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

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.