Death Magick for Adepts

Come distortured artists, bitter things seek meaning, even if they're madness to behold. Once forebears to horizons where the dead stayed dreaming, now nightmares waken souls that fear the living's toll. Gova, Bosch and Brueghel! Three times moonwise stain thy graves, for words alone are at loss to trace the face of today's inhuman wraith. One half adrift in the vast abyss of despair and misery, the other a mask of rich red lips whetted by the fevers of belief and greed. All damned in this inferno where even Virgil averts his eyes from the black mass mutual gang rape of ceasing hands and forced divides. Trespass these seven gates to a world bloodlet to shades. Where Seraphim bleat of their cold and coming master's race. In the sewers of Babylon stillborn to a trough anon, chimiracles will hatch like plots to dredge faces to pearl their cross. Enter Penteholocaust! Five aeons past yet still man grasps at final straws to save his cast. His Lord is a leper we shall not want, he betrayed us with white lies! His acrid pall as of the tomb reminds us how we rot inside. Gutted like fool's paradise, glutted on cruel appetites! Holding court to chaos, folding to far graver arms. A downfall fatal to all resounds as orgies peak in self centred psalms. And Nature screams her sufferings under bowed and cankered wings, a bleak scorched Earth Necrotica burning like the robes we've torn from her! She begs us lay her pain to rest, lest we are left with nothingness save for her stripped and ravished flesh. And if her fate is not so portent of Apocalypse, then the comets that graze night skies, will surely cleanse of wrongs and Reichs when you and I and all else dies. It's rotting down this carcass Maggotropolis! Interdependent as worms to the grave, Allah's true name is naught, Chist cannot save. Locked in a waltz of evermore frantic steps, spells of regret, Death Magick for adepts. Be prepared to fulfill prophecies, the glorious fall of a sin dynasty. Gutted on cruel appeitites, gutted like fool's paradise! "We've woven hearts a thorn arbour left tear streaked reason upon the shore. And bereft of compass, star or more, set out for this world's end. Few at the prow most slave below painting coal, a perfect gold. But for all it's worth the engines slow. Dead in the brine again! Come cabin fever, sodomy on the Bounty! Prey to phallus seas that hiss and foam to douse disease, a storm roars on the way. Blacker than the ace of rapes dealt out by Death in darkwood glades. Our Ship of Fools, all boards handmade, sinks. Dashed by seismic waves."