RED

Never underestimate the macabre ways of passing into death

Domains III

It felt like a wet, humid day has just slapped me in the face and woke me up to the fuzziness of vintage vistas.

A burning reddish blur of things, happening in the embrace of shadows. Somewhere in the smoky back alley of one’s mind is nostalgia, remembrance, and rejoice.  

To relive the moments is to remember the domain of the Great Red One.

Domains II

It was by the shadow of the great green man that the unseen lines of dimensional geometry cascaded into a unified gate, the threshold of the mighty man’s domain.

And it is there by the very threshold that we merrily perform the joyous celebrations of the unifying of worlds and plains.

Domains

There is a whole new domain to explore, and understand, in the realm of pain and torture.

It is the dissolving of impurity that begets pain, and yet it is also the shedding of such that opens up the path for renewal.

To rejuvenate is to recombine. Shed the old skin for a new mask. Solve et Coagula

Wonderful View XXXIII

Have a merry, merry

Fucking Saturnalia

O lone wolves of bacchanalia

Be merry, ‘till the bitter end

Winter Mood III

And so Thy will be scum

Upon earth as it is on the ravens

Let Thy kingdom cum

And Thy lust be done

Forever in darkness be damn

Winter Mood II

What is it with this winter and holiday thing that just draws me into so much sensation?

I guess the phallic symbolism of the Xmas tree, the blood red tinge of the fat and pedophiliac Santa Claus, the whiteness of the dirt stained snow, just tingles every sanguinary fancy one could ever possibly feel. 

A fancy for sacrificial lovers, and for drive by kills by gangsters, the beauty of blood written on snow splatter…

Winter Mood

Winter and holidays always brings out the heaviest in me…

The monstrous inclination to get heavy in everything one indulges in…Heavy liquor, heavy hunting, heavy slicing, heavy bloodletting. 

Once Upon A Prophetic Plane

Everything that squirms, ejaculates, gestates, defecate, will procreate and die, and maybe, every now and then, survive the perpetual cataclysms by which nature conquers culture.

That is the prophetic nature of this apocalyptic existence

Hidden

I saw the red one on a full moon night, once. The mighty red one.

It was the epitome of hidden knowledge, the craft master to which one shall have no other desire but to bow in solemn respect and submission.

Know The Signs

Do you know the signs of the unseen ones? There are, as the wise have say, as many signs as there are the unseen ones.  

When the cold hands of fog comes down to blanket a valley. When cocks are crowing, in the wee little hours, of the desolate dykes. Then you shall know the signs of the unseen ones.

Idols

Watching the sky turning dark among the towering pillars of sky crappers, and all the dreary faces walking underneath their shadows, one can really sympathize with those who want to bring down the idols, the demigods, the tycoons and barons, from their ivory towers. 

All we need is a mighty hammer to crush those towering idols, and send them crashing and shattering to the ground….

White II

Why do most people associate the color white with pureness, goodness, benevolence etc? Hospital sheets are mostly white, but so are the death shrouds of those who died upon the sheets…Surely they are not, then, holy and pure?   

The Ku Klux Klan wears white. The priests’ clerical collars are white. The imperial Storm Troopers wear white. Does that make them pure and benign? 

I think I’d rather go color blind, with eyes and heart burnt by the gentle embers of firewood, then to get lost in such useless concept.

An Itch

It’s been coming and going lately, that carnivorous instinct, like a severe itch that just can’t be scratched. Itching for bodies, for warm sweaty runs and salty blood, through the evergreen nightshade. 

It's an itch. When every single impulse of stress and hatred crashes like giant waves on the inside of one’s skull, fracturing and ripping apart whatever limits may still be there.   

Gateways

A journey of a thousand life time starts with a single step. And sometimes it starts with a single step into a circle.

The circle of protection, where chants of the most concentrated kind can be perpetrated to the dismay of foreboding spirits…

White

I know now that the essence of the bunny’s white fur is the whiteness of the coffin worms. Pure and unblemished, all it is missing is some red stains of love. 

Love under will. 

Love under force. 

Love under dominance.

Grey-piphany

Looking at the grey skies and clouds, reflecting upon the grey walls and streets, one simply has to accept the fact that gloom is not a choice or temporal circumstance, at least not now, not in this plane.

It is, on the contrary, the quintessence of what this extant plane is all about.

Yes indeed. Being hopeful and positive is, ultimately, an aberration.

Kult

“When we stand in a circle, the circle is us, and there is no end or beginning between us. 

We are one and all, and none shall know about us as the circle keeps everything only among us. 

We are inseparable and unified as one, forever joined in a holy covenant.”

