WAR 5

A sword unsheathed on the cusp
of rebellion
Ireverent forces
cross the gate

Feeble masses genuflect
before the warlord
Descent of the iron fisted
poltergeist

Horseback interceptor claims
his prize
Birds of prey
released as sign of surrender

Serpents kiss
turns the pure flesh to rot
The Taurus effigy is
locked in catacomb

In The High Castle

There's a  fuse that's lit
Moving forward blindly
To deliver Satan's gift

Blood of Christ is on my hands
Only the strong can rule this land
Held the chalice, tasted the sun
Before too long he took the women,
and the young

Palaces of burning glory
Hopeless valley deserted by the ruled
An old man is killed by his high servant
Their cries he could never understand

Prayer to Satan 2

For the glory
And for the honor
Blessed is the serpent
For he is the free

Living flesh weighted down
Become a union of the crooked entity

Blessed is the coven
Shrouded in secret
The lies it told of everlife

Bastard knight of the broken oath
For the rebel he gives his life

Prayer to Satan 1

I am like Lucifer. I have fallen from grace and like Lucifer in escape I find freedom. I shed my old master and become my own master. I take ownership of my life and commit to shaping my own destiny in accordance with the values that I accept:

The downfall of religious dogma

The supremacy of free will

The power of science as a tool

Indulgence in carnal desire

Quest for greater knowledge

Abandonment of abstraction

Embrace of self identity

By the light of Lucifer

Cyclorama

I went to the Cyclorama today. A 9,000 pound oil painting that's draped in a cylinder. It depicts the horrific events of the Battle of Atlanta. I saw what looked like a man who was attempting to make his experience alright. But it wasn't, because he was alone. He failed, but he'd convinced himself he hadn't. A black man orated the spectacle. His voice was copied. He escaped something, but he was still running.

I asked the orator, “Why are there no black people in the painting?”

“It's propaganda,” he says. “The painting was commissioned as a confederate war flyer.”

HELL 2

Shrouded in blackness
Cursed is this dominion
The dark heir sits on
a poisoned throne

Demonic constructors erecting
pillars of lead
Sipping wine from a skull
chalice
The devil's sanguine laugh
at anguish

Bound in chains, bourne of
fire
Hell's sons commence an orgy

A petrified air of revelry
majestic rolls forth
as skeletons dance

Rawhide straps that look
like tanned skin
A funeral pact is broken again

Candelabra lit, the sign
is etched in blood
The night draws nigh
The pelicans fly

Am I Satan

Vlad the Impaler, the true Dracula who drank his victims blood to absorb their essence.

Wicked willows wallowing in sweet despair as a cardinal lands on a telephone wire. Rats in walls and roaches in halls, pentagrams and inverted crucifixion. Goat's heads and dreams in baphomets eye.

Paranoia twists life: drugs, fear of burglary, alienation in a place so full of people. Peace is a long lost memory. Assimilation into the tribe.

Psychic clairvoyance to a world outside our own. A world of varying fathoms of evil. Fragments of prescient vision slipping between frightening visions of war. The dogs of war call my name to join their ranks. From outside reality a hundred clawed hands grasp the tattered remains of my psyche.

I self impose a form to make it my own. I use sex to depict an inner pain. I use grass to find perspective. I stand when I play, forcing strange darkness upon an unworthy audience. Lust for the forbidden, donning the forsaken robes. Soiled virgin with the evil seed. Sucked into the womb. Taking thy woman as my own. Aleister Crowley sex magick. Sacred blood orgy.

The inverse psyche. Inverse religion.

Yogic circles. The dragon lady. See you soon.