In Between

Between a dark scythe and a reddish knife, I am lost 

In a plethora of choices, vice and lust

Between the cold ravines of death and the sizzling heat of rape

Caught in between, in limbo, in perpetual edge

Lost in darkness and dark light abound

Lost in the Moment V

It was a dark, damp night. One can still recall the phosphorous air, the charcoal black gorge walls.

One can also recall the look of fear and desperation from one’s father, falling into the cold, silent chasm, of red rivers of embers below. 

Was it an omen, a warning from the infernal dimensions, something like three hits and you’re out ? Or was it three strikes and you’re out?

Combined

Fear don’t sell.

Hate don’t sell. 

Peace don’t sell. 

Happiness don’t sell. 

Only a balanced combination, a devious mix, sells.

Hail the mighty combiner.

The adept, the beloved enslaver.

Just a Thought

What do you think about the wedding?

It’s okay. 

You like the bride? She really shines doesn’t she?

Much shinier if she was skinless I think.

Sounds like an idea.

No worries. I’ll get the knives.

Masters

Whatever I swing the athamay for it is not for any masters unless it is for their destruction and exploitation for my own, mastery….

I don’t follow, I don’t bend, I am untamed and ceaseless.

Forever prowling.

Caution

When one sees another hurtling mindlessly towards a head on collision with reality, what should one do?

Advise the other of the apparent danger ahead, or sit back and enjoy the calamity as it unravels?

One would be wise to give a cautious ‘beware’ to entice the other into disregarding the advise, and then sit back to enjoy the calamity that unravels.

So.

Yep. Go on. Keep at it…never mind the critics 

Wonderful View XXXV

Control is the name of the game for our nightly regime to remain entrenched and forever ruling.

Primal

Stand in the freezing steppe wind, the silky night fur, the damp air full of howls 

Mark our primal bygone days, our glorious return to atavistic roots

Lost in the Moment IV

180 on the pitch black highway.  

I am the shadow meteor, the ghostly bullet screaming for target.

Taunt me, and I shall come running to thee….

Born

Everything breathes and everything dies. 

Perhaps we are all coffin fodders, born to rot and fertilize the earth with decay.

Lost in the Moment III

It was 11:11. 

There was no sound. No wind. No whispers.

The night was as silent as the moss on the stone altar. 

And we were lost in the Magick. Pure and untamed 

Little shooting stars, lost in the galaxy.  

To Those Who Beckons

Thou that continued to lure and tease me to this vortex, I acknowledge thee in thine pure and untamed energy, although one shall stay on the precipice and venture no further….

For one doth knows that to do the deed is to forsake undoing the reciprocal need

…and there shall never be a need more desperate, more demanding, than that of thee….

Mask

“Virtue has a veil, Vice a mask”

Good Tales

I am just a sucker for good tales. Camp fire stories that grips one mind and fantasy as tight as a gallows’ nose. 

Once in a full moon ago, such a gripping story actually manifested itself into a beautiful nocturnal hunt, full of twisting run and otherworldly critters.

All hail the great story tellers. The magician of the unseen aether.

Tweaking II

How does it feel to always be excluded from the current, the ongoing? 

Does it help to intensify the groundswell of misanthropy that one has over the years?

Is it effective in alienating the one from his or her other personalities?

Would there be enough of a psychological split to mould an effective operator for the order of the dark light and the atavistic revelations, to manifest itself in this realm?

So many questions, so little time to answer..

Tweaking III

Tweaking

....."It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.".....

Blue

Don’t fall, my love. 

Just drown, in the graceful blue, that is you. 

Ripe City

The city was ripe for change and cleansing. One knows these things from experience. 

It is the smell of blood in the rain. A grand entrance to the city’s purge

Behold II

For a fourth night one thought it will all be over, but it didn’t, and the four horsemen ride on….

Shemamforash

Behold

Oh, what beauty do those eyes behold, in between the shadows and the lights, the gripping cold?

Return

“We shall return”, is all I can remember of that fateful night under the shadow of the tree and the morning star. A momentous night where one’s preconceptions are deconstructed forever by the presence of the real, true one.

Beauty

Would beauty exist without the flesh, a drinking buddy once asked and hence stirred a life-long interest in the subject.

I honestly don’t know if it does depend on the flesh. Come to think of it, taxidermy would not be so intriguing if beauty lies independent of the flesh, wouldn’t it?

It is always beautiful when it bleeds, though.

Orthodox

The true orthodox will not budge from the path of dark light, even if it hides in the shadowy corners of the cold, damp walls 

The orthodox shall prevail, ascending to the very warmth of the darkness and its embrace

Abra - Had - Kadum - Dabra

Hate #2

When you’re not with the pain you trust

Trust the pain you’re with

Hate

When you’re not with the one you hate

Hate the one you’re with

AHD

Abra - Had - Dabra 

Let the masters of the disguised Arts

Come to bear one’s wishes for the four parts

Abra - Had - Kadum - Dabra

Masters of Shan - Gri - La

Meet one halfway in the circle 

Of night and secrets forever idle 

Method

There is a method to my madness, she said, once in a pale moon ago. 

