Fueling Hell

The absence of alcohol can really turn one’s thoughts into the most intriguing sophistry. Take the myth of the eternally burning pits of hell, for instance.

The first question to be pondered is surely how the fuck does it gets eternal like that? Is someone or something fueling the flames in that realm, or is there actually a blazing contraption there that continues to recycle the heat and the flames?

One story said it is fuelled by us, by our sins and transgressions, by every twat and dick fornicating beyond the sanctity of marriage, or slaughtering each other regardless of remorse.

Damn, those things do get my nerves all hot.

Maybe what my good ole favorite Czech musicians’ said is true after all, that we are the ones lighting and burning the flames over there.

Torch that realm here

Subtleties

I suppose this happens to anyone who has been listening to extreme underground music for quite a while: the sensitivity for subtle aspects within a musical work. It doesn’t matter how noisy or hard and heavy the music gets,  there are always other, subtle things that makes one feel comfortable with a certain musical work, or not.

It’s not how brutal, fast, technical or pompous one plays the music. It’s those other, seemingly trivial things that matters. 

It’s that feeling of real pain and hatred, oozing through each notes and vocalization. It’s also that foreboding atmosphere, like shadowy figures fleeting through the corner of an eye.

Those are the shits that matters, rather than a whole lot of pompous, superficial big mouthing, attires or images. Because you just can’t copy old wounds.

Sticky old wounds

Peace of Mind

How does one achieve a peace of mind? Maybe not through bar brawls, one night stands, speeding through a graveyard or any other adrenalin rush thingy.

Drowning in a bottle of bourbon might not be a good idea either. Can’t see a bottle of prescription medication helping out any better...

Someone told me a long while back that such a peace is an illusion. The main reason for that being the mind’s own tendency to be fragmented...Always switching from one thing to another, like a hamster on meth.

Peace of mind? Fuck that..it’ll always be pieces of a hyperactive fragmented mind. 

Mind in Fragments

Roller Coaster

It’s one thing to talk about death and to watch it creep up personally. The way a soul twist and turn in a roller coaster between here and there, is one of the most exquisite experience anyone could ever have.

Moribund, is not as unpleasant or as peaceful as one could have imagined. Particularly in the case of a sick and dying old soul...

Roller Coasting Out To Die

Nightmare Coaster

Watching troubled minds at sleep is always an intriguing pleasure. The way they twitch and turn and moan and scream, in reaction to the deepest recesses of their subconscious, makes one wonder what wonderful nightmare they might be roller coasting through.

It also makes one wonder, whether everyone share and recycle the same nightmare scenarios, like some generic typology or something?

Even more importantly, does everyone meet the same bloodied and white-dressed dame in the bathroom and dark corners? Does everybody then also proceeded into that sinister and fun coaster of chasing the bloody dame and running her to the ground with a steel hammer?

Chase that bloody dame

Graveyard Shift

I’ve always heard weird stories about graveyard shift. Tales of weird sounds and creepy whispers in the dark alleys of deserted buildings, or even of uncanny encounters among the shadowy walls.

Either they are all tall tales, or the folds of darkness and night do posses more than meets the eye.

Just like some genuine 1970s progressive-rock acts, the night time can really keep quite a handful of surprises in its sleeve.

Night Watch Psychedelic Shift

Disco Crap

I love meeting the ‘dance-y’ people on weekend nights. Rave, House or whatever else they’re high on, it’s always nice to see them smiley faces bleed.

It’s almost as nice as ripping off their money, booze and fancy smart phones, just before shoving their miserable existence into limbo.

Disco Death Volume 1