Christopher Jon Bjerknes
The Holocaust Dream of the Devil's Eulogy and Why the Jews Do Dream It
It is a restless and noisy swamp the genocidal jews wade through while slowly and painfully plodding toward their end. The sky above is filled with flashing spirits who mock the jews with their happiness. The cadaverous jew waits and wonders when the living will arise and ask,
"What if death is the dawn when we awaken? Not our death, but theirs. . .
Let their coffin be lined with cracked mirrors to remind them why they are the dead. May they forever look upon themselves and no one else, a fitting curse for the jews. Bury them with a lit candle, so that they may see that they are dead.
Let the morbid pulp of their rotting brains never again think upon us, as we forever forget them, the dead jews. And let us wrap them in the torn pages of their broken book of death and kindle their dry bones with the torch of its ancient toxic tongue, the brittle acidic paper of their flaking flesh alight with their crimes, the horrid night of just punishment wrapped around them like a spider's web, may they never run again. Close the gate with a lead coffin lid and solder it tightly shut so that no vapor of their ghastly ghost can escape.
Oh, the smoke fills the fetid air where they rot, in haunted slumber that never rises, dead like drunken vagabonds split in two under the roaring wheels of the caravans carrying the living to the festivals of spring. Let them burn until all that was them is ash and dust, as clean as they ever can be, should the angry wind wipe them from the face of the earth in one clean sweep.
Awaken, the outstretched arms of infinite light waiting to greet us on the other side of our covered eyes, the clawed veil of vampire hands gone, the bubbling bath of sunshine rinsing off the fresh blood of birth!
Not our death, but theirs. . . If only we dream it and awaken!
Not of our sins, but theirs. . .
Washed in the porcelain bowl of a morning bath before the crowds have gathered to litter the silence with their lies, our souls too bathing in the gentle sounds of pouring waters, each drop echoing forever in the chamber of silence, like a kind hand lifting us from the abyss of the nightmare that seemed never to end and placing in our palms the seed of our immortality and wrapping it in the blanket of our feeling fingers.
Their end has come, no more the jew, and now we begin!"
The jew shudders at the recurring thought and fantasies of the poison gas he emits taste to him like sulfur rusting the springs of the clock that counts his days til they end.
He knows that he is the parasitic slime that will be washed away when the living choose to live and wash in the spring that pours out from the sun. He is the swirling filth of shadows tossed out with the water, one of the six million sudsy ghosts caught by the tail in a whirling cloud vanishing into the horizon of dark stinking drains where no human goes, the hollow veins of hell lurking under the crusty veil of night, taught with the coagulated black blood of the dead, the jews' requiem played by a mad curtain violently flapping in the stormy winds, the empty threat of a failed black flag of an army of demons, all of them dead. The jew's last cry for help and forgiveness a eulogy for the devil sung in a rabid coyote's throat, mourning that there will be no more murder this day but his own, the jew dreading that others may think as he does and do him in, he utters six million.
The jew dreads his darkest day when humanity wakes and says with a collective sigh of relief,
"Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.
Not our death, but theirs. . .
This thing the jews have tried to make of me is not human as they are not. But now I am alive. And the grand earth still turns like a gigantic egg rubbing its soft cheeks on the warm silk of the sun's breath. It is all there already, and it is mine! What can not be seen when the light is no longer hidden?"
And with every hollow thump of his empty heart, the jew thinks to himself dreams that will become real when the Goyim have shuffled off his undead coil, unwrap the snake from their ribs and breath in the light.
The jew pretends dark deeds into others that the jews would do to all, and blackens the walls with the grotesque graffiti of holocaust lies to eulogize the devil, his god, as they both count the rotten rosary of six million done justice for 2,500 brutal years of genocidal jewry.
Since it never happened yet, the jew tries to pray it away with his six million bray, an endless spray of venomous spit hacked onto sidewalks, bored walks and long talks, as the hunted jew waits for the clock to rust shut and the empty clack of the putrid sack, that drives his black blood, to stop beating.
In a final act of asinine self-aggrandization he consummates each moment of his borrowed existence, the jew laments that his curse on the earth and its angels will end, that the devil of a god which he conjured up from his own horrid image will die with him, and so he eulogizes himself with each cry of six million done justice for so many more his unkind have maimed and murdered.
The jew worriedly waits for the sword his ancestors and he have fastened over his own hatefilled head to fall, as the jew busily tries to slaughter all who may someday snip the thread that will end their dread.
With each cry of six million the jew boasts his guilt and hopes it into armor.