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?

Angels

So they went to the mundane realm. Cast down from high on to crawl on all ten toes. They took to liking the greeneries of earth. The dreamy allure of smoky hallucinogens and the heady poisons of life and death that only mortals could ever understand….

Sleepless - III

We talked and drank and talked and drank, ad infinitum

Until the rattling of bones, hollowed of marrow and restrain, woke us up

And the freezing zephyr told us that we are dead

Sleepless - II

I saw you in my dreams. In my waking daylight dreams, I saw you.

I saw you and I know you saw me too. Staring at each other, we were walking the road to mutual dissolution.   

Sleepless - I

How can one sleep with so much joy abound? 

A truck load of death, a festival of knives, dancing lose on the streets, and a bountiful of joy and joy and joy and joy abound, all around.  

I am a flux, a permanent wave, soaring out of bounds 

To The Gutters

What would you do with that knife that hasn’t been done a million times before unto me? 

Thrust it as fierce as you might want, break the flesh, the bone, brittle…it shall never fill that void one calls life.

None is more black than the shattered mirror, the rippling well, the underbelly of life, where the dead shall suffer death no more.   

Come and tear at the flesh, to the gutters, where the dead shall suffer death no more.

Nightwalks

Nothing soothes the senses more than a walk through the night’s evergreen realm. 

Quite unexpectedly, sometimes one is bound to find itself in the midst of enlightenment, and, perhaps, the company of a wise denizen of the woods. 

Wise enough to explain, and clarify, why all the sevens are actually ones…. 

All Is One

No matter how much misery one has to endure, it all leads to one final truth. That divinity is attainable in life, and in joy, rather than just wrath.

That tales of old are not merely imaginary, but more likely a shrouded reality, waiting to be learnt and understood in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of the ancient weald.

Unanswered

Some phone calls are just better left unanswered

Moon Mirror

Each time I look upon the moon, under the veil of night and its layers of dark clouds, it never fails to transport my mind to that serenity, high up in the misty skies.

What was it that the old one once told me about the glorious night light?

“It is but a mute reminder to our real abode, within the stars, where the slumbering below is the awoken above“

Wonderful View XXXI

With so much death and paranoia around nowadays, one would suppose we should have an intensely progressive science of death.

A sort of ‘necrothology’, to either clarify the inevitable or even present alternative scenarios which resemble ‘hope’.

Share the Journey

Share your journeys, they say. Share the bane and pleasures of your lifelong journey, so that you are not caught alone in the webs of your mind. 

It helps, they say. Helps ends the endless thirst for more hunts. More taxidermy. More late night shoveling. 

Early morning regrets. 

Faces in the crowd. 

Latex gloves. 

Voices under my eyelids. 

Ad Nauseam

Fucking useless advises...

One’s Diatribe is Another’s Accolade

“There is nothing spontaneous or accidental about "rock." It is a product of classical studies of the ancient Phrygian terrorist cult of Satan-Dionysos, the model for the Roman Bacchic cults of similar characteristics. Crowley’s control of the "rock industry" has been documented by a team of [private] investigators, who have also noted, that in addition to the Satanist lyrics, Satanist messages embedded sublimely in rock recordings are a key feature of this subversive operation. 

The "rock rhythm" itself is copied from the old Dionysian-Bacchic cults. Even without the drugs and sexual orgies which are characteristic features of hard-core rock affairs, repeated, frequent, hours-long exposure to constant repetition of "rock rhythms" produces lasting, drug-like effects on the mind of the victim. Reducing sexual practices to the level of bestiality, is a crucial feature of Satanism in all historical periods studied, from Phrygian Cybele-Dionysos cult-period onward.”

Lyndon LaRouche

A Non-generic Groundswell

What could be more generic in the extreme, underground metal scene than references to blood

And yet, every now and then, you do stumble upon things that emanated such hard to cast aside, groundswell of anger and hatred, that really do last in your blood more than just a generic, teenage-angst of some early years dabbling in the underground.