Perfect Music

As one lies in the beach in search of solitude and insight, there is no better music, no better audio sedative than the perfection that is bowed metal music.

Womb

A womb impregnated by means of no intercourse. Magical, was it?

Isn’t it wonderful how a thing, which surprises very little with today’s advances in medical science and technology, could then lead to all the ongoing bloodthirsty trail of the Abrahamic religions? 

From a story of a supposed virgin’s dark womb comes forth the deluge of sanguinary history, which has not ceased to maim us all to this very day. 

Now that is bloody magical indeed.

Toys

The perfect toys for any child are ones that teach the true nature of things. 

The ones that lure the mind to the powers that beckons in the dark. 

And the bewitched, enchanted amulets of the netherworld kind.

Cringe

Although one doesn’t cringe easily at hard to discern or accept situations, some oddities of the youthful kind, or of the ‘some-riffs-are-strangely-similar-to-a-certain-other-band’ circumstance, do entice some cringe-worthy moments in one’s erstwhile dull, dreary life. 

Scenic

Since the two species were first established, there has always been a pact between the two. They shall not intervene in each other’s circumstances, provided none ask for the intervention.  

Seeking counsel with the nether realm of the death, therefore, is a blatant request for intervention, of all and sundry…and an excellent recipe for some truly scenic apparitions.

Maxims III

Loneliness is

The very essence of

Past, present and the awakening beyond

Maxims II

Life begins not at certain biological age

It starts when the black door opens and beckons one to enter…

Signs

Every time I look around at the signs, there is always a strong sense of perversion and mockery on them.

So much so that one is forced to ask, sometimes, whether there is really any need to blaspheme an institutionalized belief system that is already corrupting itself inside out?

What’s the point of blaspheming something like that?

Are There Ever Enough Bombs Around?

I don’t think there is ever enough, for all of us. There’s just not enough of it around….Maybe only if another carpet, blanket, full out bombing should take place, as it was during the last two global purges.

Note To Self

When done with chasing a prey, it is always, always preferable to have whip cream at hand for the icing of the cake….

You can never have enough whip cream. Never.

Perverse

A healthy society is always in need of perversions, of the tastiest, bloodiest, most sanguinary kind. Otherwise, one is likely to end up with an unhealthy, repressive society where perversions are mutated into lynch mobs and public mutilations.

There should always be a few sacrifices, for the health of the many. 

Turbulence

Dreams are mirrors to the sleepless ether around and throughout us all. A ripple in the omnipresent and omniscience reflected through waves in our dreams. At least that’s what an old and lonely guru once told someone,  

Wonder if the old fart is still dreaming or rippling through one’s dream, after all those years of being hacked and buried somewhere deep in the evergreen woods.  

Wonder if it was him who made that rippling turbulence of a multi headed bitch in red that one ends up dreaming of raping and hacking and burying deep in an evergreen woods….  

She was so red, she looked like a flower, dipped in blood and the crimson  sunset. Beautifully red. Obscenely red.

When The Tables Are Turned

It’s intriguing how cool or even funny it is to talk about evil deeds or watch others get victimized by it, from afar. 

It’s a completely different thing when evil deeds are staring one straight on the eye and face, with all the exquisite pain and discomfort that it entails.

And yet there is no better taste of truth, no better catharsis, than to confront one’s demon up close and personal.

Hail, Hail

Yeeeps! I thought ‘old Nick’ was long gone and buried in forgotten land by now?

The Principal of Qisas

Everyone needs a little closure, every now and then. A little retribution to ease the gaping, wounded, pesky bitch called sadness aka lost aka cry baby aka hatred. 

Of course, as the principle of nature dictates, for every act there is bound to be a reaction, and therefore a never ending cycle of glorious hate and bloodlust, ad infinitum. 

Then, of course, you can always savor the insults, the hatred, the pulsating lust for vengeance. Slow burn for better times when no one expects it, and when the pleasure will double and triple by every slash and hack. 

Mindrift

“I remember”, he said with a faint smile, “how one chemically induced trip, back in the 60s, had once taken me up a rainbow, which I proceeded to lick. I remember it tasted a little salty and sugary. Almost like blood. It smelled like blood too, that was until I realized, of course, it was the blood running down the broken needle.” 

“Those were the day”, he said in between the looming darkness, “When I was walking mighty tall and proud, on the wheels of fire” 

Fictrution

If truth actually originates as facts steeped in fiction, which then begets more fictionalized truth intermingled with plain facts, what part of it is a plain fucked up myth? 

Oh well, got to love the sweet beheading girl, regardless. Let the misanthropy gets younger and younger still.

Wonderful View XXXII

The more you twitch, the more beautifully fiendish it shall be. 

Why won’t you all ever learn?