We watched as the bigger serpents swallowed the smaller ones, the twisties and droplets of blood danced about like the actors in a masquerade. This hand fell upon my shoulder, and I knew it was the hand of yet another Devil or God trying to entice me to join their conglomeration. I never took too quickly to religions or any other belief system that tried to make you understand why things are the way things are. There is a good and an evil, in my mind, there is a conscious and an unconscious. There are depths of both in which you can let yourself crossover from one to another, and to think that there is good and evil just interrupts this process. So I tap into the old words of wise men that have lived life, loved in life, and attained the things in life which I desire. There are powers associated with these men, and their names are forever unknown, yet they have been written about in many forums. These scripts are like the scrawlings on sandstone that sits in a tropical rain forrest: they are read for a generation or two before the writing becomes too hard to read, at which time, the words that were written become legends and lores that are passed down from one generation to the next in the form of divine earthly knowledge. The true authors of the words to live by are forever forgotten or are purposeful in their intentions to remain anonymous.

Baking in the freezing air that is wisped up into breezes that turn into hard and frost laden winds are the voices that speak the high speeches of life forgotten. There are lessons to be learned there, but first you have to remain patient enough to translate the sounds of the winds from what they sound like to uninformed people to what they really are trying to say in the form of true versus. Each verse is a sort of rapture to the weak minded people that hear the sounds and don't understand them. To them, the sounds are the sounds of a thousand dead people screaming as they lie in their tombs chained to the earth within the confines of deathly loneliness. They are forever trapped in the realm that encapsules trillions of souls: the very dirt of the earth itself. The most degraded place to find yourself live or dead - with your face being eaten away by slimy worms and insects that crawl slower than the clouds pass by overhead. The cold and damp stench of the dirt that surrounds them is the only sensory perception that they have to look forward to with every passing day. And what is a day? What is a night? What is time itself when there is absolutely no reason left in the mind or world around you to keep track of it? If you no longer see the light of the sun or the sparkling colors of the stars in the dark night sky, then what means do you have to even tell the time as it passes. So nights and days withdrawn, one is left with just an endless "next moment," and from moment to moment, having absolutely nothing to look forward to, time becomes the enemy. Its very irrelevance drives at the mind, eroding it further instead of the mind being able to grow and expand due to the unending amounts of free time to ponder anything that one ever had the notion to ponder.

As the mind erodes and the tissues of the body rot away, there is little left to think about. Me, being the individual I am, the person who has certain thoughts and no one to really share them with, eventually thinks of something else that any normal person alive or dead would shrill to think about. But I have to think about it because once the though occurs to me, it is on the table, and once it is on the table, I must disect it and analyse the innards of the thought to determine if it is a legitimate thing to consider when denouncing all religions and any reason to fear a God. It's the thought of the one thing that every man holds dearly to the validity of his own existance: his cock. And the thought starts out by reflecting on the fact that I have always been satisfied with mine, and that others have found it to be satisfying for their purposes. That said, I do feel the pity of the (probable) thousands of men who are unfortunately born with, shall I say, temples that fall short of any kind of worshipping capacity. These men must have harsh realities, but the fact is, with either advances in their physique or financial well being, they have probably learned to live with the degrading feeling they get every time they are with themselves or they themselves are with a woman. Sad to talk about, I'll get to the subject at hand. That is the thought of the penis as it is decaying and rotting away.

From the first instance of death - the crossover from life to death, the very moment one dies: the penis is now an inanimate object and can never again be rendered for services either by the owner himself or any other third party person seeking pleasure from it. This, to say the least, is a shocking thought to me, as it probably is to most anyone who is reading this text. First, the body of the newly dead is taken off the small patch of physical matter that it is lying on: the exact spot in which the person (well, the man in this analysis) died. That spot holds some significance, as we might discuss at a later time. The body is crudely transported to a sterile and serene environment known to most people as "The Morgue." A little background on me - I worked in the Richmond Morgue in Richmond, Virginia on and off for about six months while I was in the Mortuary Affairs unit of the United States Army in 1993. I know these places to be temporary storage and identification portals. The basement, however, is a different story. Here is a very surreal place, where bodies are submerged in giant vats of phemaldrohyde, clamped under the ears with giant biceps. These bodies are probably the fortunate ones, because they have things to look forward to, such as being used for scientific study, or having organs ripped from their cavities, and the occasional tour by the local college kids who are studying that sort of stuff.

