The Art Of Ritual

The Art of Ritual and Masquerade
line the skin like artificial nerves.
Sin is just a trick on niggers
broken on the wheel of fate.
Shackled to what never was...
what never will be.
Haunted again and again
by the ghosts of a murdered conscience.

Where sex is now an act of Murder.

The Noose looms...
I feel like I'm being crushed
under the immense gravity
of all the dead buried on top of me.

Punished again and again
for the crimes of my mother
my father, our brothers and lovers
those fuckers.
Crimes against Nature
Crimes against Reason
That fetish for Hate fucking...

The smell of a sick cunt
brings the sick fucks around every time...

And there I go again...
Delirious spasms
Toxic hallucinations
of all the beautiful young soldiers
who have come to soil my battlefield
with their heavy artillery
pumping into me like bullets
fired at point blank range
anointed with the hot molten lead
which would mingle
with the blood and cum

letting it flow
letting it flower into
small muddy puddles
at my bound feet
Whipped into ritual frenzy by blood sucking fuckers
who practice Sex as a Black Mass, Witchcraft, Wicca...
Seduced by mirrors, Tarot, Slight of Hand into the Harem
sucking in the poison of others.
That perfume of Death...of Blood.

The beauty of the Wounds perpetrated, perpetuated...
Not ever able to get far enough away from the inside of the body.
From the slow rot which takes root...sick in the center of every single cell.
Contagions multiplying in upon themselves. Muscles loosening. The Flesh withers.
The delicious languor of Disintegration. I can smell in coming.
Like fallout from some terrible explosion, scattered by the wind.
A Siren sings out calling me...recognize the song from the tombs...
It's calling you Ricocheting off the raw wounds.
Wounds, which will never, ever heal.