The gospel of Itchy Wiggle Christ by Gregory-John McCormick, Ralf Dellhofen (best way to read books .TXT) 📕

elect satan for your next president, the dark master would serve your purposes far better than any other devil-politician. father marron, exorcise the demon from me, take me, take me now, leave the little girl alone. ah, the window, i must fly out the window, i must be free from this horrible place. take me, take me, remove my scars, let me be free. no breath, no thoughts. i drift away.

it´s the day of crap. all pain, all loss, heart break over things i don´t even know, as if it hurts so deep inside but i don´t know why. maybe it´s some kind of celtic melancholy thing. lucky me, the lucky irish lad. i can´t sleep, i can´t breathe, until you´re laying next to me. my destiny. the weirdness, the shape shifting, strange diseases. there is no soap that can be bought that could ever clean the filth from my soul. all day long i see only sickness and depravity, ugliness on a scale that no normal person would ever believe it. and this sickness eats at me like a cancer, and i am sick inside, i am beyond reproach, and i am dying. i won´t go, i won´t sleep, and i can´t breathe until you´re resting here with me. faith and begorra, am i lonely. do i ever need you, lass.

keep absolutely still. turn the light off. please just turn off the light. that was a very strange writing for me. going back to my catholic upbringing. lucifer being the bringer of light. but on the other hand, the son/sun, son of god, light equally holiness. and here is little greggy begging for the light, being from lucifer or god, to just be turned off. i don´t want either form of "light", i just wish they would leave me alone. but then the obvious part of the song having to do with my gray-skinned alien friends. they themselves being another form of angel, and they transcend good and evil. they are the nietzsche wet-dream, beyond all good and evil. but even sometimes i wish they did not come to me, but i only thought to suggest that they turn off their "light" because i was confused as to their purpose in my life, i have since been informed to the best of my limited human comprehension what they want from me. but i also know, they knew what was coming in my life - shit, they may have orchestrated my downfall for all i know. but if so, it was for a purpose. they let me know that i play a big part in the world, which, in a small way is true, assuming that a few million have heard my music and seen my paintings or read my sick writing. but as i understand, there is more i must do that will shape minds and create change, and i have a sense that it will be my children who will do even more than i, or it will be my influence on them that will make a great difference. which also does not seem very far-fetched. to imagine what my kids would be like, having all their dad´s talent and also to be able to learn from my mistakes. they would be great artists and musicians, super-creative, martial artists, mathematics experts. i´ll teach them all this and more. guerilla warfare and vegetarianism. irish whiskey and quantum mechanics. my first son will be named conor.

so comes the sleepy-good-time. happiness only when my body is as close to death as possible without actually dying. filthy fucking day. don´t get off the godddamned boat. noise and hate and jesus-freaks and posturing loud-mouthed black monsters, standing in line to fuck each other in the shower stalls. sickness without limits, idiots that need to be shot. the scum of humanity, and then there is me. not one of them realize i am smart beyond what they could ever imagine, else they would destroy me. the monsters destroy what they don´t understand. and tho i am far from being weak or unable to defend myself, it´s best that i lay low and deceive all. let them think i am retarded because i do not talk to any of them. but i do have a bad temper and serious limits, and when crossed, i am loathe to do nothing. revenge is my specialty, and psychological terror is my forte. but to use such gifts as mine on these monsters is akin to shooting fish in a barrel. it is too easy, enough that it is hardly fun in my schadenfreude kind of sick delight. but i apply my skill enough to scare the shit out of the deserving of my attentions, and that in turn is enough to keep all but the very stupid from pestering me. and those are dealt with in worse ways, but the monsters learn. all base animals learn to avoid overbearing punishment. such pleasant words to write, i pour the bad energy onto this page and so am i cleansed. i retire to dreamland now, goodnight my sweetlove. goodbye, cruel world.

morning complications. so when m-manson sings "when you get to heaven, you will wish you were in hell", what does it mean to me, when i am in hell already? perhaps heaven to me is anything but this place, or more specifically death. what a bitch it would be to die and then find myself in the christian hell, being tortured for eternity. the torture i endure in this puke hole should win me brownie points with some metaphysical diety or two. the entire idea of me being in here, to be imprisoned so unjustly and kept in here illegally while very little help exists to get me out, only a few caring friends. the whole thing is so completely evil - so against what is "right", or what should be. i am far from evil or bad. i´m capable of being all that and worse, but i am not. there is love and kindness in me, and i have an ingrained program in my head that makes me want to do good, to love my girl, to care for animals. but the evil beings who control the usa and michigan government win over all, and i am fucked.