As the corpse is rolled into the lab on the steel table known by the general population as the "slab", the penis just sits there, ignored by the doctor who is about to rip the chest and skull of the dead man apart to investigate what it was that caused the life to evade him. He lays there in his dead body, looking at the environment around him, but most of all, having a strange new sensation below his belly: that of NO sensation. That of no feeling. Weather a man thinks about it or not, he can feel his penis at any time of any minute, there is always sensory perception of feeling from one end of the penis to the other. Unless you were paralyzed from above the lower mid section of the spine on down. Something that I probably won't discuss. I wouldn't do that, as it would not be right. Me being a person who cheated paralyses once, and thanks unknown benevolent forces for cheating it, have vowed to never make fun of, or even make issues of things that relate to those who are in that most unpleasant predicament. Back to the dead guy. He lies on the slab, thinking about the last time he ever had sex, then the last time before that, and the last time before that, and so on, until he gets sick of that kind of self-abuse, at which time, he purges himself of any kind of remembrance of any feelings of guilt he ever felt after masturbating. In fact, that washes out really quickly, and instead of staring into some heavenly light (like a lot of near death experience people allege), he is now thinking back to all the times that stand out that he can remember about masturbation. He thinks of some of the really crazy things he did in the confines of his own private world when there was nobody else around for hours, days, weeks, even months. There was even periods in his life where he accounted for years that passed by between instances where he had sex with a female.

On the slab, the doctor sees a man lying there with his chest cut wide opened with what Pathologists have called the "Y incision" for obvious reasons: the cut is from shoulder to between the nipples and up to the other shoulder. From the intersection, there is a straight line cut that goes below the belly. After this cut is made, the breastbone is split in half, and then the organs are removed. All the while, the cock just lies there, small as it might be after a swim in cold water - well, slightly bigger than that, just big enough to be able to flop from one side to the other when the body is tipped up on its side. I'm sure I have lost about half of my audience by now. For the true reality thinkers and human beings with curious intellects, there is more to read, so don't be burdened by those strange sensations associated with things crawling underneath your skin.

The man lies there, his skin is pekid and rubbery feeling. His blood is very cold, and his hair is brittle. His teeth hang in his gaping mouth, which still has the same expression on it as the moment that death claimed him: the look of bewilderment mixed with that emotion that every man will feel if he knows he will die very soon: that feeling that the connection between his physical, mental, emotional, and sensual being will be discontinued from his cock for all eternity. Not that all of life revolved around those properties or anything, but it quickly becomes the only thought that reflects on the whole being and sends shrilling numbness through the body, causing the stomach to feel really light, and then a piercing pain penetrates the entire mid section.

Now, having removed the internal organs from the abdominal area, the doctor must get into the skull and dig through the brain itself to search out that silver bullet. In every man's invincible stage in life, there is always that one thing that can close the door of life and open that door of death in one quick motion. To get to the brain, two things have to happen: One, the body has to be turned over so its stomach is facing the ground. Then, the doctor must get through the layers of skin and bone. To achieve step two, the doctor does what is known as the famous "ear to ear" incision, again, getting its name from the obvious nature of the cut. This time, the cut is mad from the bottom base of one ear, cut in a downward oval fashion, to the bottom base of the other ear. After the cut is made, the skin of the head (or scalp) is peeled back over all the way until the face is folded down under the chin. Having seen this done, it almost gives one the same sensation as the thoughts of penile aftermath.

It is the writer's purpose to make the reader think, to have the reader feel emotions and sensation even though all they have to go by is the very words that you put onto paper. In this year - 1999, there is very little left to write or talk about that would stimulate. Sure, there are scandals and epidemics and wars, but we have become numb to those things, and they only spark our interest, they no longer impede great emotional devotion.

