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.