yesterday i watched a mouse playing in a small flower garden. he was running all between the stalks and leaves. then along came one of the finchees, and this one had a piece of bread in his beak. he landed near the mousey, and the mousey ran up to the sparrow to try and get the piece of bread. it looked as tho they would fight, but the sparrow kept flapping away just out of reach of the mousey. it was as tho they were playing a game, and it was cute. it made me laugh a little. i had a few cookies in my locker that were sitting on the bottom for a few days, and i noticed that one of the cookies had nibbles in it. one of the mousey´s brothers or sisters had somehow gotten into my locker and ate some of my cookie. i don´t mind, tho, not at all. i only hope the mousey enjoyed it. i will leave more cookies and bread out for the mouses, maybe i will have some real friends in here. yesterday i also talked to a bee that was flying from cloverleaf flower to flower, pollinating and gathering clover flower stuff for honey, to feed his commune of bees. i told him he was doing a good job, and that the baby bees in his hive will like his honey. i also asked him to tell brighid that i need her help, that i need to get out of this living hell. maybe, or probably, the little bee will carry my message to brighid. she listens to bees, and cows. once in a while she listens to me. or, she listens always but does not answer always. perhaps the bee will tell her that i am suffering beyond my tolerance ability. that i need help, i must be freed. or else the world will lose one more good irish boy.

oh, hello, hello my evening, time to examine my life. let´s take out the psychiatric scalpel and probe into greggy´s thoughts and feelings. without a doubt we will find some real garbage in there, so be sure we have the suction device turned up high. actually if you manage to slip and "accidently" suck out most of greggy´s useful and creative thoughts, it would be fine - these things are not of much use anymore, and from analysis of his writing and painting, we might actually be doing the world a favor if we "slipped". besides, it is obvious that greggy´s feelings and thoughts only torture him to no end. he is constantly in psychic pain, his soul is rotting with cancer, and that is a direct effect of his brain processing information he perceives from his senses. so in further elaboration, it may be best if we suck out greggy´s entire brain, and pluck out his eyes, plug up his nose and ears, cut out his cigarette-sick tongue. hell, let´s just chop off his bald head and burn his body in a barbeque. hey, we all love to eat meat and dead animals, maybe greggy´s carcass will taste like good irish beef.

my soul is a toilet where all the waste of this shitting world dumps it´s filthy crap. i deserve better, but no one seems to listen or care. give me magick, give me life, stop the madness gnawing at my brain. i had a stuffed doll when i was very very young, it was a kind of pinocchio boy, i called him "boy", but he had the name "knickerbocker". i still called him "boy". he was well-loved and needed by me, and he fell apart enough so that my mom had to fix him. she did a good job, and i really loved her for doing that. i don´t know where "boy" is anymore, and it makes me sad. he is gone forever. i don´t know where my mom is anymore, she is dead, and i haven´t felt her at all. i know she must be gone, because if she could, she would help from wherever she is. now i haven´t much of anything, my life belongs to the nazis of michigan, usa. i have some fairly adequate paints and painting supplies. i have some crossword books that my dad bought for me, may the gods bless my father´s soul, and i have the pen in my hand and paper to write this insane shit with. oh, i have some chocolate-chip cookies i stole out of the dining hall, i will eat them tonight as i watch stargate on TV. dad bought the TV for me too! and yes, i have my dad and brother, my friend/brother ralf, other friends. and i have steffi. i have these, but without freedom, everything seems to have no real flavor. good night all. sleep well.

creeping jesus morning, slow, conjunctivitis eyes bleary with weariness. ridiculous nazis prancing about, search and destroy, seek and fidelity, hide and seek, hide the salami. create the greatest painting you could ever create, itchy, the greatest ever made. that´s it, that´s it. it matters to me, francine, is that you? yes, mrs. easterhouse, it´s me. egg suckers, cunnilingus pleasure machines, beautiful women in black gothic dresses, pull up, pull up, we are going to impact the asteroid. what does she taste like between her legs?, the little snail asks. saturday morning waffle breakfast, reminds me of the anarchist-punk commune breakfasts i once went to, five deutschmarks for a bowl of müsli and beer, lots of pretty and dirty little punk girls, but lots of them were lesbians. that is, until they got drunk. the liter of