The Horse's Dream.

Miller the Horse had a long day in the fields. Grazing and fucking. Non-stop. A retired racehorse, he was sold to stud. Helping to pump out million dollar race horses for the feather capped freaks in Kentucky. He liked his new life, but was definitely tired. He had an amazing stall. Equipped with mosquito nets, organic hay grown by farmers who didn't eat gluten, and the audio version of Jonathan Livingston Seagull narrated by Jeremy Irons to help him sleep steadily throughout the night.
As dusk settled so did Miller. Atop the softest bale of hay he rested his eyes and muscles, and let out a content snort before drifting away to the gentle annunciations of Jeremy Irons. At peace with his conscious state Miller was now free like the night. To wander the landscapes of the imagination through dimensions of suspended gravity and reality.
Miller found himself in a maze of caterpillars. At the exit was a 73 pound carrot in a wading pool filled with sugar cubes. Miller had to navigate the maze successfully before the caterpillars morphed into butterflies with giant nail guns. These blood thirsty Lepidoptera will make a soup with a horse's kidneys and serve it to him before he dies. They bore no soul and Miller knew it. He had to reach the end of the maze before it was too late. He trotted lightly, but the sound of snapping twigs under his hooves stirred the beasts in their cocoons. His strides were careful as to not further disturb their slumber. For once awakened they would turn Miller to glue and send just his eyes back to his family, stuck to a piece of brown construction paper.
Miller was nearing the half way point through the maze. An octopus on a stem stopped him and asked if he could open his lollipop. The wrapper was way too goddamn tight, but Miller's teeth could pierce through rhino flesh if you let em'. Miller obliged because he is a Christian horse and that is what they do. The loud tearing and rustling of the lollipop wrapper awoke and enraged the butterflies. Fluttering around Miller with nail guns cocked, the butterflies salivated and began to dive bomb Miller. He swatted them away as quickly as he could. Trying to be a barricade to protect his new octopus flower friend. Miller grew into a giant. Muscles protruding from muscles. Each nail from the guns inciting more rage in Miller. He wasn't going to fall victim. He wasn't going to bear the thought of his family opening up a parcel with his eyes glued to a piece of brown construction paper. He grew even more massive and began slaughtering the butterflies by the thousands. Winged corpses strewn across the last stretch of  maze when the universe shook. Trees and brush were uprooted as the grounds opened up to a 7000 foot butterfly with gold medallions dripping from his wings, and spears for eyes as he gazed at Miller. It seemed to be over as the winged deity took flight and aimed his eyes towards the defenseless horse. The gold medallions were tokens from hell used to send unruly horses to the ashes of the earth's core. Burning for eternity.
Miller heard a familiar voice and felt soft tentacles shift his petrified body out of the first strikes way.  It was the octopus on the stem. It could move. The octopus on the stem was Jeremy Irons and his tentacles were the 8 points of the universe. Closing in around the Butterfly god and squeezing it so tightly with the suffocating grip of our polluted atmosphere, that the Winged Deity exploded like a piñata. Blood and intestines pranced throughout the maze as if they were excited to be free from captivity. They donned hula skirts and did a celebratory dance for Miller and Jeremy Irons before escorting them to the wading pool filled with sugar cubes and a 73lb carrot. There was a moment of silence for all the horses who fell victim to the butterfly maze's curse in dreams prior. The curse was broken, and so was day. Miller awoke and headed to the meadow to pee.

The end.

junk

Their god is the junk, and they take the lord's name in vain.
Their god, their god, your god. Not my anything. Not my refrain.
Numb your senses. Yes the violence is senseless, we all feel defenseless, but to feel is strength, to live should be relentless.
Your eyes frozen sand dollars, your bones protrude. Your soul lives in squalor and you're stuck in a mood. Between a rock and a quiet afternoon.
Silence is deadly, but it can also be friendly, when staring at your reflection through the back of a spoon, your blood dancing a medley. You can close your eyes in a hurricane, but you'll still get knocked down. Out of sight, but in mind, you can't mask the world spinning round.
Your god is just junk. Your holy temple's rotted. A fix will not fix what was never meant to be solid.