Heresiarch

Last week I had an exam for my Radical Religion and Revolution class, and I wrote this during an all night study session spent reading about heretics.

Dark apostasy—the heresiarch cackles as he rides aether and witchwind to the inverted towers of his home. Such cackles have caused the seas to boil, but he feels no shame. For if the whirlwind is Providence the thirteen steps of the gallows but singular microbe in the swarms of law. Don’t think you can escape him young one, nothing escapes his gaze; he sees with eyes divine. Physiognomy. Chiromancy. Pyromancy. Conventicles of orgiastic, cannibalistic repast. His cosmogony is of exnihilation and the dark inverted pit of the nulliverse. Archons and maggots and larvae and phlogistons slither in the sky in obscene conviviality. The god of the heresiarch is deaf, dumb and blind, with a face of entrails. The sickness of his spittle spreads plague to the skies. His inquisition and anacrisis fuels bebeloglyphic lore. Epopt of harrowing and disease. Archimandrite of terror and flame, vomiting anagogical casuistry that turns love to bile.