Demonic Sequence
Ba'alzebub
Fatten my flies on bloated flesh!
Bring them blackened carrion floating down-river belly-up pustular, sweet-smelling yellow-catahrr fouling your strand. Find them more bodies bubbling with blood, salt-lick frothing
with the promise of maggot-food. Make my flies fat you soul-less manlings, mortality spewing from your eyes, mixing with your bile envy-green in its blasphemy. Buy them with the gorge of your television sets - Hollywooded red-hand style, grunge-rock guitar-hero style, splatter hockey-mask style, be all that you can be style. Aye, sell me your children, that I might feed my flock in the church of your undoing. And woo me not with sacrifice on a sacred altar built of stone; woo me rather in ditchrows and desperate cesspools, those that you forge out of fabrication and romance. Story me in myth, and make of me an idol slaked in tarnished silver; tell of me tales to your wide-eyed sons; wish them well in their adventuring sport; be sure to give them guns and show them how to shoot; sell them toys big as death and damn them to me! But burn them not, for their flesh is succulent and my blow-flies greed for their fare. Aye, bribe them into submission, buy their blood with desire and lust; leave them to me and my minions and we shall pick over your offal, your middens; your foulest piss-hole shall be our kitchen, and we shall crowd each other in glee at your gory genuflection. Oh, my hatchling grubs, how we will feast on these fools, on their self-hate spawn spewing forth their swilling on their very soul-stuff; nor will they ever know that they spill enough to fill our vats to overflowing. Join with me my crawling brood, that you may crave their generosity, glut us on their cubs; these are fine times for us, and for this will we sing a supplication to their gods. "Fawning celluloid, flickering video-tape trapped in your theaters, oh how we revere you; may your sprockets run forever, in the living-rooms of their mind; may our myth-wynding doom them to ape whatever we sell them;
and may our business embrace their sanity one and all. Ah-men."
Lamia
And I in my red dress run my fingers past your bone burying my nails in your darkest desire
inflaming you with self-love and evil laughter. "Come lay with me," whisper'd slippery
slaking my thirst in your hidden heart-stream salt and bleeding-warm to my expert touch. "Ecstasy me first-time," slow down going in my place of business puncture penetrant dagger-sharp in your mind. "Mortify me in your mill-race whence flows your issue," flailing-deep and founder'd in the abyss I call home, that your children shall be sacrifice on my altar of art. "Abase yourself below me, let your lust be your undoing, let my lewd be laurel'd with your red-salt gush," given to me in my glory that the very fount of life be perverted to my use. "Pray to me for your damnation, laugh with me in our darkness, demand more, ever more," for self-love is never enough. "Be blind to my wiles, see only this:
finery and flaunting, beckoning and bending, compliance to the elect, and my kiss aflame with promise and payment." And when you are ensnared, never seek back for warmth, nor warn those yet to come; for my wooers are legion in this glacial pit a'groan and long in dream; like are they plight
to my troth, nor has any the temerity to escape. Ice and Fire so similar and familiar,
as lovers in opposition, plying Their commerce as of old, amidst the chaos traded for a song. And my melody is Allure, my tune is Ruinous, my aria Degradation, my dispatch at my leisure, and NONE of you have seen fit to understand me, and for this hyena-craven are you called to shrift. Ah, my lovely ones let me stroke your bones, throw you castrated on my midden marrow-crack'd and torn. As `tis ever for pig-snouts, base-born stupidity that self-serves its vex and cursed wanton ways.