I guess, for some of us, there’s nothing generic about feeling an affinity with the darker shades of consciousness.

Ontology

"I regard consciousness as fundamental. I regard matter as derivative from consciousness. We cannot get behind consciousness. Everything that we talk about, everything that we regard as existing, postulates consciousness."

Wonderful View XXX

Don't be shy, don't be remorseful, don't be worrisome,

Just be fain

Transition

From Oestre to a magickal egg-laying hare..You got to hand it to those Abrahamic religions, they sure do know how to twist and fuzz-out myths for their own agenda…

Like a lingering cloud of gasified lungs in the showers of concentration camps, forever hanging in transition

Abandoned

Saw a very interesting, sad, pale game yesterday. So sad, it actually looks as if the whole cosmos has vacated her bluish, dreamy eyes, even as life writhes to survive within that pale flesh.

I wonder if it's the hunter and assassin within that brought such sense of abandon.

Dark Cold Stars

Nature can say so much with so little words. 

A shimmering glance of the pale monsoon moon, for example, can whisper all the stories one needs to known about the nightshades, and the evergreen cold darkness that it breeds.

Summoning souls like stars gathering at the height of the dark night’s embrace…

Reap

I always know that the time is ripe for raping the seeds that I’ve sown for so many years when I see the night skies turned crimson last Samhain…

The forest is cleared of fogs and the talismans are shimmering with the old light, emanating deep from the evergreen heart of the night, calling me forth to reap what I’ve sown. 

Sometimes it feels as if each deep dark nooks and crannies of the forest is a summon to reap.

Prayers

Here’s what an a self-proclaimed insightful magus of the mundane realm told me once in a foggy bar stool evening: There is no need for any prayers, mantras, murmurs of parley and cajoling with denizens of horse shit realms that exists only in the beholder’s own weak, fearful, inconsistent mind. 

The only prayer useful to be pondered, the magus claimed, is the one from a few decades ago, when one is sober enough to perceive the ultimate truth: “I press her thigh and death smile”

Repeat after me: “I press her thigh and death smile” - “I press her thigh and death smile” - “I press the trigger and death smile”

Odd Faith

Is there anything that is not odd about faith that one could pass judgment unto others? Why is cutting up one’s own skin in homage to a perceived righteous leader, so much more disgraceful than anal probing altar boys every fucking weekend? 

Is murder better when it is about killing Muslims for Budha, Budhists for Yahweh, Christians for Satan, Satan for Allah? Or is murder just murder, with no need for reason or faith or any creatures to lay the responsibility on? 

Maybe the truth is a lot simpler than all that crap. Maybe faith, piety, or dedication to imaginary beings, are just for pussies.

Wonderful View XXIX

Ran aground on this untamed, barren, forlorn, and persistently hateful place decades ago, one starts to wonder if everybody was also ‘stirred’ to be here by some sort of universal enchantress?

A siren that coils and uncoils the titillating peak and pulses of the spear and cup, ensuring that even more and more shall ran aground, in this desolation… 

Good Sleep Bunny

I took the feathers of fluffy weather

Until it rains all the tears and cries 

Of a thousand feathers torn 

Off fluffy bunnies, kept in leather

Plucked and cast down the depths of filth 

An empty din of tatter 

Unknown by weather

The Perfect Balance

When time passes by, I do long for the fuzzy 70s. The time when that illusive balance of ‘defiance’ and ‘faith’ lingers so beautifully in art and music…

As fuzzy as the rapes at Woodstock, the pretty long hairs of Manson’s girls, the piled cadavers on Jim Jones’ happy little hippie town...

Wonderful View XXVIII

To lose or get lost is to be immersed in the thousands fold of conscious and subconscious realities…or so some say to me, in a bad acid-laden hunt, once upon a long, purplish, crimson night ago… 

Saintly Death

I used to dream of dying a heroic death. Defiant to the last gasp of breath. Clad in loincloth, armed with big-ass swords, axes, like Conan in the comics..Bathory and Manowar in the band photos…Defending justice, in self- righteous, brutal carnage.

