Stargate

Observing the appearance of the Hale-Bopp Comet in March 1997, the Heaven’s Gate Cult of San Diego, California, chose to commit mass suicide. We eunuchs run a starship enterprise. These breeders are a cul-de-sac, life-wise – it’s fatal, this fertility. Our sign in silent eloquence beckons us, benign, and distant safety looms. These perfumed petals warn of replication. Bonny nettles, acid sacs insistent, brilliantly express us. The existing tyranny of sexual torture, stifling status quo, is not for us. Our star is here. Let’s go. Our quest? The fattened calf, Finality, the fertile farrow offered by Fatality. This tyranny, Existence, has to end – so says, with brilliantest insistence, our bright friend – “Leave tortured sexuality behind, enjoy the eloquent silence of Pure Mind.” This lethel phiall of phenobarbitone will free us from the fetid fleshbound zone, the only way to stay alive and grow. Let’s shed the skin that's dead. It’s time to go. Safe distance from the urges that benight us, a chance to live within this life’s detritus like hermit crabs, is all we ever wanted, abandoning the rigid shells we haunted until our moment came. And now we’re leaving. We’re shedding, shucking, shifting, shunning, shrieving. No more of nitro-clover-copulation, or aimless, shameless, overpopulation, where carbon concentration camps are rife. We’re going home. We’re dying into life.