Which is why we are discussing the man on the slab, who was lying on his stomach the last time we checked. Indeed, his penis is now flattened between the slab and his weight (which is getting lighter by the minute). After everything has been examined, the body is turned back over face up. A quick (yes, quick is all that even the death-seasoned pathologist can handle) glance at the man's penis reveals a flattened member with contours that match the contours on the metal slab's surface. These contours are comparable to imprints on the skin made by lying on a rough fabric for too long. The only difference is that these contours probably won't wear off right away, they could take days to fade away.

And the lifeless, loveless corpse is wheeled out into the prep room where it will be stitched back together and placed in a freezer for distribution to whatever funeral home might come by and pick it up in the coming hours or days. Just like that, our little commentary on the lifeless organ comes to a close. Its cold, stiff, rubbery properties will only last as long as the funeral parlor allows, and then it will join the rest of the Earth as it decays into the cold damp worm infested earth. There, in the hole, the eternal resting spot - there, is where the soul and mind are allowed to expand on the current situation, as we come around full circle in our look into life after death.

A lot of people look within themselves, and into the Bible and find their God there, and follow their hearts to this end that is really just a beginning. They say that life is like a grain of sand in the hourglass compared to the overall eternity that the soul must endure. They claim that if you live righteously and give your life to God and ask Jesus to forgive you for all your sins, then you will be rewarded with palaces and riches in a Heaven where the streets are paved with gold and angels sing and dance about in Glory, and that you will be reunited with the ones you loved. They they they they - they BEAT this in they PREACH this over and over, THEY KNOW! And how do they know? Because they are agents in the house of God, which is the AUTHORITY on right and wrong. They are the amplifiers that project the sounds of your conscious over the loudspeaker of moral wealth. I am broke in the bank or morals. I saved them for others to waste their life away on. When I'm old and decrepit, I won't read this text and denounce it in the eyes of any God, just like I won't regret all the whores I fucked, and just like I won't regret all the substances I ever abused, or the fact that I abused myself in doing that, nor will I regret my tattoos, nor will I regret the scars on the hearts of others that I put because I am an individual. Individuality is removed when you become subservient to others, be them Gods or men, and in this, I will never participate in. Purpose or no purpose, life or no life, I am the shaper of my own fate and will live the way I choose to live disregarding any warnings and lessons others feel they have the obligation to toss my way.

What does this have to do with the dead guy or the actual idea that there is a life after death? Not a thing, but when it comes to life after death, one has to weigh the value of the life on Earth they must live before throwing that away to live for God. It's easy to "Live for God" and be the world's most perfect Christian when you're 70 years old and you've already done everything there is to do. So what does that mean anyway? There's nothing held back, we must analyse everything from a point blank angle. People will read this and in their own hypocritical way, they will disagree with it and call me a person with no moral filters. Good, I love it when people do that. It makes me wonder - do morals come from the denial of earth's pleasures? Because someone is too fucking lame to achieve life's pleasures, they decide to be against anything that is enjoyable. Is that why everything that is enjoyable (except for sports) is considered some kind of sin?

I begin by going back to the dead guy, who just lost contact with his number one friend: his dick. Did he get to do the things in life that everyone must have thought at one time or another to be the bare minimum of experiences that you have to experience before you die - before he died? What would those be . . . lets see, for a man it would be to eat pussy, get a blow job, actually fuck a female . . . then love would be in there after the sexual things, so did he ever experience his own personal definition of Love. . . then there would be the earthly pleasures department, which, for the average person, is limited to driving a car (probably driving really fast for most), and drinking to the point of being drunk. Wow, pretty basic life if you ask me, but most people don't ask for much out of life (which is good for those of us Excess worshippers), they basically view life as a short thing where they go to school, then get a job that they will have for the rest of their lives, they get married to probably the first person they ever really loved, they have some kids and that's it. Is there more? Hardly, well most people would argue that there is, and then the SHIT that they spewed out of their mouths would be a lot of the same shit I just mentioned. What I call embellishments for the masses: they call it success! You see people, especially the cunts of the world out there, having a lot of money and material things isn't what life is all about. I am saying this not because I am poor (even though that may be the case), but I am saying it because having those things doesn't kill the desire to keep wanting. So once you get that Porche, you'll want that Jaguar. Once you get that house on the hill, you'll want that house on the beach. In the end, when you're that dickless piece of cold meat on the slab, none of that shit will ever matter. Your life was one continuous mission to obtain the next level. My life is one continuous mission to obtain the next pleasure. I choose my life. My goals are probably just as realistic, and the prize for obtaining the goal is that I have experienced a new pleasure. I have felt all there is to feel by the time I die, where you just floated through life owning all you can own. You can't take that shit to your Heaven when you die, so that shit won't matter, and you definitely won't be taking it into the small box you will rot in for all eternity, because heaven is just another one of those embellishments for the masses. It's about as real as manufactured silence.