Of course, one eventually grows up and realized heroism has no value other than in Hollywood. That violence and big weapons belongs to the sole monopoly of state apparatus on whom we can always rest our utmost trust and reliance for fairness, safeness and squeaky-cleanness….

No more needs for dying saints…we just need more saintly gadgets and applications to solve whatever little problems we have left in the world now…

Spirituality

One cannot stress enough the importance of vetted experience, for anyone professing proficiency in spiritual guidance…If you haven’t been to the darker paths you surely cannot talk about leading others to it.

Why are we, or some of us, so addicted on being lead, spiritually, intellectually, technologically, culturally, anyway? I suppose that deserves its own thread doesn’t it?

Optimism

Someone ask me once if I could ever be an optimist with such misanthropic view of life. Truly, it is interesting how some very unsettling and most intriguing questions, or conversational topics, could come up while you are out on a hunt, regardless of who brought up the questions/topics.

Since we continued talking about it at a ruin chosen before hand for proper homage to the hunting gods, I chose to reflect my thought on the surrounding circumstances. That in the face of structural decay, one could feel optimistic about a possible renovation of the structure, or of an inevitable destruction of the structure, both plausible in the future.

Surely, optimism is but a ‘function’ of each individual’s viewpoint is it not?  Just as music in its many genres/forms always appear to me as a reflection of the musicians’ true desire/heart. If the desire/heart is dark, so shall the music expression be dark.

If the heart/desire is misanthropic, so shall the ‘optimism’ be misanthropic.  

Teasers

I do like it when a fresh, bold approach to a certain familiar music genre teases my brain in such delightful ways, that one doesn’t even think too much anymore about who shall be the next game on the hunt. 

I’m sure my shrink will approve of this therapeutic approach of musical “teasers”…which also stop me and the knives in my heart from being constantly feeling ‘teased’ by her lovely legs, and disgusting jade-green brooch.

Pain

I gave you lust and genitalia so you can procreate

Spread across the planet with your kind

Master the land the sea and the skies

Spread wanton destruction on your scorched paths

For which you shall be grateful

And pay me by blood, in full

Children of pain and dying hopes

Old One, Again

The Old One told me there is no evil but the underbelly of the sacrificial holiness. No light without darkness, and no love without hate.

Duality is the law of this existence, and so shall it be the bane of this realm. Let there be no prudence without ignorance, and no peace without horrors.

Triad

Is three pair really such a crowd? If it is so, could it perhaps explain why the Judaeo-Pantheon is such an oppressive and confusing matter? 

Didn’t we first learn about a divined triad form the Egyptians? Was it a crowd back then too, when Amun, Ra and Ptah had to co-exist in the Sinai pantheon? 

Was it equally crowded when Josef and Mary and their newborn baby huddled together in a barn, and welcomed the three wizards, who were led and witnessed by the unholy star?…

Commemorate

What would be better to commemorate the slaying of a leader, than to slay one’s own flesh?

So bring your knives to the hills and forest, tonight, mighty disciples of the infinite light….Let the night bath in blood as the supreme leader hath done to our enemies, in times immemorial…

Old One

I have had a most intriguing meeting with the Old One, last Samhain. It must have been the most inspiring banquet I have ever attended.

A dinner fit for a wise King and the hardened souls of infinite light…

Whip

Man is, essentially, wicked. Therefore, the need for men to be whipped with a Moloch-ian flaming, searing, flesh ripping lash, is, essentially, unavoidable and very much warranted. 

Magick

I believe in the subtlety of Magick, ever primordial and imminent, lingering within the threshold of the conscious and subconscious mind, the cleavage and the breast of the ancient, universal goddess… 

True Magick, which lifted my spirit when burdened by the throes of life, and soared me up to unfathomable heights when burnt by the ecstasies of life…An Old Magick, that reminds me of Home…