Moloch
Woe to the world in its weary grief,
gone to grave-goods and grovel'd thievery after thoughtless Man's assault; its mercenary hosts hiding in their hovels hollow with hunger, pestilenced by plague without hope or succour; single-minded in its blasphemy and pride, aye, pride; a world gone to wrack
for arrogance and cash, for corrupted malice, and deceit and control. Woe to its mob-mentality, mobilized and herded, as hosts of cattle-drove carnaged in ditches, drop'd down, ever down, felled by knackers red-handed in their gore, gashed mindless; in mind and body,
in their soul and bodies, shrieking ashen-faced on the killing floor. Woe to their kith, their far-kin yet to be, to their bairns and being embattled in their field, whence cometh the Wind and the whining rain hard with the promise of radioactive dust, hot and destined
to sear the earth for a myriad millennium. Thrice Woe on the oath sworn in covenant on the altar-stone chiseled of sapphire
and silver and brass. Oh my children
are ye come to this? Come to the accounting as it was prophesied by the grey-beards of old in the Book of your Days; come to the weighing, the watching and waiting for Time to stand still. Are you standing and ranked, marching in rows without end or beginning; are you bowed endless, shouldering gunstocks given to your hands by moguls of industry, by magnates of film, falter'd in the flim-flam of their way-ward track. Is your path become twisted of flint and sleaze, of slick and oily-smooth sweet-talk and beguilement; does the rancid effluent gibber in your craw, crawl about your skull-hole pooling in your shoes? And you cannot shut it out you say, bid it go away, begone? Ahhh. Too many eye-sockets and bone-fingers flinder'd at your soul? Ahhh. The singing in your ears is mine, the burning after your spirit is mine, the gall in your mouth is mine; that which has gone out of your wraith,
has fled from your form, has sloughed in the fire, THAT is mine! And lest you think
you have yet hope and faith, know you this: your fealty is mine, your hearts' desire is mine, and in the choir of our church the altar-stone is my own. Yea, always beholden thus with steel-chains of Time, in the fire-place of our self-Appointment.
Teisiphone
As they were forcing me through the furnace maw in a no-place called Sobibor I saw what you did. I saw my sisters at poison'd Birkenau
standing in line to be showered and shaved. I saw how jovial Josef stalked among them, choosing twins for his black experiments, his racial research and his private prurience. I saw five chimneys belching oily soot
a'stench beyond apparition. I saw trenches a'crawl with eye-less sockets, pointing fingers, burned bone-slivers, defiled carrion
forlorn and forgotten by `well-meaning' folk. "We did not know," you say, "we too were victims, outraged and trodden upon." I saw that you knew, that your wretched whiteness is the pallor of woe; tell me what you dream in the witness of your night! I saw what you sold for a child or a glance, and the dance that you made among the flames of your cities; tell me of your ashes, of your absolvence and fraud! I saw you chained to my sisters and kinsmen, champed to the same bit that is named Providence; tell me now how the binding feels does it pain you, pallid ones? And I saw my body strapped with iron bands to a steel stretcher rolled machine-slick into the maw; one scream and I was free, free to claw at your eyes, that you might never see or recognize your succour. That you forever smell the stench of carrion, taste the gall of vengeance, and know no other cell-block than the evil of your doing. For I am free, you burned me; in the fire am I clairvoyant, am I brandished with sword and dagger and desire. And I crave for your shackled soul, I pray for your fetters to be of foul enchantment, profaned with filth, choked on your own swill; and for this will I willing suffer torment along ye. Aye, your cell-mate your trustee who brings your soup. Ah, maggot-stool; and this is justice, and my right. And this is forever yea, until the end of time.
Orlog
Out of the West, where the wind blows hot a hard rain before it, where the sun glowers red-sullen and grim graven-eyed skull-faced bone-fingered scythe-handed a'thirst for your soul. And in the East, yellow-horde horse-men
storm-troop'd hob-nail high-booted tromp, a'lance with green-envy for land and spoil and spillage of blood. Up, from the South, black-rage berserk hunger'd for revenge, desert-wise but city foolish, yoked to famine and sold for a handful of promises and sorghum. And from the North, from gun-factory women, from wicked lab-smocks and smooth-talking Wall-streets looking to score a buck. Aye, from Below, whence cometh the craven, the order-takers and toads, the trident-wielders and net-hurlers, actors-all on the blood-sand arena floor. Five-sided is Thy name, anger Thy consecration, death Thy commitment, ignorance Thy reward, and doubt Thy eternal chain. As for you, who act on this stage of depravity, know you that No-Place has been prepared for you; all who partake of the poison'd cup
shall taste of its gall to the last dregs of time. Enjoy it! For it is all that is vouched-safe to you, your progeny and spindle, and your cerement cloth; and no light shall penetrate your eye-less place, no sound or warmth, no sense or ice
or fire or water, nor breeze nor earth
nor clay shall embrace you. Empty-eyes...Begone! Don't look back.
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:31 PST