So what are these pleasures, you are still wondering? Well, to begin with, if you are the type of person who vehemently denies masturbation or even calls it disgusting and say you never did it or never would, you might as well use this book for kindling, because to fully understand a person like me being in exile, and grasp the feelings I'm trying to broadcast with my prose - you must first be adorn to pleasureful activities, not leaving masturbation out. Some of my most memorable sexual experiences included me masturbating while the woman laid there spreading herself open in various positions, or held her mouth opened anticipating my exploration of emotions into her mouth. And masturbating on my own has become a ritual in trying to find the most intense climactic sensation the world has to offer. Because we all know by now that no one can ever blow your balls off harder and with more sensation than you can, and that's because you've had all the time in the world to work that magic. Self pleasure aside, we have to get into the other common denominator for men and women alike. When I talk about these pleasures, keep in mind, that from a man's viewpoint, these are pleasures we all crave, but they also apply to women as well, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. First, there is every man's dream: fucking two women at the same time. And for women, it is fucking two men at the same time which in most cases comes AFTER the craving to actually fuck another woman. Women, it seems, don't really care for the idea of teaming up in a two women on one man combination. Whatever the lineup may be, three party sex is a craving for all. Men like the thought of getting together with another man to fuck the living daylights out of one woman. But men don't think of the two men one woman situation in terms of pleasuring each other, that is denounced in most circles. So what about women, why is it so right to for two women to fuck and suck each other in that three way situation? Men know. Regardless, the point remains the point. And after the three way thing is thought of, men go back to the goals of pleasure with one woman that they always had deep inside. What would it be like to eat a woman's asshole out? Just burying that tongue up in there! And then fucking a woman in the ass. Every guy has that goal in life. Call me a sick bastard, I don't think I'm wrong. Using objects to fuck women - yet another fantasy shared by all men. Basically, what it all leads to is the total degradation of a woman - especially the woman that a man loves the most. This is a happy medium to summarize the whole pleasures of flesh catagory, and so lets move on.

After all of the thoughts of what things you might want to do before you die, so you don't feel like you've been cheated, you shouldn't exclude anything I am about to mention. Winning. Be it at a game of chess or a million dollar lottery. Millions have went to Las Vagas and lost their asses trying for that simple self gratifying feeling that they won something. Winning is one of them. Smoking dope. Just the first and foremost in the long list of drugs you have to experience in order to live a full life. When it comes to drugs, however, I feel that there are three categories, and if you can undeniably fit into one of these categories, stay out of the other two and don't worry about doing those drugs. It works like this:

Cat 1, mind expanding, thought and creativity invoking dream like sensation drugs. Weed, LSD, magic mushrooms, peyote, heroin, and cocktails of small amounts of beer mixed with any morphine based pills. These drugs, the dopes to infinity, are the ones that you can do just before you pick up the guitar, paper and pen, paintbrush, or whatever other creative thing you're into. If you are creative, you will benefit from these drugs in many ways, while you're on them and while you're wishing you was. If you're not creative, you will just end up abusing them to no end and for no purpose other than to make the couch potato life more colorful. LSD is the only one to be cautious of, because the creativity can drain you. The more creativity you explore on this drug, the heavier the price you will have to pay when it comes time to come down.

