the lambs go down to the house of compaction, sluicing and remaking. A marmalade of head cheese and offal squeezed into tubes to become again new worms, self fucking and consuming into your putrid mouths the endless desires of living.

We churn our words, lest we regret our motives. Frail sacrosanct providential putrefaction. I hold these things to be self evident.

So it is true.