A formula to open up my universe, like the peeling of an onion, and the unraveling of my secrets for you…she said, once in a pale moon

Hand in Hand

Stupidity and vanity go hand in hand. A pair of gloves that fits a pair of hands. It’s the reason why some are much easier to lure than others.

It’s the reason why one would, and should, smile, upon the misery that the arrogant hand shaking one’s own has to enjoy, in the cleansing that is The Hunt…

Wonderful View XXXIV

Only the prettiest ones look good in red

Time To Decide

Glory in the basking light of the lord of all mundane light….or that miserable, pointless little life in your hands.

The time is ripe to chose, oh scarlet beauty… 

Take Me

how shall you take me 

pretty, little, lost lady

will you come to eat me

devour the vices from head to knee

and let your beauty enchants me

Whispers

To understand the night one should first and foremost learn how to listen to the sighs and moans of the aether, just prior to and after a sacrificial offering. 

Only then and then only, shall one learn to listen to the whispers of the evergreen night shades, and the rise of the one whose light surpasses all shadows.

Take A Stand

Stand proud among the weak, the meek, the lambs to the slaughter. Take no shit from the shitty community, and set out proud to shit on their cracked skulls. 

All hail the stubborn fucker who did not want to budge from a test of physique with my front fender last night. You truly took no shit from anyone…

A Sense of Danger

Danger is that silent, tranquil, breezy, benign morning, when you are so confident about the future that you would grasp the open hand of a stranger….

A Homage Inspiration

  

You can always count on a busty pin up for some hunting ‘inspirations’. 

The kind that spice up the whole pursue, overcome and dominate ritual into a sort of pilgrimage.

As wordy as it may seem it does make the whole experience feel like homage to the divine atavism of time immemorial….in short: nothing beats orgasm with the full scent of blood at hand.

The Art of Conversing

Is it not intriguing how some people just come out and talk to strangers, in bars, trains, or even restaurants? What could have possibly moved them to do such a thing? Do they think they have something quite significant to share to others that they just have to start talking? 

Having engaged in one of such ‘conversation’ I can safely say that the nicest way to end such ‘intriguing’ chats is always by stating what the initiator shall do, obediently, for me, whether they like it or not.

Sometimes

Sometimes, less or no words are actually a blessing, even in music. 

One should know that well after all the frustrating moments when a decision has to be made between keeping a hunting game alive, a little bit longer, or not and too many voices are trying to decide which one should be done. 

Less is, indeed, “more”.

I Believe

I do solemnly believe in the mighty red one. The divine one who shall rip the skies when the hemispheres are collapsed and intertwined, and everything laughs thinking it is all fine. 

When the lusts and single mindedness of all are ripe for the infernal ram, coming on a lethal and speedy hatred, seeking countless detonations for all and everyone

Purity

To talk about purity is to feel the seeping bloodlust stirring and curdling inside, so intensely, all you could think about is the beautiful veins where all that beautiful warm life runs through. 

It is not a matter of ‘what ifs’ or other speculative non sense. It is a truthful, no holds barred, covenant with the primal and natural instinct of the taker, the intruder, the ravager, the absence of nurture…

When

When is a bloody knife, an omen of foreboding times? 

It is so when the whole god awful world receives its due reckoning, as it stands naked in the freezing storm, lit by nothing else than lustful fires…

Thrashy

It’s that trashy feeling one gets when faced with a joke that is not funny, a smile that is not sincere, a flirting wink empty of lust, and a half empty bottle of liver poison broken by accident….Ad Nauseam.

It’s that feeling that kindles one’s intractable lust for unbridled aggression and magickal bombardment of the infernal kind…

Who gives a fuck who will be lucky enough to get all of that beautiful wrath…

Chatty Days

For some reason one is becoming quite chatty in the past few dull days. As chatty as a group of die hard zealots, lusting for blood, in a ritual sacrifice.

And to think that it needs little if any words to actually make some good, cold and filthy incantations.

Destination

A sense of direction is all fine, when you know where you want to go. It should help you to prepare provisions, plan strategies and ploys, think of the future and talk of continuity, of legacy. 

So now that we know we are all heading to the cold, damp graveyards, we should know what to prepare, plan, and talk about, shouldn’t we?

Or is it easier just to forget?

Welcome

Welcome to the next sacrifices…to another timeline of death, decay and sickness. 

A static buzz of death bound magick

Set all talismans to the black earth, to the soft pale skin, to the salty waters of the veins.

RED

Never underestimate the macabre ways of passing into death