Cat 2, senseless body drugs that are best if used in conjunction with sex. Cocaine, alcohol, ecstasy, meth, and amphetamines. These buzzes are pretty much worthless to the creative person. So for most people, they are great. I would recommend short lived experimentations with these drugs for one reason and one reason only: if you keep fucking with them, you WILL get fucked up. Ecstasy, on the other hand, is hard to say that about because of the fact that it is rather expensive and the unlikeliness that anyone would ever get addicted to it.

Cat 3, the totally senseless rush drugs for no other purpose other than to get a fucked up feeling for a short period of time. There are a lot of drugs out there that fit this bill, inhalants, injectables, alcohol itself, and so on. Then there is crack. This drug has to be tried, and with a couple hundred dollars in the pocket so you can get the full experience of dealing with total fuckers in order to keep the buzz satisfied, because 90% of the buzz is wanting and getting more, smoking more, and then doing everything conceivable to smoke any resin that might be left over from what was smoked. A stupid notion is the idea that one can do this drug recreationally or that it can be enjoyed along with other activities - forget all of that. When you're going to smoke crack, you might as well be in a room with nothing but a hard, black floor, a chair and a table. Music is good, but it has to be urban gangster rap to really fit the flow of the buzz. Black sabbath has been known to freak people on crack out. Don't do crack once, then later on say, "damn, I bet I could do some crack again, and I wouldn't really get addicted . . . " you see, crack is a demon that whispers in your ear. You never think you're addicted until you're sitting in a prison cell charged with armed robbery and three counts of murder, and possession of a gram of crack cocaine. You'll probably do more time for the crack than the murders, so keep in mind that just trying it is ok, you will have lived life to the fullest having only done it one time. The only other Cat 3 drug worth talking about is Nitrous Oxide, my favorite drug. Oh yes, it is a drug alright, only because the government decided to make it one. There's nothing wrong with n2o, in my book, it's the safest substance one can abuse. Just don't drive on it. And don't get into the liquid. I have discovered that the drug is best used to appreciate music. When I say music, I'm not talking about the radio, I'm talking about REAL music. Nitrous is like crack in the sense that most of the buzz is spent wanting and getting more, but if you have a tank full of it, you lose the craving about the same time the tank runs out.

Women, drugs, and alcohol aside, there aren't many other things that death can cheat you out of. I like to travel. I like to hang out in new places and see new faces. This is something that most people would enjoy doing before they died, and there isn't really much room for the religious right wing to criticize it as sinful behavior - unless your goal in foreign places is to have secluded, anonymous sex affairs.

Or you're a serial killer . . . which brings me to the one thing that no one wants to talk about. Writers with the same content as this subject refrain from writing about it. That is the dark side of pleasures. Murder, rape, domination with the use of a firearm or other weapon . . . these are the things that forbidden dreams are made of. And that is why there is a whole chapter devoted to them.

So I leave you this final thought on the Temples Within: never underestimate your own inner repulsions for things you have yet to experience. You might enjoy the orgy while it's happening, but you are the type of person that will repress the memory of it and lie about it later to become a hypocrite in your own rite. Me, on the other hand, I will press on with the diluted pupils staring into a distorted world where orgies and drugs are the High Life: living in the "High Society." High Society doesn't mean a lot of fancy cars and big houses to me, it just means that I am enjoying life to the fullest before some snake comes by and gobbles me up. So as we stand by, watching the bigger serpents swallow up the smaller ones, we feel it inside . . . the burning emotion that compels us to feel everything and do everything and own everything and keep wanting more and more until there is only the world itself to obtain. We beat each other with clubs and we eat each other with sharp forks, we lash each other with whips and we pierce each other with the sharpest needles. We are human in an animalistic world. We are the master race of beings, but we are still the minority. We are only at the top of the food chain because we out smarted the lions and tigers of the world. We are only successful at the expense of those who were not. We are only good because there are others that are more evil, and we are only evil because someone made a distinction between good and evil according to their own denial of the inner temple that tells them to rape, kill, maim, pillage, and then deny that the thought ever occurred to them.